Heavenly Hoboes

by Bob Brewer

Brother James T. Elkins’ mission took the shape of an ancient building that could have been a bank at one time. Iron bars, rusty and twisted apart in places, still clung to the cracked mortar around its wooden framed windows. What was left of the paint on the walls was split and curled from neglect, and the glass in the front door was loose. It wasn’t so different from the countless other missions Abe and Shorty had frequented over the years. But still it represented an angel in the night for two almost drunk and very hungry men.

  A tiny bell, dangling over the door, tinkled the presence of the new guests as they entered onto the worn-out linoleum floor of the sanctuary. The rotund, balding Brother Elkins was there in his black preaching frock to invite them in. “Welcome, Brothers, welcome,” his high-pitched voice rang out. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” He reached a pudgy hand towards Abe then he spied Horace crouching behind Shorty’s legs. His voice shot up an octave. “Outside! Outside! Shoo!” he screamed while flailing his arms at the poor old dog.

  Horace dropped to the floor and started to inch around on his stomach.

  “No dogs!” Elkins yelled. “That’s the rule.”

  Horace picked up speed and crawled out of the door that Shorty was still holding open.

  “I beg your pardon, good fellow,” Abe injected on Horace’s behalf. “That’s not just a dog. He’s my companion, just as Mr. McDougal here is.”

  The Irishman nodded his already bobbing head in agreement.

  Brother Elkins narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “That,” he said very slowly, “is a dog. And I don’t allow dogs in here. So, it seems you two have a great decision befallen you.” He spread his short, fat fingers and swung his arm to encompass the roomful of expectant diners. “You can join us in fellowship, or,” he pointed to the still open door, “you can join your companion out there.”

  Both Abe and McDougal followed the preacher’s arm movement with their bleary eyes and sniffed the air at the same time.

  McDougal took his cap off and held it up to shield his face from Elkins’ view. “Methinks ‘tis chicken soup we’re smellin’” he whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear.

  “Home made,” Elkins confirmed. “So, which will it be? In or out?”

  Abe took one last smell of the aroma then pushed the door closed.

  “Good,” Elkins said with a nod. He stepped around them and hung a ‘Closed’ sign on the door. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and walking behind them, he ushered them past the empty chairs in the back and sat them down directly in front of his speaking podium. “We’ll have a short session of prayer before eating the Lord’s food,” he told them before taking his place on the raised platform.

  Abe and Shorty would have preferred sitting in the back, but since they were not given that choice, they removed their head coverings and watched silently while Elkins opened his tattered bible.

  Elkins cleared his throat, put his reading glasses on and raised a hand into the air. Then he stopped in mid-breath. A loud, reverberating snore arose from somewhere in the back of the room with sufficient force to cause the loose glass in the front door to rattle. With a force of equal strength, Elkins slammed his bible closed. A thunderous boom shot through the room and a long splinter of wood flew off the pulpit stand. “Brothers!” the furious Elkins yelled, ending the snoring immediately. He continued in a more civil tone, “We are gathered here in the Lord’s house to listen to his word.”

  “And to have a wee bite of supper,” Shorty added with a broad smile, his head nodding up and down in response to the ‘Amens’ from behind him. Elkins glared down at him. In turn, the Irishman held up his right hand and measured out a small distance between his thumb and index finger, “Just a wee bite,” he whispered directly to the preacher.

  Elkins puffy cheeks reddened. “After the word, Brother. After the word.”

  “That’s what I meant to say,” McDougal agreed. He nodded again and turned to face Abe. “Directly after the word,” he said, as if Abe hadn’t been listening.

  Abe winked at him with both eyes, and looked up at Elkins. “On with the word, Brother Elkins. We’re ready.”

  Elkins steadied himself and reopened the bible. For the next five minutes he worked up a good sweat on the virtues of repentance and the damnable consequences awaiting those who did not listen to him. When he reached a point in ‘Revelations’ referring to the gnashing of teeth, Abe stood and loudly proposed an end to the preaching. “Amen, Brother Elkins. Let there be gnashing of teeth. Bring on the chicken soup.”

  A look of absolute disgust swam in the sweat on Brother Elkins’ face. He once again slammed the bible shut, glared at Abe then let out a long, huffing sigh. “Bless this food, Lord,” he said in conclusion.

  The blessing was lost in the din as the several lost souls scrambled to the chow-line to grab a tin cup and a spoon. Elkins pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it at his brow. “I said, bless this food, Lord!” he shouted at the crusty crew that was swarming past his podium, but he could see it was to no avail. With one last blotting of his balding head, he disappeared through the doorway behind his makeshift altar. No one seemed to miss him as they filled their cups then sipped and slurped their way through the huge pot of soup.

  “That was an excellent suggestion, Mr. McDougal,” Abe complimented the Irishman on his choice of eateries as he finished the last of his dinner and pushed back from the table.

  “It was indeed,” Shorty agreed, but his attention seemed to be more on eyeballing the other diners. He was looking around the room. “There was someone I was wantin’ to point out to ya,” he said. “But I’ve not seen him.”

  While Shorty was searching the hall for Charlie Belew, Abe made a final trip to the soup pot. He dredged out a handful of chicken pieces, put them on top of a stack of bread and wrapped the whole thing in a napkin and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

  “I was thinkin,” Shorty said on their way to the door, “we ought to find us a bottle with which to celebrate yer new position, whatever it might be.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. McDougal. I kind of had my mind set on not drinking anymore. You know, if I’m getting a job and everything?”

  “But that’s not ‘til tomorrow ya said,” Shorty reasoned.

  “That’s right,” Abe answered. “I guess it wouldn’t be right if we didn’t have a little party, would it?”

  “It’d never do.” Shorty patted his chest. “There’s plenty left in me purse to be doin’ it up right. And I know just the place to be spendin’ it.”

  Horace was waiting for them in the recessed foyer of the Mission’s doorway. “Come on, Horace,” Abe said as they stepped out, but the old dog didn’t seem to want to move. “I’ve got you something in my pocket,” Abe coaxed. Horace rolled his doleful eyes up and twitched an ear. “Come on,” Abe said again, and started to walk away with Shorty. Still, Horace didn’t move.

  Shorty patted Abe’s arm. “I’ll just be poppin’ off to the store. When ya get him sorted out, I’ll see ya back at the meetin’ place.”

  Abe gave him a nod and a little wave, and Shorty headed the opposite direction towards the Pick-And-Pack-It liquor store he had patronized earlier in the day. “Okay, Horace,” Abe said. “If you decide to come to the party, we’ll be waiting in the alley for you.” He turned and started away again.

  Seeing the man was serious about leaving, Horace struggled to his feet and side-saddled down the walk a few paces behind him.

  Horace caught up with Abe just as he was sitting down on his rucksack next to the big trash bin. He nudged Abe’s pocket. “Oh, yeah,” Abe said as he remembered the packet of food. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolded the napkin and set it in front of the old dog. Horace eyed it, sniffed it, then in one huge gulp he downed the whole thing, napkin and all. “Good grief, Horace,” Abe gasped. It was a very large pile of food. He petted the old dog’s head. “You
sure don’t waste any time chewing, do you?”

  Horace’s eyes watered up, he stretched his neck out and stood spraddle-legged while the knot of food and paper settled into some kind of order in his stomach. Abe felt sorry for him. “Next time I’ll break it up into smaller bites,” he promised. Horace swallowed one last time then laid down and put his head on Abe’s outstretched leg.

  For a brief time the old dog watched as Abe busied himself tearing apart some cigarette butts and pouring their sparse contents into a roll-your-own paper. Since smoking was a vice Horace was not yet addicted to, he repositioned his muzzle and closed his eyes.

  Abe fired up his smoke and ruffled the hair on Horace’s head. “You know, Horace, I wanted to be a veterinarian once. It’d be kind of nice to take care of old dogs like yourself. You need someone to take care of you when you get old.” He took a draw off the cigarette then flicked it away and watched as the fire splattered when it hit the pavement. He exhaled the smoke quickly. “If I keep going the way I have been, I won’t have to worry about getting old, will I? Well, we promised Mr. McDougal we’d have a going away drink with him tonight, but tomorrow, or maybe the day after, we’re going to make something of our lives. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Horace. You and me and Mr. McDougal, if he wants to. We’re going to start all over again. What do you say, Horace? Are you with me on this?”

  Horace moaned in his sleep as his head slipped off Abe’s leg and landed on the hard macadam. Abe started to repeat his question but muted it when he heard McDougal’s voice echo down the alley.

  “Are ya here, Mr. Douglas?”

  “Yep,” Abe answered. “Come on in.”

  The Irishman’s voice drew nearer. “Did ya get the dog to come along, then?”

  “I did. We’re both here waiting for you.”

  “So ya are,” McDougal said, sticking his head around the big bin. He held up two tall bottles of wine. “I couldn’t be lettin’ ya down seein’ as how it’s yer eve of departure and all, so I brought one fer each of us.”

  Abe reached a hand up to him and Shorty promptly filled it with one of the bottles then sat down beside him. Together they twisted the caps off and tilted a toast. “Wait a minute,” Abe interrupted the ceremony, and pointed to the plastic casing. “Would you pass me that thing?”

  “Fer the dog, I’d wager.”

  “Yep.”

  Each of them poured a measure into the casing, then lifted their bottles to resume the toast.

  “To a relatively new but very dear friend,” McDougal proposed. “It’s fer certain I’ll be missin’ yer company.”

  A look of consternation crossed Abe’s face. “Just because I’m changing my ways, it doesn’t mean we can’t still get together.” He placed a hand on Shorty’s forearm. “But I’ll drink to the friendship part.”

  They each took a long swig, and Horace wrapped his paws around the casing and began a very careful lapping of his share. Like a small, three-ring circus, they partied until the bottles were empty and the casing shined from the thorough tongue of the alcoholic Horace. The sobriety brought on by the chicken soup was quickly falling to the wayside as each of them soaked up the new supply of alcohol. Their words began to take on that familiar, thick-tongued slur.

  “So, what ish it yer thinkin’ of doin’ when ya pack up and leave us behind?” Shorty wanted to know after a few minutes of contemplation.

  Abe draped an arm over the Irishman’s shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, Mr. McDougal,” he said slowly. “But if I do, I’ll tell you and you can come with me. How’s that?”

  Shorty shook his head. “What I meant was, when ya go to work, like ya said.”

  “Oh,” Abe remembered. “Well, Mr. McDougal, I haven’t decided that yet.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “But when I do, there’ll be a place right there for you.”

  McDougal sniffled and ran a coat sleeve over his eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  “Well, I mean it. I’d find something for you to do, too.”

  McDougal gave him a very serious gaze. “Maybe somethin’ in a supervisory sort of position, if you could swing it.”

  As Abe was considering McDougal’s proposal, Horace threw his ears up and whimpered a little cry. His eyes were fixedly staring at the opposite side of the alley. Both men turned as fast as their reflexes would allow to see what had stirred the dog’attention. It took a moment for them to focus. By then Horace was standing upright, the hairs on his back were bristling and his whimpering had increased to a drawn out kind of howl. Then they saw it; a small, shimmering light, creeping out of the mortar of the brick wall of Fast Albert’s Motorcycle Shop; a strange light, wavy like heat rising from a desert highway in the summertime, and growing in short bursts of brilliance. Horace squeezed in between them and tried to bury his head in Abe’s jacket.

  Abe leaned into the Irishman. “Do you shee that, Mr. McDougal?”

  “I was hopin’ it was me old eyes givin’ out,” Shorty whispered.

  As if they both had the same idea, they leaned against each other and tried to stand. The light burst forth with a sudden flare of white surrounded by a blinding halo of efflorescent color that blossomed to the size of a searchlight. Abe and Shorty dropped back to the pavement and huddled around Horace.

  “Abraham Douglas?” a deep, resounding voice came from the light. “Abraham Lincoln Douglas?”

  Abe blinked his eyes several times, but continued to sit very still and silent. Patiently, the light pulsated in the form of a beautiful rainbow that seemed to bubble off into the darkness like a newly opened bottle of champagne. The stillness was eerie. After a few seconds, McDougal could stand no more of the anxiety. He tapped Abe’s back to get his attention. “Tell him, man, that it’s you he’d be callin’ fer,” he said as softly as he could. “Methinks I’ll just be runnin’ along now.”

  “Stay!” the light rumbled.

  “Right!” McDougal answered.

  Abe swallowed hard and removed his hat. “I’m Abraham,” he finally owned up in a small shaky voice.

  The light diminished in brilliance somewhat. “Abraham,” it said in a much-reduced volume, “we don’t like what’s going on here.”

  Abe nervously balled his hat up into a wad. “Oh, the Lord knows I don’t either,” he agreed with the light. “We were just discussing that very thing, and what we’re going to do about the situation.”

  “Believe me, the Lord knows,” the light said. “And the ‘situation’ as you call it, must be changed. Uplift yourself, Abraham.”

  Following what he thought was the command, Abe started to get to his feet, and Horace, who had been hiding his head under Abe’s armpit, fell to the pavement when his prop was so suddenly removed.

  “Sit down!” came a real command from the light.

  “Yes Sir,” Abe snapped, and dropped down on Horace’s tail. Horace yelped. The light abruptly vanished. Abe moved, Horace moved, and the light flashed back on.

  “I meant uplift your thoughts, Abraham, not your body.”

  “Oh,” Abe said apologetically.

  The light then continued, “Go cleanse yourself and prepare to do the good you were brought here to do.”

  Afraid to make another move, Abe asked first, “Now?”

  “Yes, now. I should think that would be appropriate,” the light beamed in an almost jovial tone. Quickly, it changed back to its giant-like authority. “Thomas, I suggest you prepare yourself along with Abraham.”

  “Me exact thoughts,” the wide-eyed Irishman said. “I’ll be doin’ that very thing.”

  “We will be watching you very closely,” the light said as a final remark.

  In a magnificent swirling aurora of color, the great light dissolved into a tiny glowing ball. It pulsated twice then vanished as if it had drilled itself back into the wall from whence it came. Abe, Shorty, and the tired old dog, still somewhat intoxicat
ed and frightened to the bone were left on their own to figure out all by themselves what had just transpired.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Abe asked after his body chemistry balanced a little.

  “If yer askin’ me,” McDougal answered. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to be getting’ out of here.”

  “You can’t run from the Lord,” Abe shot. “That’s who it was, you know?”

  “Oh, me ever lovin…” Shorty started to say something, but Abe slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Shhh!” Do you want Him to hear that?” The Irishman shook his head from side to side, and Abe took his hand away. “We need some help,” Abe went on while rolling his wadded up hat into an even smaller ball. “We’ve got to tell someone about this. Someone’s got to help us.”

  “What we’re needin’ is a priest,” McDougal blurted out. “One of them that talks to the Lord all the time.”

  “I saw a preacher today,” Abe said excitedly. “He was buying a new suit of clothes. Don’t remember his name, though. His church caught on fire.”

  “A lot of good he’d be,” the Irishman said. “I’m tellin’ ya, we need a real priest. Did ya see any of them today?”

  Before Abe could answer, Horace barked loudly, sprang out from between them and sprinted for the alley’s entrance.

  “I’m thinkin’ yer dog’s got the right idea,” McDougal said, getting to his feet. “Are ya comin’ with us?” He stuck a hand down, but Abe was concentrating on his own thoughts. “Well, are ya comin’ or stayin’?”

  Abe took the offered hand and raised himself up. McDougal grabbed up their belongings and raced off after Horace leaving Abe to set his own pace.

  Just around the corner from the alley entrance, Horace had stopped to get a drink of water from a leaking spigot in front of Guthrie’s store. McDougal shuffled up to the iron bench next to the spigot and set his load of paraphernalia on the sidewalk. He pushed Horace out of the way and put his own mouth under the small stream of droplets to quench the sudden dryness in his throat. He was still trying to get a proper drink when Abe came running up to him.

  “Brother Elkins!” Abe shouted.

  McDougal looked up. “Elkins!” he repeated. “Yer right. I’d fergotten about him.”

  “He’ll know what to do,” Abe said. “Come on.” He gathered up his belongings from the pile and turned towards the mission. Shorty hurried to get his own gear then he and Horace fell into pace with the long-legged Abe as he headed back to River Street.