He moved to my side and held the mop with me. We’re practically touching, we’re so close. What I hadn’t realized before then was that my shirt was wet from the cleaning—both from sprayed water and sweat. And it wasn’t much of a barrier from the heat of Eli’s body. We’re touching. Shoulders. Hips.
“Side to side, see? Over here. Side to side.”
Eli guided us backward as he moved the mop gracefully from side to side in front of us. I watched his hands so close to mine on the mop handle. Eli had nice hands—big manly hands with veins sticking out. I didn’t know why, but watching his hands next to mine seemed very intimate. His skin was a shade or two darker than mine though I could only see his hands and wrists because he wore a long-sleeved shirt.
I wondered what his arms looked like. Were they muscular? My eyes feasted on his fingers wrapped around the handle, and I wondered what other talents they might have other than holding mops and brooms. I felt like a Victorian man who got turned on by the glimpse of a woman’s ankles because he fantasized about the covered parts above those delicate ankles. My heart thumped rapidly. I was having trouble breathing. Eli talked in low soft tones close to my ear, and I was surprised to realize I was getting turned on.
For heaven’s sake he’s turning me on.
“Side to side. Over here. Walk back. Side to side. Over here. Walk back. It’s almost like a dance.” He talked and moved rhythmically. It was like a dance.
Oh. Somebody help me. I was mop dancing with a homeless guy.
No doubt about it. I needed to get out more.
I let go of the mop and stepped away from him. “Thanks. I get it now. But please. Go on and mop, if you want.”
Eli stopped, his expression shuttered. “No. You need the practice. Otherwise, you’ll forget.”
“As if,” I retorted. As if I ever could forget having the hots for a street person in the wretched bathroom.
My life was a mess. I was obviously so lonely that any human contact was sending my hormones into orbit.
Eli didn’t say another word. He just propped the mop up on the wall next to the sink and left.
No great exit line this time. But he sure did give me something to think about.
****
I didn’t know if I was causing too much trouble at the community center or if the homeless men’s shelter was really in desperate need of help. Whatever the reason, Mr. Harvey sent me over there to assist with supper. I was a little unnerved the first night— okay, scared stiff, but the men seemed either distant or polite.
Kaylon Smith was at least three hundred pounds if he was an ounce and was just the biggest teddy bear I ever met. I liked him instantly. I figured that if anybody threatened me, I’d just go hide behind Kaylon. Anyway, he was happy for some help and put me to work making instant mashed potatoes. No problem. I followed the directions on the box, added the government issued butter, some milk from the fridge, and had the perfect side dish. Then after the dinner bell rang, I took my stand in the serving line and put green beans and mashed potatoes on every plate.
After all of the men came through, I took up the tea pitcher and threaded my way through the tables refilling cups. It’s what I did at the Waffle Mania every night, so I figured people eating, people drinking—hey, I know what I was supposed to be doing. Well, apparently nobody had ever done this before. That made me sad. I mean, don’t these guys—homeless, though they were—deserve to be served, to be waited on? I spotted Eli. I didn’t remember seeing him come through the line, and he didn’t have a plate in front of him, but he was sitting at a table with a group of men. I made my way over there, filling up cups on the way. When I reached the table, I spoke to Eli.
“Hi Eli, so this is where you disappear to after you’re finished at the community center.” There was no response. “I’m Abigail. You guys want any tea?”
Four glasses appeared under the direct vicinity of the tea pitcher. Four pairs of eyes of the owners of the cups looked at me expectantly. Eli, the only one not wanting more tea, sighed. He aimed one of those distant looks at me.
Eli didn’t quite fit in with the other men here. I wished I knew his story. He was probably well educated, but then how did he get to be homeless? Was it drugs? And if he wanted to stay busy by sweeping half of Clavania, why didn’t he get a job that paid something so he could get off the street? I filled up the tea and went on to the next table. At the end of the meal as the men were shuffling out, many of them called me by name and thanked me for coming. They seemed so polite. Why wasn’t there a place for them in society?
Kaylon’s eyes sparkled behind his tiny glasses. His glasses actually seemed to be part of his face because they sat back behind his fleshy cheeks and eyebrows. I smiled at him and asked him how he came to be serving meals at the homeless men’s shelter. He handed me a large pan which had had the chicken in it from supper.
“Here, part of the job’s cleaning up,” he said.
“Does that mean I don’t get to hear your life story?”
“Yeah, that’s what it means. Get to scrubbing so I can close up the kitchen, and you can go home.”
“I didn’t mean to pry. I was just being friendly.”
Kaylon made this affirmative sound which sounded like he didn’t believe me. “I saw how friendly you was being with our tea. This ain’t no restaurant, Abigail. You start filling up tea glasses, we’ll be short of tea before the end of the month.”
“Well, I think people ought to drink as much as they want. Otherwise, they could get dehydrated.”
“You give them seconds on tea, and there’s twice as much pee on the sidewalk in the morning.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Kaylon seemed to care less about the health of the homeless men and more about having to spray down the walkway. I took out my frustrations on the dirty pots and pans. I was so mad that I nearly scrubbed holes in the metal.
****
Apparently, I got quite the reputation of buddying up to what I called our ‘customers’ because Mr. Harvey stopped me in the hall on my way to help the hoodlums with their homework. You had to admire a guy who dressed in a suit trying to set a good example to a bunch of kids whose pants rode as low as their knees.
“How are things going at the men’s shelter?”
“Fine.” No need in volunteering why there was more pee outside than usual.
“Do you like working suppers over there?”
“Sure. Nice group of guys. I’ve made several new friends.” I grinned at Mr. Harvey and winked.
He laughed in response, crossed his arms and studied me for a moment. “Abigail, I appreciate your kindness with the men. The last thing I want to do is scare you, but your friendliness might very well be misinterpreted. A lot of those guys lead lonely lives.”
I returned his look. “Mr. Harvey, if they lead lonely lives, then that’s even more reason to be nice to them.”
“It might not be an issue if you weren’t an attractive young woman, but you are.”
“Gee thanks, Mr. Harvey. You’re not asking me out on a date, are you?”
In response, he laughed again. Paula, a no-nonsense volunteer who had been walking by, stopped in her tracks. I guess she wanted to find out whether Mr. Harvey was asking me out. That would definitely be newsworthy as he’s married.
“Why don’t you go help Paula today,” he said without even looking at her, turned around and walked purposely back to his office.
“Girl, you’ve got to tell me what that was about,” Paula said coming back to life. She and I went into the kitchen. She was usually in charge of snacks.
“I’ve been helping out with supper at the homeless men’s shelter, and Mr. Harvey was warning me about getting too friendly with the clients.”
I followed her into a closet which had been converted into a pantry. She studied the menu posted inside the door and began pulling things off the shelves and handing them to me.
“He’s right. You don’t watch out, you’re going to find yourself corne
red by a Smelly Sam trying to make time with you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Paula. Those guys are harmless. They’re just as nice and respectful as I’ve seen. In fact, they’re better mannered than some guys I used to work with.”
I set the various cans and boxes on the Formica island in the middle of the kitchen. Paula went over to a cabinet and pulled out two large plastic pitchers and filled them up with water to mix with some powdered drink.
“I don’t care how respectful they act. Whether they’re at the homeless shelter on 21st Street or in the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, men only care about two things: food and sex.”
“Oh, come on. How can you say that?”
“Because I know. Now, those guys may act nice and respectful, but they get their bellies full and you sweet thing bring them tea and sit down smiling so pretty at ‘em and they going to go after the only other thing they care about.”
“How do you know about me bringing them tea?” I asked astonished.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Honey, word is out. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s about thirty more men coming to eat every night you’re there than there is regular. Maybe they’re comin’ for the tea, but my guess is they comin’ for you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You better believe it. Mash said a fight broke out last night after you left because one man sat in a chair they were saving for you.”
I leaned back on the island in utter shock. Mash drove a van around town picking up any guys who looked like they might need a hot meal and a warm bed to sleep in, and took them to the men’s shelter. Apparently, he not only drove the van, but kept up on all the news and passed it along to the community center.
Gee whiz. I had no idea I was causing such trouble. Well, darn it. What was I supposed to do now? Just stay hidden in the kitchen the entire time? How embarrassing. I mean, I am passably attractive, but certainly no beauty queen. And just to let you know, I am frumpy incarnate. I don’t wear low cut shirts. I don’t wear short skirts. I wear formless, baggy everything—mostly because that’s what’s comfortable and there’s not a dress code at the community center. I honestly cannot imagine anybody fighting because they didn’t get to sit next to me.
That night, I went to the men’s shelter deciding to be just a little bit more standoffish. I did take tea around, but went back to the kitchen after the pitcher was empty and washed up pots and pans. Kaylon didn’t say anything about my change in routine. Though he also sat down with the men after everyone had gone through the line, he didn’t complain that I didn’t this time. Perhaps his feelings were hurt because no one had ever saved him a seat. Anyway, he was glad to get out of there a little early.
****
After the third night of hiding out in the kitchen, I was about to get into my car after cleaning up when one of the customers named Harold appeared. I knew his name because he wore this long wool coat all the time. Permanently affixed to the lapel of the coat was a ‘Hello, My name is’ sticker with the name ‘Harold’ on it. Harold needed a ride, and wanted me to give him one. His eyes pierced mine appealingly. I didn’t want to give him a ride, but I couldn’t think of a good excuse other than he reeked of cigarette smoke, as a lot of these guys did. Maybe I could plead allergies.
“I really need that ride. It’s not out of your way, Abigail.”
As if he knew what was and what wasn’t out of my way. “All right, Harold, get in.”
He jumped in the car, and I grudgingly got in myself. Just as I was about to pull away from the curb, the back door opened. When I looked back, I saw Eli getting in and putting on his seatbelt.
“Hi, Eli.” I met his eyes in the rear view mirror. “Do you need a ride somewhere, too?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“All right, boys. Where to?”
Nobody said anything. I decided Harold was going to be the first to go as I’d rather smell Eli’s caramel than Harold’s smoke. I glanced at him. “Harold, where to?”
Harold glared out the windshield. “Wilkshire,” he snapped.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Eli’s presence was really ticking off Harold.
“Wilkshire?” It was a public hospital. I guess Harold had need of medical attention. I hoped whatever he had wasn’t contagious. I drove there in less than fifteen minutes and dropped him off. He got out of the car without a thank you or a how-de-do. I guess a ‘Hello, my name is’ tag doesn’t take the place of good manners, now does it? I waited to pull out from the curb until I could find out where we were going next. I looked in the rearview mirror at Eli as he watched Harold stalk away.
“Where can I take you, Eli?” I asked.
“Just drive a couple of blocks, then you can let me out.”
What?
“Don’t you ever, ever give anybody a ride again. Do you hear me? Nobody.”
The vehemence in Eli’s voice took me by surprise. I looked in the mirror again, but he was still staring out the window.
“Who I give a ride to is my business.”
“You just put yourself in a car with a convicted rapist who has been out of prison exactly six weeks. Now, please promise me you’ll never do that again.”
You know how you have what the airlines call a ‘near miss’ which is actually a ‘near hit’ to my way of thinking? In my experience, it is narrowly missing crashing into another car. After it is over, you have an adrenaline hot flash—your blood pressure shoots up, your heart beats ninety to nothing, you might burst into tears or laugh hysterically. I started crying, and I couldn’t get a hold of myself. Eli sat silently in the backseat.
After a few minutes, I calmed down enough to drive. I went to a fast food restaurant and pulled in the parking lot. “How about that cup of coffee?”
He sighed and nodded, so we went inside. I actually bought him coffee and a whole meal. He hadn’t eaten at the shelter, so I figured he might be hungry. Though why he rarely ate there was a mystery.
We sat across from each other, and I set his food in front of him. He thanked me and tore into the food. I drank my own coffee and tried to wipe any trace of runny mascara from under my eyes.
“I’m sorry about the crying. It’s just that when you said that, it scared—”
“Good,” Eli said putting down his hamburger. “You should be scared.” He paused, scanned the restaurant, and hooked me with his eyes. “Maybe Harold only needed a ride to Wilkshire, or maybe he didn’t. The point is, you don’t let anybody in your car. Don’t trust anybody.”
“I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t. Not me. Not anybody.” He turned his head.
One thing I’ve noticed about Eli. He doesn’t make eye contact very often. I think the reason is because the few times he has, his eyes gathered me in and held me there.
“People who are on the streets don’t have much. Some people don’t have anything, and they’re the ones who are dangerous because they don’t have anything to lose. They don’t care who they hurt. They don’t care if they get thrown in prison or shot through the head. They don’t care about anything because they’re empty inside. There’s nothing there.”
“That’s so sad.”
“No, it isn’t sad. It’s terrifying. And, you should act accordingly.”
I thought about that for a little while and decided a change of subject was in order.
“Why don’t you eat at the shelter?”
Eli shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re obviously hungry. Don’t you trust Kaylon’s cooking?”
“Somebody might be hungrier than I am,” he said, taking another bite of burger.
“From where I’m sitting, I find that hard to believe.”
“Let me ask you something, Abigail. What do you do with the leftovers at the shelter?”
I thought about it. “It’s rare that we ever have leftovers.”
“Exactly.”
“But nobody’s ever turned away. If we’ve ever run out of fo
od, we just fix peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or hot dogs or something.”
“I make do, so don’t worry about me.”
“Then why come to the meal, if you don’t ever eat?” I pressed.
Why it mattered, I didn’t know. Eli just seemed so…nice. Why couldn’t he have a normal life?
“Thanks for supper,” Eli said as he gathered up his food wrappers and piled them on the tray. He stood up and took the tray over to the trash to empty it. “I’ll see you around.” He didn’t look back. He didn’t wait for me to follow him out. By the time I got to the door, he was gone. But at least he’d said, “Thanks.”
Chapter Three
The first time I learned about the Nights was when I was helping Paula in the kitchen at the community center. Paula was my buddy who had given me advice about not being so friendly with the homeless guys at the shelter. She was in charge of the community center kitchen for the late-stayer snack. Late-stayers were kids whose parents worked second shift and were too little to be at home alone. When Paula worked around food, she took the health department’s regulations to heart. Everyone wore a hair net including me much to my dismay. She passed one to me and proceeded to stuff her bleached hair under hers.
“I hate these things. I have too much hair to fit it all in,” I complained.
“Quit bragging,” she said as she patted her head making sure no stray hair had escaped. “The city ain’t going to shut us down just because you don’t want to follow the rules.”
“I don’t see why we have to wear them for cleaning up. We’ve already served the food.”
“And now we’re putting it away. I don’t want any of your curly hairs in the peanut butter.”
I made no comment as I heaved a bag of garbage through the kitchen door to the dumpster out back.
A young man dressed in black jeans and a ripped jacket stood in the alley between the center and the house next door. With his back leaning against the bricked building across the way, he glared at me and spit on the ground. I’m not usually a coward, but the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I hurried back inside.
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