by William Poe
The sound of celestial trumpets merged with the blare of cars honking. Traffic rushed across the bridge above me. Commuters sped along the road just beyond the underbrush that concealed my body, naked but for a film of river mud.
Sick and coughing, only one thought stuck in my mind: How stupid could I be to let Gabriel make off with the drugs? I took a wad of dried leaves and scraped the mud from my body. Fortunately, I located my clothes without too much trouble. My underwear was in a half-frozen puddle in plain view of passing cars. My jeans hung in the branches of a shrub, and my shirt was on the ground below it. I managed to get dressed without exposing myself to motorists—and before freezing to death.
CHAPTER 46
Overhead, cars zoomed across the Broadway Bridge carrying people to work. I was at the edge of a parking lot that was beginning to fill up with commuters. Occasional glances in my direction brought shrieks of horror. By all appearances, I was a homeless schizophrenic.
As I wandered toward downtown, I kept thinking about Sean, imagining where he might be. At the entrance to an office building, several people gathered in the lobby and peered at me through the glass windows. I scurried off before they called the police.
I remembered that Sean once referred to Kansas City as his hometown, and so I felt certain that was where I would find him. I tapped my pocket and was relieved that I still had my wallet and keys. I considered trying to find my car, but instead kept walking. Halfway across the Broadway Bridge, a chilling wind stopped me. I had not found my coat along the riverbank, and my shirt offered scant protection against the cold. I paused to watch a barge hauling canisters of some sort. Diving into the void seemed a viable option. No delusions of salvation. I just wanted to die.
I kept moving, though by the time I reached North Little Rock, my body was so numb from the cold, I felt like I had died. A car slowed down and the driver asked me if I needed help. That is, until I turned toward the man and he saw my eyes. He sped away. I meandered my way to the bus station, dipping into alleys and hiding behind garbage cans.
“Kansas City,” I told the woman at the ticket counter.
“Do you have money?” she asked.
Don’t be afraid, I carry the scent of martyrdom.
When I didn’t answer her, the woman probably figured I must be mute. I gave her two twenties. She handed me the ticket and change, and said, “The bus leaves in thirty minutes. Do you have baggage?”
I shook my head.
“They’ll be boarding passengers shortly.”
“FORT SMITH JOPLIN KANSAS CITY,” came an announcement over the loudspeaker.
I shuffled toward the gate and watched my hand extend toward the bus driver to give him the ticket. Once on the bus, I shoved past the passengers to make it to the rear seat. I rested my forehead against the glass and watched the landscape pass in a dizzying blur. I suddenly wished that I had used the bus station facilities while I had the chance—my bowels, long neglected, felt as though they might explode. Luckily, I fell asleep.
When the bus arrived in Fort Smith, the driver tried to wake me. I came to only enough to open my eyes.
“Do you want a doctor?” the driver asked. There was pity in his voice.
“Help me off the bus,” I said in a barely audible voice.
I found the strength to stop by the men’s room and then get on the bus transferring to Joplin and Kansas City. Pulling myself up the steps, I heard the driver speaking to a policeman.
“At least get him across the border,” the policeman said. “We’ll let Missouri deal with this one.”
When I opened my eyes again, I was reclining on a bench with someone prodding me to stand.
“Is Sean here?” I asked.
“Who’s Sean?” the man, a Brink’s guard, asked impatiently. “You came alone on the bus. Go on now, and don’t cause any trouble. Come on.”
The guard pulled me to my feet.
“Okay, okay, give me a minute,” I complained. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the Kansas City bus station. We let you sleep for a few hours, but you can’t stay any longer.”
“I need something to eat.”
The guard pointed to a row of vending machines.
The ticket counter was closing up, but they took a five-dollar bill and gave me coins. The guard followed me until I got a bag of potato chips, then escorted me to the sidewalk.
Compared with Little Rock and its miniature skyscrapers, Kansas City was the Emerald City. Wind roared down the byways with enough force to topple an adult. The cold air sliced through my clothes and bit my skin. Snow banked against the sidewalks and more snow pressed against the edges of the buildings. I darted from skyscraper to skyscraper, dipping for a moment into the lobbies to get warm. Guards kept sending me on my way.
At the headquarters of IBM, I paused to look at my reflection in the green-tinted windows. I lifted my arms above my head and then slapped them at my side, repeating the action until I began to think I was a bird and that if I flapped hard enough, I could fly closer to the sun and get warm. I was on a trip as dramatic as the ones I experienced when dropping acid as a teenager. On Good Friday before I joined the church, I had seen the face of God in a swirling vortex. On the same trip, I had spoken to a pine tree about the sadness of God’s creation having lost its divine gardeners. Through the cold of Kansas City, a juniper asked me to brush snow from its needles. I shook my fist at the corporate sign above the lobby entrance and cursed those oblivious to the suffering of nature. Someone in the doorway held a telephone to their ear. I was sure the police would be called.
I wove precariously through the traffic. Pushing away from the hood of a car that stopped just in time, I made it to the sidewalk and dashed into a phone booth. I scanned the white pages for the last name that Sean had once given me. I made calls to strangers; most hung up before I finished asking my questions.
Far from home, cold to the point of hypothermia, nearly starved to death, I collapsed, having made my way to a public fountain where I could sit. Bronze horses, nostrils flaring, reared above me as their mythic riders struggled for control.
A kindly man approached. “There’s a mission nearby,” he said. “You should get inside.”
“Where am I?”
“Kansas City.”
“Where?”
“Let me show you.”
The man helped me to my feet and pointed the way to a sign that read: Jesus Saves.
My legs wouldn’t support my weight. The man helped me to the door of the refuge. The mission’s caregivers sat me in front of a portable floor heater and began rubbing my hands to restore circulation. They fed me split-pea soup and a ham sandwich. They asked no questions.
Slowly, I gained my bearings.
“Your cheeks are starting to have some color,” said a man with a heavily grooved face. He was bald except for rogue sprouts of hair. “Do you want a shower? You should get out of those clothes.”
“I’ll take him to the clothes rack,” said another fellow who led me to a closet and found a pair of corduroy trousers and flannel shirt. He handed me a pair of wool socks, clean boxers, and an undershirt that he found in a Goodwill box. He then directed me to the shower stalls.
I stayed in the shower for a long time, steaming my body with water as hot as I could stand. My bowels gave way. I pointed the water spigot at the mess and made sure it washed down the drain.
The two men who had helped me said I should attend evening service, but as I followed them toward the sanctuary, I stumbled and hit the floor. They led me to the dormitory and found a cot near the back of the room. “Rest here,” said the bald man. “No one will bother you.”
CHAPTER 47
Iwas awakened by the smelling salts of alcohol flatulence—a strong motivation for getting dressed and finding the cafeteria. A long table was stocked with piles of cold toast and buckets of lumpy oatmeal. Those who arrived early were treated to a dollop of creamed chipped beef. Everyone got a cup of what tasted like day-
old coffee. A man resembling Popeye the Sailor stared at me and said cryptically, “Tomorrow could be too late.”
“Yeah?” I replied, anxious to dive into my bowl of gruel. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I took a seat on a metal chair that ground into my bony rump.
Before I left the Jesus Saves mission, one of the workers gave me a coat, somewhat tattered, and a pair of lace-up boots. They were too big, but at least my feet would have protection from the snow and ice.
I still imagined that I would find Sean and figured the bus station would be a good place to watch for him. The search had become my reason to live. The guard who earlier had asked me to leave was nowhere around, so I sat at the end of a row of chairs and tried to seem as though I were waiting for someone to arrive. Buses loaded and unloaded; the station filled with people then grew deserted. As dusk approached, I considered returning to the mission, but the thought of getting there through the snow kept me seated.
Around midnight, a wizened old man nudged me. “Here’s something for you,” he said, as he handed me a paper sack. Never had I been so pleased by the aroma of a Big Mac and fries.
“Don’t have a home?” the man asked.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Whatever is troubling you,” the man said, “family can help.”
Before I could respond, he dashed off to a sedan that was waiting outside the sliding glass doors. A middle-aged woman opened the car door and helped the old man into his seat. Two ponytailed girls hugged him from the backseat. I watched the car until it disappeared from sight. He must have had the woman stop at McDonald’s and then return to the bus station in order to give me the meal.
The word family haunted me as I heard an announcement for passengers to board the bus to New York. Family was the word I associated with the church, and New York was home to that family, home to the messiah. That decade in my young adult life seemed a utopia compared with the profligate years that followed. How ironic that I should end my journey in Kansas City—the home base of a church leader who was expelled for his acceptance of homosexuals.
I remained inside the station throughout the night, and by morning I was famished. The McDonald’s food had not provided much nourishment. I wondered if I had any money left on my credit card. I found a bank near the bus station and tried the ATM. After three unsuccessful attempts, I finally remembered the PIN. Even so, the machine swallowed the card with a warning that it had been confiscated as a security measure.
“Guess this really is the end,” I said to the machine. “Quite a life, wasn’t it?”
Back at the bus station, I mulled over an option that wouldn’t leave me alone. Could I, in fact, return to the church? I recalled happier times as a successful leader, admired by the membership for his self-sacrifice and dedication. In my current state of mind, I couldn’t remember why I left. What had seemed like unpardonable sins at the time struck me now as minor infractions. Hadn’t I believed in the mission to create an ideal world, to establish God’s kingdom? Hadn’t I lived communally for ten years, sharing everything, even giving up my education and leaving my family? I had considered my life worth something back then.
I hardly knew what I was doing as I found a telephone and struggled to recall the numbers for church offices. Finally, I decided to try a number I knew I could get from information.
“Yes, operator, the New Yorker Hotel.”
I called the church headquarters collect. A Japanese secretary accepted the charges.
“This is Simon Powell,” I said. “Is Taicho there?”
After a long pause, the sister spoke, “Commander Simon? Left-the-church Simon?”
I smiled at the familiar style of broken English. How long it had been since anyone called me commander, the term for regional leaders such as I had been. The sister’s sweet voice caused me to burst into tears.
“Yes,” I sobbed, “that Simon.”
The Japanese sister also began to weep.
“I want to come home,” I said.
“It so difficult come back,” the sister said. “Much suffer and repent.”
“But I have to come back,” I pleaded.
“Who spiritual parent?” the sister asked.
The concept had become so alien that I almost failed to understand the question. She wanted to know who brought me to the church. A friend of mine had convinced me to hear the teachings, but he left the group years before me. I gave the sister the name of the man whom I had chosen as my adopted spiritual parent.
“You must call him,” the sister told me. “To come back, that up to him. I give number.”
The sister went away from the phone. In the background I heard Japanese voices. “Nan des ka?”
“Thank you,” I said when the sister gave me the number. “Domo arigato.”
I took a deep breath and dialed. The phone rang and rang. Then someone lifted the receiver. It was the wife, a dour woman whom I had not liked even as a member. To her, all Americans were barbaric and unclean.
“This is Simon,” I said. “Remember me?”
No sympathy colored her tone as she said, “Eight years, you no call. Why call after so long time?”
“I want to come back,” I said, battling resentment and yet desperate to be saved from my fate.
“Church different now. No anyone can join. People must have society position.” She challenged me. “You have good job? Or you just want Church take care of you?”
I started to respond, but she pressed on, “And what about sex problem? Are you repent?”
“Does God hate me, then?” I asked.
“It you hate God,” she accused. “You are hate-God person.”
I felt a stone roll across the entrance to my self-made tomb.
“Good-bye,” I said. “Don’t worry. You won’t hear from me again. I’d rather die on the streets.”
I slammed the receiver so hard that it shattered. One of the larger pieces flew past an elderly woman, clipping her cheek and drawing blood. People scattered, worried perhaps that a ricocheting bullet had caught the woman.
Two guards headed toward the pay phones. “You! Yeah, you! Stay where you are.”
When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw them talking into their radios. I ran outside to put some distance between me and the station, slipping and sliding with every step.
Ice water found its way through cracks in my boots and soaked the cuffs of my secondhand trousers. Throughout the day, I tried to warm up in building lobbies, as I had earlier, but this time I barely made it past the revolving doors before someone chased me away. I dipped into a café where a friendly waitress with her hair done up in a bun served me vegetable soup and buttered rolls. The place was about to close. The proprietor, an Eastern European man, sat next to me at the counter. I got the impression that he was in the habit of feeding the city’s less privileged inhabitants. He asked me what I was doing on the streets, but his English was so heavily accented that I had a hard time understanding the question. When I did, I said simply that I had fallen on hard times. When I finished the meal and needed to leave because they were locking up, I took a business card from a holder near the cash register thinking that I would send him money when my next deal came through. He must understand, I kept thinking, this is not who I am.
I left the café, thanking the waitress and the owner. As he locked up, a dowdy woman, who I assumed was his wife, came from the kitchen and kissed him adoringly on the cheek. I had been grateful for the charity as long as I was inside, in the warm café, but when the cold night air hit my face, I suddenly felt patronized. The meal felt like an act of condescension. I pounded my fists on the window with such force I almost broke it.
“You think you’re better than me?” I yelled. “You have no idea who I am!”
The husband and wife looked at me with an air of sadness. I expected them to call the police, but the sympathy in their eyes told me they wouldn’t. I stormed through the streets until I spotted a bar. The sign on the door read, Coc
k Pit.
Thinking of the down-and-out hustlers at the Spotlight, I never imagined how easily I could find myself in their place. The minute I set foot in the bar, a man in his midfifties offered to buy me a beer. After I guzzled the bottle, he got me a gin and tonic. I bragged about my high-flying days in Hollywood while my patron listened with half interest.
The man dragged me to the sawdust-covered dance floor, a roped off corner near the jukebox. My pants were so loose that I had to keep a finger through a belt loop to keep them from falling off. The man—“Businessman,” as I began to call him after several failed attempts to remember his name—kept trying to raise my arms in the air so I couldn’t hold on. He pulled off my shirt, and I tucked it into the back of my trousers.
The jukebox stopped playing. Businessman took me back to the bar. As I stood next to him, I felt his hand reaching into my pants. He grinned at the bartender, who gave him a smirk and set up a round.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” Businessman asked.
“Nowhere,” I said.
“Stay with me.” The man took his hand out of my pants and threw back a shot of schnapps
“Better’n a belt,” I slurred, shoving my hips forward to highlight the fact that a hard-on was preventing my pants from falling down.
Businessman licked his lips as he finished his last beer. “Let’s go,” he said.
We walked several blocks down the street.
“Where in the hell did you park?” I asked.
“I thought we might stop for a minute,” the man said, leading me into an alley. A duct jutting from one of the buildings provided a flow of warm air. A large Dumpster hid us from anyone passing on the street.
The man’s experienced hands reanimated my now-flaccid cock as he leaned me against the brick wall. He stooped and took me into his mouth while unfastening his lizard skin belt and lowering his slacks. The sight of the man’s puny dick, just visible within my line of sight over his bald head, made me chuckle. The man’s mop of carefully sculpted hair had fallen to one side. I couldn’t stop laughing. He was undaunted in his efforts. I felt something like the need for sexual release, but it was just that I had to urinate. The urge became uncontrollable, and I let go. The man guided the stream over his face like a kid playing with a water hose on a summer day.