Manhattan Mission

by Darrel Bird

like a very quiet voice way down deep inside your soul, and you come to learn to recognize it, and to trust it most times. Why don’t you walk with me while I walk the sleeping area?”

  They walked through the double doors to the sleeping area, and Preacher was shocked at the sight. He counted twelve rows, with sixteen cots to a row with just barely room enough to walk down the rows. The room had a smell he had never experienced. Some of the people were snoring loudly, and some couldn’t seem to sleep for coughing. They walked on down the first row of cots, then back up the other row. Preacher could see there was not a cot empty.

  When they came to the last row, near the back were eight women, and about ten children, the children sleeping two to a cot, and one had three.

  “Thank you Pastor Bill.” A woman spoke as he came to her cot.

  “Its ok Greta. Get a good nights sleep.”

  When they arrived back at the kitchen Preacher said, “I had no idea Pastor. There’s so many.”

  “Those are the ones that were lucky enough to get a bed son, There’s only one other mission, and they can only sleep twenty five.”

  “Where do the ones go that can’t get a bed to sleep?”

  “On the streets, in ally ways, under bridges. Wherever they can lay their head, and some of them won’t be alive in the morning.”

  “I always thought just the wino’s slept on the streets; all those people aren’t wino’s.”

  “The picture has changed to what it used to be. People lose their jobs, and can’t pay the rent, and in some cases homelessness comes on them with blinding speed, leaving them not knowing how to care for themselves at all.”

  “The worst of it is, we are losing this place in another two months, and then they won’t have anything on this end of town.” Pastor Bill looked at him sadly.

  “Whadda ya mean yer losing it”

  “Global Corp bought this whole side of the street, and they say it’s not viable, so they are tearing it down.”

  “Well, that’s too bad Bill.”

  “Say…I have to go to uptown New York tomorrow…would you be willing to come down, and take care of the mission for one night?”

  “I don’t know how to do what you do, and I sure as hell can’t preach to them.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have to do that, the ladies who volunteer would feed them, and all you would need to do is a walk through like we just did. I have a cot you can sleep on in a side room by the door.”

  “Ain’t there anybody else you could get?”

  “To tell you the truth, no, not a lot of people are willing to do this kind of work, and the ladies who come down to cook have families of their own to look after.”

  “Well…if you ain’t got nobody else to do it, I’ll give it a whack.”

  “Thank you.” Bill stuck out his hand, and Preacher looked at it a second, said, “Aw hell.” And shook his hand.

  “I gotta go.” Preacher turned toward the door.

  “Ok, see you day-after tomorrow.”

  The cold night wind tore at preacher as he rode the miles back to his mother's apartment, and he hunched down in the seat. By the time he got back to the apartment, his mother's shift was over, and she was sitting at the table eating a bite of food before bed.

  He walked tiredly into the room, and sat down at the table, “Where have you been Bobby?” She asked as she gave him a jaundiced look.

  “I was over at the Manhattan mission. I helped Pastor Bill a smidgen.”

  “Bobby, I hate it when you lie to me…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.

  “I ain’t lying ma; I swear; I was at the mission.” He returned in a frustrated voice.

  “Whats gotten into you Bobby? I saw you reading that bible.”

  “I just can’t tell you ma, I got some things I’m trying to work out.”

  “Well, you need to get it worked out Bobby, before that gang of yours kills you, or the police kill you. I only had you after your father left, and the last years, you’ve been lost to me.”

  “I’m here now ma.”

  She just looked at him with that hopeless resigned look, “I’m going to bed.”

  “I love you ma.”

  “I love you too Bobby.” He realized the pain he had caused his mother, as she got up to go to her room, and it brought tears to his eyes.

  The next evening he got to the mission around six; parked his bike near the front door of the mission, and hung the ticket on the handle bars. As he was affixing the ticket to the handlebars, Snake roared up on his Harley chopper. Snake's hand went to the pocket of his leather jacket, were Preacher knew he kept his snub nosed thirty eight revolver.

  “I wouldn’t do that Snake, unless you plan to use it.”

  “I ain’t planning on anything, unless you mean to cause me grief, I’m the president of the club now.”

  “Then you better get going Snake, I’ve left the club for good. If you are planning on retribution, don’t even think about it, because if you come after me, I’ll kill you.”

  “No retribution, I just wanted your intentions. We got the money Banger lost…here’s your share, and we’re done Preacher.” Snake tossed an envelope at Preacher's feet.

  “Don’t want the blood money.” He reached down; picked up the envelope and tossed it back to the biker. Snake stuck the envelope in his jacket, glared at Preacher, then cranked his bike, and zoomed off.

  Preacher walked into the mission, and saw the pots, and pans, “Aw hell.” He picked up a scrub brush, and went to work on them. It took him an hour of hard work to scrub the food laden pots clean, and then he walked through the door of the sleeping room. The smell hit him instantly, as he appraised the room, and saw that every bed was full again this night.

  He walked down the narrow Isles between the beds, looking at each body to be sure none of them were in distress. He got near the end of the first Isle, and heard an old man softly weeping, “Whats the matter Pops?” He whispered to the gray-haired old man. He sat down on the edge of the cot, and put his hand on the old mans shoulder.

  The old man turned to look at Preacher with tear filled eyes, “I learned my boy died, would you pray for me?”

  Preacher looked at the old man with a shocked look. This old fellow is asking me to say a prayer? The thought flashed through his mind as pity for the man flashed through his soul. “I can try Pops.” He laid his hand on the old mans shoulder again, and said a prayer as best he could. The prayer wouldn’t have passed muster with a chicken in the world's terms, and he doubted it got past the bunk in God's terms, but he felt a calming force of peace pass through him to the old man, and back to him again.

  “Thank you son.” The old man looked up at Preacher with grateful eyes.

  “It’s ok Pops, now try to get some rest.” He passed on to the next one. The people began asking him to pray for them also, and it took him an hour to get to the last one, a lady who was so sick he didn’t think she would last the night out.

  It had such an affect on him that it was three hours before he got to sleep on the bunk in the little room just off the front door. Pastor Bill shook him awake at four thirty the next morning, “You can go home now son; I've got it.”

  He raised up on the cot, and it took him a minute to realize where he was, “You sure? I can stay a while.”

  “No, you go on, and I’ll take the bunk, there’s coffee in the kitchen if you want it. I do appreciate you’re doing this though.”

  “Ok, I’ll get me a cup of that coffee before I ride home. Goodnight Pastor.”

  He sat in the kitchen, and drank two cups of coffee before he walked out to the bike in the early-morning light. Frost gleamed off the bike as he turned the key. He rode back to his mother’s apartment in the cold air, and slept until noon. He got up, and fixed a lunch for both him, and his mother, “You’re going to spoil me Bobby.” His mother said, as she came out of her bedroom, and walked to the coffee pot.

  “I got to go uptown Manhattan today to see some rich people, t
hen I’ll go to the Mission, and help Pastor Bill a while. I’ll get a job as soon as I can ma.”

  “Don’t worry about the job Bobby, I got some laid back.”

  “Well, I worry about it, how much you got laid-back ma?”

  “A little over fifty thousand.”

  “Fifty thousand!”

  “Its hard earned, not blood money.”

  “I turned the blood money down ma; I ain’t into that no more I told ya.”

  “If you say so Bobby. Just do what you have to do, and I hope to God it’s all legal.”

  He realized his mother had no cause to have faith in him, as he washed the dishes, and then bathed before heading uptown Manhattan. He looked at his torn jeans, and his scruffy, and scarred motorcycle jacket, then looked in the mirror at his bearded face, Well; I don’t look friendly, do I? I’m all I got though.

  He cranked the bike, and rode across the bridge, then picked up the four lane to downtown. He parked the bike in front of the Global Corp building, and hung the fake ticket, hoping the downtown cops wouldn’t look at it too closely. He looked up at the sky scraper, and then went through the large glass doors of the big building.

  He walked trough the lobby to the line of plaques hanging