Thank God for the heat bouncing off these skyscrapers, Frank pondered as he walked down Broadway. Thank God for the piss smell coming from alleys. Shit smeared sidewalks. Thank God for  bums and businessmen. For we are all his children. Thank God for  meals at churches and in basements of synagogues. Thank God for a bed to sleep on. Thank you, God, Frank said out loud. Thank you.

A fresh twenty dollar bill in his pocket. Rolled cigarette in his mouth. Some cheap earring in his right ear; fake but shiny. Wifebeater tee exposing homemade hearts and daggers on his arms. Yellow Baggy pants with black stains on them. At one time, they were clean. At one time, he was clean.

Greyhounds come and go. They bring those who can’t afford an airplane ticket. Bringing poor people mostly to a city that does not want them; there are too many charity cases here already. 

But Frank came. At sixteen, he quit school, and with money saved from washing cars, he left Fort Wayne, Indiana, one night with a fifty on him. The kid knew it wouldn’t get him very far, but he had to leave. Voices inside his head told him to go. The constant chatter within never ceased. Always telling him to seek out new land, a new city. He listened to those voices. He did not adhere to doctors’ advice nor the words of a therapist in a tweed jacket and plaid tie. The youngster did not say goodbye to his mom and dad in person. He called collect when he got to New York at midnight.

I’m gone, he said. I’ve left. Sorry. But, I had to go. I just had to.

Where are you? His father asked.

Far away pop. Far away.

Can you give me a clue.

I’m where I should be, Frank breathed into the payphone. I’m where I should be.

Your mom and I love you.

Yeah. I love you too.