Session 2 (5/14/2003) The Mission
Session 2 (5/14/2003) The Mission
Willie hobbled out to the truck, leaning heavily on a black orthopedic cane. He was dressed in ragged dirty jeans, old loafers, and a yellow paint-stained T-shirt. In his free hand, he held a small bottle wrapped in a plain brown paper sack.
Brother Cooper leaned over and tugged on the door handle to swing the passenger door open for him. The effort pulled on the stitches in his abdomen, and he winced as he leaned back into the driver’s seat.
“Wilson, the doctors told me I was okay to check out today, but I think you’re a dern fool for leaving the hospital in your condition. Two nights in the hospital following a knife wound like you had…well that’s just not enough time for your body to heal” he preached, as Willie groaned his way into the waiting vehicle. “And you may want to watch where you’re putting your hand there.”
Willie looked up and realized that, in looking for a suitable handhold to help him climb into the truck, he had grabbed the butt of Guyzell’s shotgun in the truck’s gun rack. He carefully eased his hand away from the weapon and finished sliding into the cab. He grunted, “I’m alright, preacher. And ya know, I do appreciate your advice. Between you and my Gramms, I’m stocked up on advice and fussing over me for quite a while.”
“Alright, alright, just trying to help you out,” Brother Cooper offered, and pulled his Stetson down a little tighter onto his head. He pulled out onto the street and the pickup truck headed downtown. “So what’s the plan here tonight?”
“Well,” Willie considered. “I figure you’re good for going in and volunteering; maybe talking to the folks running the place. I figured I would try to fit in with some of the boys coming in for dinner and try to talk to them.”
Brother Cooper looked over again at Willie’s cheap and tattered clothes. “Well, you certainly do look the part.”
. . .
“Well, Reverend Cooper, it is always a pleasure to welcome a new volunteer,” the soup kitchen manager beamed, “and especially when said volunteer is a man of the cloth.” The thin man spoke with a lilt in his voice, but otherwise seemed completely worn-out, which seemed far too typical for a charity worker. “While the St. James Mission is of course officially non-denominational, all of us pretty much feel that we’re doing God’s work here.”
“There’s no finer work that a man can do, brother,” Guyzell agreed. “I just want to do what I can. Just point out what you want me to do, and I’ll be glad to get started.”
“Glad to hear it. We have a hard time getting enough volunteers on weeknights, and I’m just really glad to have someone here tonight.”
A few minutes later, Guyzell was wearing a too-tight apron and stirring a giant pot of cheap instant soup in the industrial-grade kitchen, while the mission manager was off setting up folding tables in the other room.
Taking a moment to snoop around, Guyzell found a small storage room in a hallway between the kitchen and a stairwell. Poking his head inside, he found several half-empty boxes with the Project: Together logo stamped on the side. The lots of clothing had definitely been passed out here then.
As he returned to the kitchen, the preacher spotted a clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall, next to a phone. Taking a moment to look over the papers there, he found a contact list for all of the common volunteers at the Mission, complete with their cell phone numbers. He was proud to see that, among about fifty names on the list, he recognized at least a couple of the names as members of his church.
Guyzell paused and looked around the room for a pen or some paper, but couldn’t find anything usable. There wasn’t another copy of the list handy, and it was too long to try to memorize. After a moment, he stuck the paper under his cowboy hat, and headed back outside.
The manager was still setting up tables. Guyzell nodded to him and said that he just needed to run out to his truck for a minute to make a phone call. The manager waved him on and smiled wearily.
Passing the growing line of hungry homeless men, Guyzell tried to avoid eye contact with Willie. He moved on to his truck and slide inside, closing the door behind him. He dialed a number on his cell phone while removing the paper from his hat. After a moment, an answering machine picked up:
“Hi, this is Brother Guyzell Cooper. I am sorry, but I am unable to take your call at this time…”
After the machine beeped, Guyzell began reading off names and numbers into the phone.
. . .
Willie hobbled down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his cane. He knew the cane was a good prop for the part, but he hated that he actually did need the damn thing to help him stand up. His leg was throbbing and sore from the ankle to up above his hip.
The doc had given him a scrip for some pain meds, but he didn’t want to take anything if he could help it. For one thing, he didn’t want to be hopped up on something in case bullets started flying, and for another, he had seen a couple of old friends back in his days in the Marines that had enjoyed the stuff a little too much. Not to mention that he didn’t have the cash to pay for a refill if he needed one.
He was now reconsidering the whole idea earlier about having the preacher drop him off a few blocks away so he could walk up to the Mission separately and not arouse suspicion. His leg was not up for a three block jaunt through downtown, and he was sweating with the effort.
Finally, around the next corner, he saw the sign for the St. James Mission for the Homeless. Several of the lights had burned out on the sign, but he didn’t imagine the place’s clientele had much concern with the look of the place.
There were already about two dozen men waiting in line out front. Willie wondered how some of them had come to this sorry state, and felt a strong sense of compassion for them, and a sudden urge to find justice for them. That urge for justice felt strong; it felt like it was a source of strength; and actually seemed to drive back some of the pain in his leg. But as he drew closer, he couldn’t help but start looking for weapons. He couldn’t trust these men, not after two nights ago… at least not yet.
The men were forming a basic line, waiting for the call to dinner, and to be allowed inside for the night. They waited, lined up in the sidewalk, standing or sitting, leaning back against the brick building, with its barred windows and chipping paint.
“Damn, brother, you look like hell,” one of the men offered. He was a wiry older black man, thin and with sallow cheekbones. He wore a mix of borrowed clothing, including a faded Atlanta Braves cap and mismatched shoes.
“Thanks, bro…you should see the other guy,” Willie joked, as he hobbled up closer to the man. He winced as he stepped up over a break in the concrete, and didn’t have to pretend to show off the pain in his face.
“Here, boy, you come here and sit down right now. Quincy, get yo’ butt outta the way. Can’t you see we got a man injured here?” the Atlanta Braves fan motioned for one of his companions to clear out a spot, and he motioned Willie over to sit down.
“Thanks, bro,” Willie repeated, and sank down onto the sidewalk. The two men helped him down and then sat back down on either side of him. Willie suddenly felt very foolish, and more than a little depressed. He had just had two homeless men taking pity on him. There was something just plain wrong with that.
Willie introduced himself to the two men. The talkative one introduced himself as Jones, and he re-introduced Quincy.
“So, how long ‘til we eat?” Willie wondered aloud, and looked to see how long the line was ahead of them.
“Why? You got somewhere you got to be?” Jones joked, and Quincy laughed hoarsely.
“No,” Willie grinned. “Just seeing if I had time for a drink.” He fished the bottle out of his pocket, and, looking both ways to make sure no one was watching, took a quick swig.
“Hey, brother, you didn’t say you was holdin’!” Jones whispered, and checked to see if anyone else had seen. “You know, they won’t let you take that inside.”
Willie paused, as if considering his options. “Well, then, you guys wanna help me finish this out here, before we go in?”
Jones and Quincy eagerly agreed, and the three began passing the bottle back and forth. Neither of the homeless men seemed to notice that Willie wasn’t really drinking when he put the bottle to his lips.
“So, what’s up in the hood these days?” Willie asked as he took another fake-drink. “I ain’t been in town for a while.”
Jones eyed him sideways, and Willie wondered if somehow he had blown his cover. But the homeless man was not looking so much at Willie as he was checking out the street on either side, as though he wanted to be careful of who might be listening. After assuring himself that they were not going to be overheard, he whispered, “Well, you sure picked a bad time to come back to town, Willie.”
“Why? What’s going down?”
“I don’t know, but I’m just saying…the line won’t be too long for dinner tonight.” Jones took the last of the bottle, and then casually wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He looked over at Quincy, who nodded in agreement.
“Whaddaya mean, Jones, my man? What you guys talking ‘bout?”
“I don’t know, man. But…okay…it’s like this,” Jones started. “A few days ago, like last week or so, I was under the overpass, over there on Seventh? So, I woke up in the middle of the night, and there was a bunch of us under there, on account of it was raining. And this white van stopped under there, and a bunch of the guys went over to it. And then they all got in the van, and it drove off.”
Willie paused, waiting for the rest of the story. But Jones seemed satisfied, as though the tale spoke for itself. Finally, Willie had to push him, “And…?”
“…And we ain’t seen any of those guys since,” Jones finished. “And they ain’t the only ones that come up missing neither. Past couple weeks…ten, maybe fifteen guys gone.”
Quincy, who had so far been quite on the subject, nodded agreement. “Just like that….gone forever.”
So Willie has charm (the ladies) and Guyzell has charm (males)? At least there you're covering each other's blindspots.
