Charity's Inspiration

"Why don't you write something positive?" she asked. "Sometimes you say things that are not so positive." her bright, experienced eyes scanned my face for some indication of where I might be headed. She was serious and truly concerned that my efforts be rewarded.

"Millie," I said. "What happens on the street is rarely positive." My response was true to form, as was her observation. My outlook, my focus, is usually on the suffereing that involves the human condition in its death-work. Death-work is the turning away from light's life force, and embracing instead the physical sensations brought on by hedonistic substance abuse. At least that's the form my death-work takes. The street is often like that: values are inverted, we pick up only on what feels good. That's where we turn. Certain clear, warm nights on the street are like magic. People come together and needs are met, wants fulfilled. What made me happiest, aside from the alcohol and drugs that seemed to just come my way from nowhere, was the amount of cash I might panhandle from strangers or acquaintances. The stone sofa at Fourth and High was my turf. That's where I did business most often, playing on my disability to win sympathy. Most often coins were dropped into my outstretched hand. Occasionally, paper money was given: usually ones, maybe a five. The first time I was given more, a twenty, I thought the gods were surely smiling. The run to my man at Wall and West Fifth was in a dream. I was floating. That night I was to learn that the dope boys aren't always exactly honest. Quality and quantity don't always go hand in hand.

"What do you want the money for?" It was early on a Friday evening. He was young, well dressed, and attractive. His eyes were clear. I admired that.

"Well I'd like to get a burger." I was hungry, but I wanted more than food. He held out a clenched fist.

"Here's a fifty," he said, smiling. "Get yourself a burger." I stared with disbelief at the wadded bill he dropped into my hand. "Here's a twenty," he added. "Get desert." Another wad of green dropped into my hand. This was unbelievable.

"God bless you." I thanked him, honestly. He smiled slightly, turned and headed south, his head held high. Unfolding the bills, I smiled at the dead presidents, still not believing my luck. Somewhere, deities were giggling at my joy. I headed across High to the Goody Boy and ordered my cheeseburger. That night there would be Cisco and Marlboros. No need to go with generic this evening.

Another evening's demonstration of the magic: Still on the sofa, drinking imported beer with a couple of girls headed for Skully's (their treat). Calvary Apostolic was letting out. I noticed a young suited fella sort hangin' close. I'd recently spoken with him a couple of times, once accepting a flier for a revival and another time just saying hi. As the girls left he came and sat down.

"So how are you this evening?" His inquiry was genuine and his evangelizing hadn't been invasive or judgemental.
"Fairly well." I pulled my legs up to a sort of half lotus, comfortable.
"I didn't see you at the revival." His face was pleasant, attractive. "Have you thought about our invitation?"
"I thought about it," answering honestly. "But it looked as thought there was a good sized crowd. Crowds make me nervous." I didn't think it necessary to mention that I was a Methodist. I know he'd seen me drinking and panhandling and didn't want to be judged a poor example. I'd let him play his hand.

"If you're hungry we could go to While Castle." I appreciated his offer, accepted. Walking down High, we talked religion, mostly I listened. I was interested. Often, I could hear spirited drumming and voices vigorously singing out their hymns coming from his church. I thought I'd most likely enjoy the music, but feared the fundamental nature of their message.

At White Castle, I continued listening, interjecting only what I felt necessary, careful to not commit self to any agenda. I downed the two double cheeseburgers and fries, even though I wasn't especially hungry. Walking back, I opened up a bit, explaining that I'd been searching for something for quite a while, especially since I was laid off from my last job. Back at the sofa, we claimed our spot watching the parade. Fall was magic. The night was special, clear, clean almost. As we talked, Theo walked up quickly, as was his nature; everything in a rush. He extended a closed fist as he passed, depositing a sizeable rock into my open hand, more than enough to well fix my head for the night.

"Is that what I think it is?" the young Christian asked, thoroughly startled.
"Absolutely," I answered, nearly as surprised as he.
"Is that crack?" he asked.
"Absolutely," I answered.
"In the name of Jesus Christ, you have to throw that down!" he pulled back.
"Not tonight, pastor." I rose and stepped away, leaving him wide eyed, slack jawed. "Not tonight." Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it don't.