Wind Without Rain

by Jim Hallaux

“Well, you’d better come up with something.”

  Jeff Steele sat at the counter having his lunch and reading the Oregonian. He worked at the First National bank across the street and always had a tuna melt and coke for lunch. Always at the JJA Hotel, always at the counter, sitting on the same stool. The JJA had been going downhill for some time, but Jeff was a creature of habit. In a big way.

  He couldn’t help overhear the commotion at the end of the counter.

  “I’ll help the young man out. Here, give me your ten & I’ll give you one a little newer,” Jeff said.

  Bill, his face bright red, exchanged the bill with the stranger, thanked him, paid his bill, and left a penny tip.

  Jeff Steele finished his lunch and Coke, paid the tab and generous tip, and folded the newspaper under his arm. He stopped to talk to a couple of people he knew on the sidewalk.

  When Jeff got to his desk, his first call was to the Oregon State Police and his second to the FBI in Portland. He reported burnt money being passed in Astoria.

  37

  December 20

  “Time to go,” the deputy called out as he clanged his keys on the open cell door. Merri struggled awake from a deep sleep she had not experienced in days. Her bed was a simple pad thrown atop a metal frame. No pillow. But she was not complaining. The cell was warm, and she was safe.

  Merri could have slept all day.

  “My shift’s over, and you need to disappear before someone else takes over.”

  Merri rubbed her eyes as she stood up. The deputy escorted her to the front of the precinct. A waist-high wall and gate separated the precinct’s front and back sections. He took her arm gently as he opened the gate to usher her out. Merri recoiled from his grasp. It caught him off guard.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. She glared at him while exiting the building.

  Merri wandered down the street, no direction in mind. A mother dressed in a collared, knee-length dress, pearl necklace, and white gloves guided her six-year-old son around Merri giving her a wide berth.

  “Mommy, who’s that woman?” the boy asked while pointing at the disheveled Merri.

  “Never mind. It is no one.” She hurried him along to safety.

  Merri stood on the corner of Salmon and Broadway, next to the entrance to the Portland Hilton. She just stood there. With no idea what to do.

  “Honey, are you all right?”

  The voice was soft and southern.

  “What?”

  “I asked if you were alright.” The woman was tall, with high heels and a very short skirt. Smoking a Virginia Slim cigarette.

  “Yeah, yeah, I, I’m good”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Can I have a cigarette… please?” Merri hadn’t smoked before she got to the shelter. Almost everyone there did. It helped her from feeling hungry and made her seem warmer.

  The two women stood on the corner smoking. And somehow Merri’s story came tumbling out.

  All of it.

  “And I just lost it, Lashelle. I’ve got to get a job, some money. Any ideas you can give me would help.”

  “Well, there is someone who’d help you. He’s helped other girls. Works out of the east side. He has a nice house and girls stay there. He gets them clothes, shoes, a haircut. Kind of the whole makeover thing.”

  “It sounds good! How much does all that cost?”

  “Oh, there’ll be a price,” Lashelle said.

  A Portland PD cruiser gave out a short blast on the siren. Lashelle disappeared in an instant. Inside the cruiser were the two policemen from the night before.

  Officer Hanson rolled down the driver’s side window and said,

  “If you stay in the jail tonight it’ll be because I arrested you. This time the cell door will be locked.”

  “We were just talking,” Merri stammered.

  “Are you looking for more trouble?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. She was saying she knew someone who could help me.”

  “You don’t want that kind of help. Stay away from her.”

  Merri was hungry. She found a diner and entered. The red Naugahyde booths and stools were old and torn. A diamond-stamped stainless-steel wall held a glass display of the day’s bakery goods. The Formica table tops were scratched, their off-yellow pattern worn away in spots.

  Merri sat on a mushroom-shaped stool at the counter. The chrome-plating on its legs were peeling. It was off-peak. Many spots were open for guests to sit at. She watched the counter girl, a woman in her forty’s, work the room delivering meals and coffee and slices of apple pie. The server passed by several times but never approached Merri. Merri tried to get her attention, but the woman never looked her way.

  Merri reached into her pocket and pulled out a messy wad of bills. Her money was dwindling. The server approached.

  “Listen,” she said in a hushed tone, “The owner says I can’t serve you. You understand, don’t you, hon?”

  Merri brushed her matted hair back away from her eyes.

  “I’m not your ‘hon’ and I’m not leaving. I’m hungry. And I can pay.”

  “I saw that. It’s not me. It’s the guy cooking back there.” Merri glanced at the fat, bald man behind the pass-through window. “You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”

  Merri shook her head. “Sell me a piece of apple pie and I will leave.”

  “Promise?”

  Merri nodded.

  The server plated up a piece of apple pie and slid it into a small, brown paper sack.

  “Be careful. Keep the bag sideways or you’ll have a mess.” Merri took the sack. She felt a ceramic plate inside. “I put a fork in there. They’re cheap… like the owner.” To avoid dirtying her starched apron, the server wiped her hands on a towel folded on the countertop. Merri held out two dollars to pay. The server looked around at her boss. His back was toward the pass-through window. “Keep it. Enjoy the pie.”

  Merri left searching for a safe place to eat her pie. Everyone’s eyes stared at her. Or avoided her completely. She found herself at the park near Grace Gospel Mission. As she crossed the street, Cowboy Joe sat on ‘his’ bench. He looked the same. Same clothes. Same cowboy hat.

  She recognized something in his shopping cart. Under the tarp, sticking out one corner, was her suitcase. Anger filled her. She stomped over to him, her face red.

  “I want it back,” she demanded.

  “What?”

  “You stole my suitcase from me. It’s all I have. And I want it back.”

  “You accuse me of theft, then you want me to help you?”

  “What I want is my suitcase. I’m not going to apologize to you, crazy man. You stole my suitcase. I want it back. Simple to understand, even for you.”

  “Now you insult me,” Cowboy Joe said in a calm voice that started to disarm her.

  “Please,” she said without the energy to fight on. He waved his arm inviting her to sit next to him. She did. He looked into her eyes before he spoke.

  “If you invited me to dinner at your home, I would be respectful. I would complement the food or say nothing at all. If we were Japanese, I would remove my shoes at the door.”

  “And what does that have to do with my suitcase?”

  “This is my home. You are a guest in it. It would be wise to learn who I am before throwing around strong accusations. You don’t know me – don’t pretend that you do.”

  “My suitcase is right there,” Merri declared.

  Cowboy Joe took a deep breath.

  “If you understood the street, you would know only Dopers steal, and they live on the south side of town. The rest of us have a code.”

  “That’s not important. My case is. Please.”

  “It IS important if you end up living here.”

  “I don’t want to live here.”

  “But you are. I see you every day.”

  Merri went silent. He was right. She was on the streets.

  “And because of that, I saved your case knowing you would be a
round.”

  “Truly?”

  “Have I yet to lie to you?”

  She paused.

  “All men lie. They eat lies for breakfast.”

  “I feel the pain in your comments.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s my life.”

  “And that life has brought you here?”

  “Yup.”

  “Not booze? Not dope?”

  “No way.”

  “Then, take a walk with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor me. Do you have a busy day scheduled?”

  Cowboy Joe caught a brief smile. She stood, and he led the way.

  “Wait. My suitcase.”

  “No one will touch it. The code. Remember?”

  “But if you didn’t steal my case, someone else did.”

  “Bengie. A doper. I made him give it back. Nothing in it of value anyway. We sent him south. He won’t bother us up here anymore.”

  “I see.”

  Cowboy Joe led Merri to the other side of the park. Sitting against a tree trunk, a lost soul slept, his hand draped over a small paper bag twisted around the neck of the pint bottle of whiskey. They walked past. The man never moved. At the corner, another man stood, working the traffic as it stopped for a red light.

  On a cardboard sign, he had scrawled ‘Need parts 4 spaceship. Trying to get home. Anything helps.’

  “Drinkers are more solitary,” Cowboy Joe pointed out. “They choose booze over food for dinner. Sad.”

  Merri stopped and stared at the man she stood next to. Who is he?

  “You talk down about these men. They’re just another you.”

  “Not down. I don’t talk down about them. I simply want you to understand what it’s like on the streets. Who you are living among? What are they like?”

  “I’m not planning on living here. Not permanently at least.

  “Good to hear. Let me show you one more thing.”

  “You talk about Dopers and Alcoholics like you are different.”

  “Oh, different? Yes and no. We all share the streets, I guess, but when we get around the corner ahead, you’ll understand better.”

  As they turned the corner, Merri looked down the street. It was lined by two and three-story brick buildings. All gray and brown and weathered. Cowboy Joe took her to a narrow, empty lot nestled between two buildings. Empty in that there was no building on it but filled with homeless lean-tos built of wood pallets and tarps and large cardboard boxes. There was more order to it than the pictures of homeless camps she had seen. On the right brick wall, a mural covered it from street to back corner. In bright, hopeful colors, it depicted people standing in a valley with the sun rising over the surrounding hills.

  “The people living here do so without fear of being kicked off the land or harassed by the cops.”

  “What about the landowner?”

  “He supports it.”

  “Really?”

  “He feels the people living here deserve the use of the place.”

  “Impressive. I would think he would worry about the land’s value.”

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

  “I guess.”

  “There are no dopers or alcoholics living here. They have places to help them if they seek it. The people here choose to be, or circumstances overwhelmed them. What could be a better use of the land?”

  “Hmmm. I love the mural. It is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did I compliment you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You painted that? It’s fantastic. What talent. Why not do it for a living? You’d be rich.”

  “And then?” Joe questioned.

  “Then you would not have to live on the street anymore.” Cowboy Joe lowered his head. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

  “No. No. I was thinking.” Joe replied. “We are talking about me when we need to be talking about you. Say, are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Come on. We’re having lunch. I know just the spot.”

  Merri looked confused. Cowboy Joe slept in a shelter every night. Spent his days on a park bench.

  I was right from the start. He’s crazy. Taking me for a fool. It’s not his mural. Now he wants to take me back to the shelter and ‘buy’ me lunch.

  “Joe. You don’t have to buy me lunch,” she said giving him an out. “Let’s go get my suitcase and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, I insist.” He walked with a confident pace Merri had not noticed before.

  The couple walked two blocks before Cowboy Joe stopped, pulled open a heavily-sculpted wood door with brass trimmings and lead glass inserts. Merri sensed it was a high-end dinner house.

  “Joe, I don’t think—”

  “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

  They passed by the lounge. The bartender, busy polishing glasses, took the time to acknowledge them.

  “Hi, Joe,” he said.

  Merri was startled. “Did he just—”

  Cowboy Joe kept walking, entering the dining room. Though daylight outside, it was dark. Rich stained woods and brass railings decorated the room. Plush red high-back booths made for intimate dining. Joe kept walking. Between the dining room and the kitchen, separated by wood and lead glass walls, a single half-round booth matching those in the main room, awaited them. Cowboy Joe motioned her to sit. He hung his hat on a brass hook and slid into the booth.

  Her jaw was open. It was hard to comprehend. She would not have believed it, but the bartender knew him by name.

  “What is going on?”

  Cowboy Joe smiled.

  “Great restaurants recognize their best customers.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Cough up.”

  Just then, Evelyn, a matronly server, approached the table. She had been with the restaurant for fourteen years, and if she was working, she took care of Joe.

  “May I offer you a cocktail,” she asked looking at Merri. “Joe is having a Macallan’s neat.”

  “I’ll have a martini. Shaken.” Merri had seen You Only Live Twice at the Job Corps and ordered as if she was James Bond.

  “Will Beefeater’s be all right?” Evelyn asked.

  Merri had no idea what Evelyn was talking about but answered yes anyway.

  “Very well. I will return shortly.”

  Evelyn whisked away.

  Merri, still in awe, confronted Joe.

  “I am overwhelmed by this place and by you. You owe me an explanation.”

  “I do. First, do you acknowledge you misjudged me? Who I am? That I stole your suitcase?”

  “Guilty as charged. I am sorry.”

  “Not another word about it. I choose to be on the street. You, my dear, did not make that choice. Am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “I used to live on our estate with my mother.” Joe’s voice softened. “But I have been fighting a mental disorder. They haven’t given it a name yet. I have fits at times. It scares my mother and she put a restraining order on me. I’m not allowed within a thousand yards of her.”

  “How could she do that to her son?”

  “It is best for her tranquility. She’s been on tranquilizers for twenty years now. Who knows how my issue will progress? It might be a smart move.

  “Anyway, I never fit in with the elite crowd. I sometimes embarrassed Mom. Now I choose a simpler life and I embarrass her all the time.”

  Evelyn approached with the cocktails.

  “We’ll order in a minute, Evelyn.”

  She nodded and left silently.

  “What about the halfway house?”

  “Part of my mother’s foundation. They humor me there.”

  “And the lot for the homeless?”

  “Mine.”

  “And the mural?”

  “Mine and the building I used as a canvas.”

  “Seriously? Wow.”

  “We came here to talk about you, remember? What happened?
”

  Merri explained her expulsion from the Job Corps making sure to blame Tom, Scott, and Larry for her demise. Cowboy Joe was attentive but not buying her story. At least not how she viewed the events.

  Evelyn returned, and Joe ordered lunch for them both.

  As their meal progressed, Cowboy Joe delved deeper into Merri’s past. Her pain. Her father. Her mistrust of men. How they always let her down. He felt for her but saw a flaw in how she dealt with challenges in her life. Before he could approach the subject, Evelyn returned.

  “Can I suggest a strawberry tiramisu? Chocolate Mousse?”

  Merri remembered the apple pie she had purchased earlier.

  “My pie? What happened to my apple pie? I had it with me when I was discussing… okay, yelling at you about my suitcase.”

  “You set it on the bench as we ‘discussed’ things.”

  “The chef makes a great apple pie,” Evelyn noted. “Good as my mother’s, but don’t tell her that.”

  “If he has a piece,” Joe said, “we’ll take it to go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Evelyn returned with a to-go box as Joe had requested. She disappeared into the background but was attentive to the table. The bill and a healthy tip were put on Joe’s tab. He paid once a month.

  “Well, I guess it’s time to go,” Merri said with a disappointing sound in her voice. “Thank you for your hospitality, Joe, which I don’t deserve. I am, however, glad to have met you.”

  “We’re not done yet, my dear.”

  “Oh?”

  “Remember when you agreed that you misjudged me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Much of life is perception and how we react. The mind is like a parachute.” He paused. “It only works when open.

  “Tom might have been flirting with that other woman. Maybe not. You, however, never took the time to seek the truth. Whose fault is that? And Scott? All he did was buy an attractive woman a drink. You chose to drink it. You knew the Job Corps rules. A skydiver learns to always pack his own chute. Only he then has responsibility for what happens when he pulls the cord.

  “Control your own destiny, Merri.” Cowboy Joe grabbed the single piece of pie and handed it to her.

  “This building is a hotel. Go to the front desk and check-in. One night only. Take the pie and think about what we discussed. You don’t belong on the streets, Merri.”