The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

"Time to wake up," a man's loud voice bellowed outside the dumpster in which Jeremiah was still lying cold inside.
The man struggled to awaken himself from the harsh slumber in which he had been trapped. He could hear the man outside
repeat his four words over and over again, but for the life of him Jeremiah couldn't figure out just who he could have been
speaking to. All of the sudden, a blasting knock at the dumpster caused Jeremiah to jump so violently that he hit the top of his
head on the dumpster's steel lid.
"Who's in there?" An old, dingy looking, bearded black man opened the lid.
The sunlight rushed right inside the dumpster to where Jeremiah had to shield his eyes. The man then attempted to get up only
to remember the effects of the beating he endured. Immediately he slumped back down into the pile of filth.
"Man, what are you doin' in there?" The old man looked confused. "Are you drunk or somethin'?"
Rubbing his aching jaw, Jeremiah once more tried to sit up until his hands reached the rim of the cold dumpster. "What...what
day is it?" He slurred.
"It's Halloween, man. Where you been?" the old man snickered.
"In the fucking trash can, there's where." Jeremiah cantankerously griped as he climbed up and out of the dumpster, holding his
sore ribs as tight as he could.
The second his feet hit the hard pavement he staggered backwards into the dumpster scaring numerous cats away in the
process.
"Who were you yelling at a moment ago?" Jeremiah asked.
"Oh, I was just waking up my buddies around here." He pointed at the scurrying felines. "On chilly mornings like these they tend
to oversleep. They usually hide out in these here dumpsters, too."
Jeremiah's face and body felt like someone had beaten him repeatedly with baseball bats. He wrapped his jacket around his
body as tightly as he could before limping away from the dumpster and old man.
"It's time to wake up, friend!" The homeless man shouted.
Jeremiah paused and glanced behind him at the man who was steadily waving back at him. Even without his glasses he could
see the fellow as clear as if he were standing directly in front of him. Such a thing hadn't occurred since he was a child.

Jeremiah turned and resumed his brooding march out of the alley and around the corner to the bar's empty parking lot, empty,
save for his own car that was, much to his shock, still parked in its original spot. Without even going for his keys Jeremiah
opened the driver's side door and got in. The second he shut the door he sat perfectly still inside the frigid vehicle and rested his
painful body in the seat. What was going through his head was a tidal wave of everything horrific, and unexpectedly serene. With
such vivid precision he recalled the event back at his apartment, as well as the faces at the bar. But then there was the old man
in the alley.
Jeremiah sat and sulked while shivering inside his body. He dropped his head and closed his eyes in an attempt to drown out
any emotion, but it was completely useless; there was entirely too much quiet, and all the quiet seemed to do was remind him of
what he had survived up until then. Jeremiah then lifted his head back up and looked right into the rearview mirror at his busted
up face. A large bleeding cut above his right eyebrow, a broken nose and a split lip which revealed a missing tooth behind it. By
then, the sore ribs were a secondary matter.
He dropped his head and took in a deep breath before gazing all around his car until his eyes connected with his books that
were in the backseat. Jeremiah reached behind him and took one book. He opened its cover and skimmed through its contents.
One picture after another only caused the man's already stinging head to throb all the harder until he simply tossed the book into
the passenger's seat. Jeremiah sat and looked out at the parking lot before glancing back at the book beside him. Then, with as
much rage as he could gather the man picked up the book and flung it to the floor.
He then reached behind him and picked up the rest of the books before taking and slamming them against the door and seats so
hard that the upholstery began tearing. One by one he angrily threw each book to the floor before finally ceasing his tirade and
leaning his head up against the window beside him.
He exhaled as deeply as he could before pitifully whispering, "I'm so sorry, Isaac. But what could I have done? How could I have
helped you?"
Jeremiah rammed his head as hard as he could on the car's horn. He then took out his keys and inserted them into the ignition.
"I know, mom and dad!" He yelled at the top of his lungs. "I know!"
From there, he started the vehicle and didn't even wait for it to warm up before taking off down the road.