The Underbelly 2: Homeward Bound

I am thinking about using this to kick off my 2009 NaNoWriMo entry. I know you're supposed to start from scratch, but I think I need the kick-in-the-pants!
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Alex found his waiting brown 1974 Mustang as streaks of sunlight were just beginning to penetrate from between the buildings. Even in the revealing light of day, the structures looked dingy, coated with years of soot and neglect. His car's obvious age, and its corroding shell, missing hub caps and peeling upholstery made it blend seamlessly with the inner city surroundings. Although mechanically unreliable, the car's decay was useful in deterring thieves. It was not unusual for medical interns' newer cars to be broken into while the owners were at work. So far he had been lucky.

Alex climbed into the driver's seat without removing his lab coat. In one swift coordinated motion, he pulled the door shut and locked it with his elbow. The familiar moldy smell of carpeting was especially worse after the night's rain, and its intensity caught Alex off guard. In this neighborhood, he would not consider opening a window before underway. He fumbled into his coat pocket, extracted his stethoscope, and hung it on the rearview mirror from its ear pieces. He reached down into another pocket and freed his keys. A wave of relief washed over Alex when his car started effortlessly.

He slowly accelerated as he cranked open his window, and then reflexively slid his hand into the door's slender map compartment from where it palmed a dollar bill. He drove two blocks past the hospital, turned left, and approached the overpass which bordered the entrance to Southbound I-95. As always, the traffic light under the pass caught him as surely as a gate keeper protecting his domain. A large street-worn bearded man clutching a bucket with one hand and an oil-black rag in the other, appeared so quickly at the open car window that it seemed like he had simply materialized. The disheveled man was covered with his entire wardrobe, layers of patchwork ill-fitting clothing gleaned from roadside scraps. His skin was so darkened by grime that sheets of dirt peeled off in sections imparting a brown and tan mottling to his face. His yeasty stench was like pungent soured milk, and penetrated as a bitter vapor into the car.

"Heya Doc," the tousled homeless man grunted in a deep cigarette scarred voice.

"Heya Charlie," Alex said as he slipped the dollar bill into the old man's rag hand, being careful not to make actual contact with him. They had an arrangement. Alex gave him a dollar and he agreed not to wipe the windshield with the rag. "You taking care of yourself?"

"Sure I am," his voice rattled and wheezed. "I get checked out over at County, and sometimes they use me in a study. I go for one next week, and they always give me a physical. They pay me ten bucks just to eat a pill or drink something. Easy money, ‘ya know?"

"Yeah I know." He had done that himself, for the money, but didn't mention that to Charlie. "See you later," Alex called out as the light turned green and he goosed his car toward the highway entrance.

Alex noticed that Charlie had not just then exhibited any paranoia. Charlie frequently complained about threatening aliens, terrorists, and someone he called "The Commander." His delusions tended to wax and wane. But something about the interchanges with Charlie made Alex feel good. Both of them benefitted somehow. And besides, when other panhandlers approached Alex, he would tell them with a clear conscience that he already "had a bum," and most were fine, even gracious about it. In his rear view mirror Alex could see Charlie stopping the next car.

Prime territory. He probably makes more money than I do, Alex thought, as he drove south on Interstate 95. Off to his left was the skyline, its bank buildings and sky scrapers darkened against the sun rising behind them, but still characteristically recognizable as Miami. Soon after the interstate descended and formed US 1, Alex turned left into the trendy Coconut Grove area.

more to come...
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