Pillows on a concrete floor. A coat to cover his body.  Small bags of half empty potato chips and Fritos cluttered around the room. Wrappers for chocolate bars.

He sleeps in a half daze. Eyes blink while those around him snore the night away. An old man wets his pants.

Odors of alcohol. Cheap vodka bottles inside coat pockets. Men talking about women from the past. Bragging.

There was a woman in Philly, one says. A blonde with a great big ass on her, he goes on. She was built for speed. He smacks his lips. I fell in love with her. Wasn’t able to hold on. Some things be that way.

Outside on 8th Avenue, men lean on a building as they smoke cigarettes and suck in the night air. Neon signs flash. Liquor, nude girls, open all night, twenty-four hour diners, Chinese laundry, and mini-marts scattered up and down the street of a town that now longs for dignity.

Whores hustling and bums bitching. Mexican men going home for some sleep before their second jobs. A garbage truck passes by.

Anyone got a square? He asks. I’ll give you a dollar. An old man takes his buck in exchange for a Newport. Thanks, he says.

Pleasure doing business with you, the old man laughs. What’s your story?

I’ve lost my mind. He grins. At least, that’s what Bellevue says.

I been there before, the old drunk tells him. Years ago, when I first came to the city. I done thought I lost my mind, too. He shrugs. Gave me a bed to sleep in for a couple of weeks. Three meals and a cot. They both laugh. My shrink was a real pretty woman. Gave me some pills and sent me on my way.

You still on the pills?

He holds up a bottle of gin and says, this is all the medicine I need.

The sun rises. Men start to disperse. Going out to beg, steal, and borrow.

There’s never enough.