Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

Suddenly she looked up and pulled to a stop. Then she visibly recoiled. “Oh!” She fell back a step, her eyes growing very large. She fell back another step and then whirled and bolted, half-running in her haste to escape his presence.

  “Bye,” Benji called after her as she disappeared around a corner. More desolate than he had ever been in his life, he glanced at his image once more. “You are disgusting,” he muttered. Then he turned and shuffled away, crossing the street, having no idea where he was going or where he would spend the night.

  8:55 p.m.—City Park, Los Angeles

  It had surprised Benji when he had passed the park earlier that day to see that it had its own miniature hobo camp in one corner of the grassy area. It wasn’t a full-blown camp like you saw in the railroad towns, but people were definitely staying there overnight. There were numerous small tents and the usual makeshift shelters. Five or six men were seated around a small firepit talking quietly. Numerous figures were asleep on the grass.

  He had been tempted to stop, for he had no idea where he was going to stay the night, but had walked on, the memory of his encounter with the woman still eating away at his insides. Now he was back. He needed somewhere to crash for the night. But more than that, he needed a place to think. His encounter with the woman had shaken him in a way that deeply distressed him.

  Why? This wasn’t the first time he had had people look at him askance, or step in between him and their children as they passed, or shout out at him to go away. But something in this confrontation was different. Or was it his encounter with himself in the window? Maybe it was both. Either way, he needed a place to flop for the night. So he had returned to the park.

  Making sure that he was alone, he drew up his knees, folded his arms across them, laid his head down on his arms, and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he began to pray—something that he hadn’t done since he had left the Sacramento City Jail.

  10:41 p.m.

  Night had fully descended over the city now. And with it had come a quietness that surprised Benji a little. As he got to his feet and leaned against the rough bark of the palm tree, Benji looked around. All but one or two of his fellow travelers were now asleep, and the park was quiet. There was very little traffic on the nearby streets and he could see no one on the sidewalks. Far away he heard a siren and the drone of an airplane overhead.

  He was desperately tired, and yet he couldn’t quiet the turmoil going on inside him. His mind was like a tumbleweed in a tornado. He had finally made it to Los Angeles. Tomorrow he would start looking for work, though he had not the slightest idea how or where to go about doing that. But first he had to find somewhere to clean up. He smelled like a garbage can and was pretty sure he was a carrier of fleas, lice, or bedbugs, since the itching was both incessant and unbearable.

  And yet it was the woman with the black patent-leather high heels and matching purse that was keeping him awake now. Or more accurately, it was what he had seen in her eyes when she saw him. Disgust? Revulsion? Horror? Fear? A little of all four? Whatever it was, it haunted him now. The more he thought about her, the more he realized that she was the perfect metaphor for his life right now. She had instantly seen him for what he was—Neanderthal Man on the streets of Los Angeles.

  His head came up as another thought hit him. She was not what was really at the heart of his discontent and sense of hopelessness. It was another question lurking in the back of his mind. Is that how God sees me too? As someone He doesn’t recognize anymore? Someone to turn away from?

  That would explain a lot of what had happened in the past few months. This had to be more than just a string of extremely bad luck. Getting beat up in Oklahoma, picking up a scar he would carry for life. Riding out the worst storm on record on a homestead in Kansas. Nearly losing a little girl that he had come to adore.

  And Mose. From the beginning, Mose had wanted to go to Hoover Dam, but oh, no. Benji’d held out for California. It was a better option. Everyone knew they were hiring thousands of migrant workers there. And Benji really needed money for his mission. The more the better. And now Mose was dead. The best friend he had ever had. Dead because they went to Sacramento and not Boulder City, Nevada. That knowledge was like a knife in Benji’s gut.

  Then there were the three weeks in jail. Hadn’t the loss of Mose been sufficient punishment for his stupidity? It was as though God had deliberately kept him in that cell to see if He could knock a little humility into Benji. Had it worked? Evidently not, judging from the last six weeks. When he had been released from jail early, Benji’s first thought was that maybe this was God’s way of saying he had been forgiven. A turning point for him. What a laugh! Oh, it was a turning point all right. The divine tutoring had just begun.

  As he had walked and hitchhiked his way through the San Joaquin Valley, he had been stunned by the hordes of people who had come to California looking for work. There was a huge need, no question about that. But what he hadn’t counted on was that the need was already filled.

  The Great Central Valley of California was one of the richest agricultural areas in the world. Four hundred fifty miles long and forty to sixty miles wide, the area produced more than two hundred different crops, many of which Benji had never heard of. More than half of all the fruits, vegetables, and nuts consumed in America came out of California. So in that sense, Benji had been right about the work being here. The problem was that he was about three weeks too late. As he had moved south through the San Joaquin Valley, Benji had stopped at every farmhouse, every general store, and every place where the harvest was underway and had asked one simple question. “Any work?” Without exception, the answer was always the same. “None.”

  He had been shocked to see every side road and back road lined for miles in both directions with tents, cardboard shanties, refrigerator boxes turned into one-room homes, cars and pickup trucks with awnings made of bedsheets. And under those shelters he saw children watching their younger siblings so that both father and mother could work in the fields. It would have been a miracle for him to find a place to stay, let alone a job!

  And when the harvest in one place was done, those thousands migrated south, following the harvest, and getting there before Benji.

  About a week into his trek through the Central Valley, Benji had stopped at a hobo camp near the railroad yards in Stockton. A small creek ran nearby, feeding into a swift-running river a mile or so away. The occupants of the camp had assured him that the water was good. Running water purified itself, right? Twelve hours later he was prostrate with the most severe case of vomiting and diarrhea he had ever experienced in his life. By the time it passed, he estimated that he had lost about ten pounds and was so weak he had to stay in camp for another two days.

  And so it went. One farmer had run him out of an orange grove with a shotgun. On another night, as he was passing through a small town with the charming name of Los Baños, or “the bathrooms,” he saw several boys hanging out around a hamburger joint. When they saw him, they started calling him names and swearing at him. He ignored them, but one of them called his bulldog over and pointed at Benji and shouted, “Get him, boy!” To the uproarious delight of the boys, the bulldog returned with most of the back pocket of Benji’s Levi’s, and left Benji with a two-inch gash on his buttocks.

  Two mornings after that, in another hobo encampment, he and several others were awakened by four robbers. At gunpoint, they took everything Benji had, even worthless stuff. He lost his cowboy hat, his wallet—though there was nothing in it—his bedroll, his only change of clothes, the broken Coke bottle that had become his makeshift pocketknife, and an old army canteen he had rescued from a trash heap. They even took his toothbrush and toothpowder.

  That was when Benji decided that he had had enough of the migrant farm worker life. In Fresno, he had waited until midnight, when there were no railroad bulls around, and hopped a freight train headed south. Fifteen hours later he had entered the sp
rawling suburbs of Los Angeles. And now here he was, trying to decide what else could go wrong. A plan had been gradually formulating in his mind since his arrival in L.A. Or perhaps the better word was an option. It wasn’t really a plan, because essentially it meant surrender. And that galled him deeply.

  Since leaving Fresno, he couldn’t get it out of his head that he had a lifeline in L.A. His sister Tina and her husband, Monte, had moved here at the start of summer. Monte was starting a medical residency at the UCLA medical school hospital. Tina was the sibling next closest to him and Abby in age and was the sister that always loved him no matter what stupid things he did or what he smelled like. He wasn’t exactly sure where UCLA was located, but he knew it had to be in the Los Angeles area. And the thought that his sister and her husband lived in an apartment with a refrigerator and hot and cold running water and a bathtub and a stove was like a dream in the night that left him aching with longing.

  Listen to yourself! came a voice in his head. What part of hitting rock bottom do you not comprehend? It is time call it quits. Throw in the towel. Wave the white flag. Stop kidding yourself. Just do it!

  Benji exhaled a long, tired breath. Yeah, easy enough to say. But there was another part to that option. If he went to Tina for help, the first thing she would do would be to call his parents and tell them that their lost boy had been found, the prodigal son had returned. His next step would be to return home. Slink back to the ranch with his tail between his legs.

  He stepped out away from the palm tree and looked up at the sky. The stars were barely visible. Is that what You want? Is that what You’re asking of me? He closed his eyes. Father, I will do whatever I need to do to make things right. Please help me. He hesitated for several seconds and then asked, Is it time to go home?

  He stood there for a long time, staring upward. When nothing came, with a weariness so deep that he felt like his knees might buckle beneath him, he lowered his head and sat down again, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. After a moment or two, he closed his eyes, seeking sleep.

  And that’s when it finally came. Just two little words. And he didn’t hear them. But he felt them very distinctly.

  Not yet.

  And that was enough.

  August 4, 1934, 8:23 a.m.—Ralph’s Supermarket, Greater Los Angeles Metropolitan Area

  Benji’s mood was up, even though his stomach was twisting in knots. His body was hungry for food, but his spirit had found peace in two simple words.

  Not yet.

  With those two words, everything had changed, even though nothing had changed. It made no sense, and yet it made perfect sense. In terms of his circumstances, he still had no money. He had no job and no prospects for one. He still looked like a caveman. He still smelled like a wet horse blanket. But it was all right now.

  To his surprise, he had slept better than he’d expected, considering he had no bedroll and no blanket and was ravenously hungry. He lay there for a moment when he woke up, thinking about the day. He had to find something to eat. He was getting weak and light-headed. He thought about calling Tina and Monte and telling them that he was here. But he firmly rejected that. He would not have that image of him burned into her brain for the rest of her life. He would wait until he had found work, earned enough money to get a bath, haircut, and shave, and maybe even some decent clothes, and then he would call them and tell them he was here.

  One idea that had come to him was the Salvation Army. As he had traveled with Mose these last two summers, Mose had introduced him to a church with an odd name—a church that took seriously the Savior’s admonition to care for the poor. More than once they had eaten at their soup kitchens or slept in the small dormitories that some sites had.

  That idea was quickly dashed when he asked his fellow travelers about it. Yes, there was Salvation Army with a soup kitchen, a chapel, and a dormitory. But it was down in the city center, which was ten or twelve miles from where he was now. Disappointed, he decided that, as much as he hated it, he would have to turn to panhandling for one more day. Get some food. Hopefully a couple of bucks that would allow him to clean himself up. Then start knocking on doors.

  Further inquiries had sent him to a much closer destination. Supermarket chains were quickly spreading across America. One such chain that was big in Southern California was named Ralph’s. And one of their stores was just five blocks from the park. His fellow travelers had informed him that Ralph’s had a reputation for being sticklers about selling only the freshest fruits and vegetables. Therefore, they often discarded produce that was still edible for the “less-discriminating” consumer.

  So here he was. He had found the store without any problem, but when he slipped around the back to the loading docks, he found several delivery trucks unloading goods and employees constantly going in and out of the building. There was no way he could scavenge through the dumpsters with that going on. That left him only one choice. Begging it was.

  Not wanting to draw attention to himself, especially from store employees, he hung back near one corner of the building, partially hidden by a large oleander bush with brilliant pink flowers. He studied the people coming out—mostly women—trying to decide which ones looked more kindly and less likely to call for the manager of the store.

  And then he saw what he was looking for. A woman came out of the store and turned in his direction. A boy of about ten and a girl about seven or eight were following close behind. The two children each carried one full grocery sack; a bag boy from the store carried two. As the woman led them toward the line of parked cars, Benji watched closely. The car would say a lot about them. She was nicely dressed, as were her children. But the fact that she was doing her own grocery shopping was a good sign. He didn’t want to approach someone who was too well-off. He had learned quickly that the rich were much less likely to give, and much more likely to be extremely rude about it.

  Benji concluded that this was probably a middle-class family. And that was confirmed when the woman stopped behind a dark blue Buick. He stepped out and started moving toward them.

  At her car, the woman opened her purse and took out her keys, and then opened the trunk. “Let’s put all the groceries in here,” she said to her children and the bag boy. As they did so, she unlocked the driver’s side door and opened it. She pushed a button and unlocked the other doors as well.

  Benji slowed his pace. They hadn’t looked in his direction yet, and he had to play this just right. He wanted the bag boy out of there first. He might tell the manager that they had a panhandler outside. But if he wasn’t quick, the woman would get into the car and be gone.

  The woman had her purse open again and was getting out some coins. She gave them to the bag boy and thanked him. From the boy’s reaction, Benji assumed it was a generous tip. At the same time, the kids climbed into the car.

  He turned away as the bag boy started back toward the store. But the moment he passed, Benji headed for the car. Timing was everything. He needed to let the woman get inside the car so she wouldn’t feel threatened, but then move in quickly before she started the car.

  As she shut the door, Benji moved forward quickly. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called.

  Startled, she turned and looked at him. Instantly she jerked back, panic twisting her face.

  “Ma’am,” he went on, smiling now, “could you spare a hungry man a quarter?”

  She visibly flinched and quickly pushed the lock button down. She was fumbling with her key, trying to insert it into the ignition. “No.” She averted her face.

  “Ma’am, even a dime would help get me something to eat.”

  “Go away!” She finally shoved the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. The boy and girl were beside her, both staring at Benji with wide, frightened eyes. Their mother jammed the gear shift in reverse and popped the clutch. The car lurched backward, but the engine killed.

  In a dead panic
now, she started the engine again. Again she popped the clutch. Again she killed the engine. Benji didn’t move closer, but neither did he back away. “Please, ma’am!”

  “Get away!” she cried. “Or I’ll call the police.”

  Something in the sheer terror in her eyes cut deeply into Benji. He stepped back two steps, holding up his hands to show that he meant her no harm. “Ma’am,” he said, “I have a mother.”

  She twisted the key and the engine started again. But that had turned her head. “What?”

  “And I have a twin sister who will be starting university this fall. My older sister is expecting a baby soon. Her husband is a doctor at the UCLA medical school.”

  The starter was grinding, but the engine wasn’t catching. She had flooded it. And he could hear that in her panic she was still pumping the gas pedal, which only made things worse.

  Benji backed up two more steps, lowering his hands. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. He turned and started away. But then something compelled him to turn back around again as the starter continued to grind. “You’ve flooded the engine,” he called. “Try the starter again, but don’t give it any more gas.” The woman hesitated but then did so, not looking at him. A moment later the engine caught, sputtered a moment, then began to hum. Though still frightened, the woman was more careful now. She let out the clutch slowly, and the car began to back out of the parking place.

  “All I asked for was a dime,” he called, trying to push down the bitterness he was feeling. “One lousy dime.”

  “Go away!” she shouted again. She put the car in first gear and started forward.

  In that moment there flashed into Benji’s mind the image of the woman outside the department store. It had been the same horror all over again. And in a rush, his anger and his shame and his frustration all came to the surface. He took two steps closer, cupping his hands to his mouth, and shouted at her. “My name is Benji. I’m not a monster. I’m a human being. And tonight, when you say your prayers, you beg God that your son will never end up on the streets like me and ten million others.”