Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  With a heavy heart, Jonathan entered the building. The fine impression he had formed while on the outside evaporated when he stepped inside. Metal bunk beds—so close together a person could barely pass between them—filled a room that resembled a barracks. A burly man, with a snake tattoo on his arm, held a clipboard and barred his way.

  “Name and bed number?”

  “Jonathan Holmes. And I don’t have a bed. I’ve never been here before.”

  The man ran his thumb down the clipboard. “You’re in luck. Got one bed left. Number one thirty nine, a lower.”

  “Thank you.” The phrase was insincere. He wasn’t thankful at all. He had hoped there wouldn’t be a spare bed and that he could just walk out that big double door and head home, exonerated from the Lord’s directive. Instead, Jonathan turned toward the maze of bunks but stopped when he felt strong fingers grip his arm.

  “Not so fast. First the paperwork.” The man with the snake tattoo handed his clipboard to an assistant. “Follow me.”

  As Jonathan did, he tried ignoring the swarm of male bodies shuffling stiff-legged like his grandfather used to do, the one who had died from Alzheimer’s.

  And then there was the smell.

  It made him want to gag. How could men live here? Sleep here? Eat here?

  When his guide ushered him into a tiny office, Jonathan was relieved to be away from the sea of bodies. How close had he come to being homeless himself while growing up? He couldn’t count the times he’d heard his mother praying for the Lord to provide their rent money. And the sight of his mother on her knees before the fifteenth of every month, when the landlord would knock on the door, was a memory that harassed him still. He should have helped his mother more—gotten a part time job instead of playing baseball.

  But he had needed that baseball scholarship. . . .

  “Are you employed?” The man retrieved papers from one of the piles that covered every inch of the desk, then plucked a pen from a mug stained yellow around the rim. “Well?”

  “No.”

  “How long you been unemployed?” The tattooed man sat down and in spite of the fact that there was an empty chair nearby, made no suggestion, either by word or gesture, that Jonathan should take it, so Jonathan remained standing. “How long unemployed?” the man repeated.

  “One month.”

  “How long you been homeless?”

  “I’m not homeless.”

  The man’s jaw twitched. “So why are you here?”

  “I . . . that is, God sent me.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Any physical or mental handicaps?”

  “No.” Jonathan watched the man check the “yes” box.

  “Any problems with drugs or alcohol?”

  “No.”

  “Job training?”

  “I’m a minister, a pastor.” Again Jonathan saw the jaw twitch.

  “Education?”

  “Seminary graduate.”

  “Wait here.” The man left the room, and for the second time since entering the shelter, Jonathan felt a budding hope that he won’t be allowed to stay. That hope was dashed when the man returned carrying bedding.

  “Dinner in half an hour. They’ll announce it over the loudspeaker. When you’re done eating, go to the reading room and see the social worker for your intake interview.”

  Jonathan nodded. He had no idea what an intake interview was. He should have asked but was too numb. His senses were on overload, no longer able to absorb everything: the sights, the noise, the smell, the instructions. He clutched his bedding and stumbled toward the direction of his cot, wading through a sea of men not subject to any discernable tide, a sea that bumped and shoved him as he went. When he found bed 139, he staked out his territory by spreading the white sheets over the stained mattress. Over that, he spread out the thin, tan blanket. He tried fluffing the flimsy pillow then gave up and placed it at the head of the bed.

  A glance at his watch told Jonathan his fast was over. First he’d wash, then try to rest a few minutes before dinner—seek the Lord for direction. Was he here to minister to someone? But there were so many. What exactly was he to do?

  He asked the closest person where the rest room was, but the man just mumbled incoherently, so Jonathan wandered in the direction of the greatest activity. It took him a full ten minutes to traverse the fifty feet to the men’s room, and when he stepped in, Jonathan’s first inclination was to step right back out. Men, some carrying toilet articles, others empty handed, were lined eight-deep in front of ten white porcelain sinks. Off to the side were six urinals, and six toilets without doors—all of them in use. At the far wall ten shower stalls, minus curtains, were filled to capacity. The total lack of privacy was appalling.

  Jonathan took his place behind a man who looked like he was high. He watched him sway and bump against the man in front of him who became annoyed and began shoving back. For a minute, it looked like a fight would break out, but then it just fizzled into a shouting match. Language, the likes of which Jonathan had not heard since high school, passed like volleys between the men, but nobody paid attention.

  How had these people gotten used to living like this?

  When it was Jonathan’s turn, he stepped up to the sink and turned on the water. He couldn’t remember water feeling this wonderful. He stood holding his hands under the tap, letting water lap fingers and palms. When he heard what sounded like impatient shuffling behind him, he reached for the soap dispenser, and pumped. Nothing came out. He looked around to see if he could spot one that was full.

  “Don’t bother. They’re all empty this time of day.”

  Jonathan turned to the voice behind him. A man, surprisingly clean, stood holding a towel and bar of soap.

  “You’re new. I can always spot the newbies. But you’ll learn the ropes soon enough. Tomorrow morning, they’ll hand out a bunch of stuff at the toiletry station. You can get soap there, and toothpaste.”

  Jonathan’s face reddened. He was sure his breath was beyond nasty and bent his head so his mouth opened away from the man. “Thanks.”

  “They’ll give you other things too, if you want—shampoo, razor blades, shaving cream. It’s not easy, but you’ll learn how to keep clean.”

  Jonathan nodded before returning to the sink, then pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. He wet it and used it to scrub his face and neck.

  “They start handing the toiletries out around 5:30 but I’d get there earlier if I were you. The station closes at six, and the line gets long. Those at the end don’t make it before the window shuts.”

  Jonathan pushed up the sleeves of his hunter green jacket. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” He ran the wet paper over his arms, wrists and hands, then pulled several more sheets from the dispenser and dried himself. He turned one last time to the man behind him and smiled, then left the room.

  Before he could get to his bunk, the loudspeaker blurted that dinner was being served, and Jonathan found himself carried by a swell of bodies into a twelve-hundred-square-foot room filled with long rectangular tables and chairs. At the far end, a massive metal serving counter held steaming chafing dishes.

  Jonathan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, and tried ignoring the painful rumble in his stomach. The smell of food now overpowered the smell of dirty men. It was agony standing in line.

  What if the food was gone before he got there?

  He looked around at the nameless men and wondered if they felt that way, too. But God would bring him through this, and in due time reveal the meaning of it all.

  It surprised Jonathan how fast he consumed his portion of beef stew, biscuits and butter, chocolate pudding and coffee. Throughout his meal he had not spoken a word to anyone. He paused only long enough to give silent thanks, then inhaled his food. When he finished, he went for seconds and returned with a plate more heaping than the first. The depth of his hunger was still vivid and real—surely supernaturally induced.

  But God never wasted anythin
g. Perhaps this training was in preparation for a new church ministry, an outreach to the poor and homeless. Jonathan had failed to install such a ministry at Christ Church. The closest thing he had done was to send old hymnals, choir robes and the like to a small church in South Oberon. In the face of what he was seeing now, Jonathan realized it had not been enough. Not nearly enough. God had opened his eyes, enabled him to recognize areas of neglect, areas essential to a properly rounded church. And he was grateful. When he got his new church, he wouldn’t omit them again.

  With renewed vigor and enthusiasm, Jonathan made his way back to his bunk. There was no point in going to the reading room to see the social worker and fill out any more forms. Tomorrow, he’d go home. Of that he was certain.

  He sat on the mattress and pulled off his shoes, then tucked them under his bed. Next, he unzipped his jacket and took it off, then in an uncharacteristic manner, folded it neatly and placed it next to his pillow. He slipped between the covers. He was exhausted and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the noise of men talking, of feet scraping the floor, of the loudspeaker blaring announcements or instructions, of the clanking from the kitchen, of the TV blaring, and of all the other strange noises that worked his nerves.

  But movement by his bunk caused Jonathan to open his eyes. The lights still glared overhead making it easy to see the two men sharing a needle and shooting something into their arms. Jonathan turned around. On the other side of him, a man wept and mumbled to himself. Jonathan rose on his elbow, praying that God would give him a word of comfort to share. When the man hissed at him, Jonathan laid back down. Everything around him was soiled, damaged, scarred. It was overwhelming, and Jonathan found himself praying. He was still praying when the lights went off.

  Stubby crept along the shadows of the building, looking from side to side. He didn’t like being on Angus Avenue this time of night, but how else was he going get to The Gorge without being seen? He had checked Turtle’s other hideouts and this was the last one.

  A car approached and Stubby hugged the building until it passed. His heart pounded against the small flashlight in his shirt pocket. He was too old for this. The night air was already aggravating the arthritis in his hands. They throbbed even when he held them still. If Turtle wasn’t at The Gorge, he’d give up. There was no place else to look. But if Turtle was there, he’d tell him the plan. Lots of men, who traveled to warmer states during winter, said they liked the Tucson shelter. Things could be different there. They’d stay a few months ‘til things calmed down. Or . . . if they wanted, they could stay for good. Start over. He liked that idea, of starting over. Maybe he could get his life together in Tucson.

  He had already priced bus tickets, and would have more than enough from his Social Security check to pay for them.

  Another car approached, then slowed. Stubby darted into the alley and held his breath. He was outta his mind to be here. But he had to get to Turtle before they did. After Manny, Stubby had hoped things would blow over, that they’d forget about Turtle or maybe just rough him up a bit and leave it at that. But Turtle was right. Word on the street was this thing wouldn’t be going away. And word was that Stubby might be in bad straits, too, being Turtle’s friend and all. Once trouble came, it was like the flu, and had a way of infecting everyone nearby.

  That’s just how it was.

  Stubby inched out of the alley. In front of him, the Angus Glass Works slouched like a giant beast behind barbed wire, its nostrils not spewing clouds of smoke, but lacy tendrils, as it lay asleep. He darted from shadow to shadow until he stood at the edge of The Gorge. He looked down, unable to see anything but darkness. One false step and he’d drop fifty feet onto a pile of rubble. He’d have to use his flashlight. But using it was a problem, too—he’d be easy to spot.

  He was crazy to be here.

  He listened for any sound, then pulled the flashlight from his pocket and turned it on. A beam of light sliced the darkness and danced at his feet like a giant firefly. He looked around nervously. He might as well have taken out an ad in the paper and let everyone know he was coming.

  He took a step and tapped the ground with his shoe to make sure he was on solid footing before releasing his full weight. He did this over and over. It was tough going downhill and having to cover ground inch by inch. But if he didn’t, he’d get hurt. Finally, his luck ran out and his foot slipped between two chunks of concrete. He felt a burning pain around his ankle where concrete tore skin. He pried his foot free then checked it. It was bleeding but not broken.

  He’d have to take it slower. The Gorge was deep and dangerous—an abandoned excavation site that was supposed to boast of a twenty-story business complex and boasted instead of concrete chunks, rusted Lally columns, twisted metal, and broken glass.

  He had one more mishap—a fall onto a patch of glass where one of the shards cut his left hand. By the time he stood at the mouth of an enormous pipe he was sore and out of breath.

  “Turtle.” No answer. “Turtle! It’s Stubby.” Still no answer.

  He entered the pipe and scanned the interior with his flashlight. The far end of the pipe was jammed against earth, which formed a wall and made the pipe look like a large round room in which he could stand upright. Toward the earthen wall, a pile of blankets formed a bed, and stacked nearby were assorted rags, a rusted Coleman stove, a large flashlight, cans of peaches and other fruit, a stack of old magazines, and various drug paraphernalia. But Turtle was nowhere in sight.

  Stubby limped toward the bed. He’d wait.

  Jonathan awoke to the loudspeaker announcing breakfast. It took him a full minute to remember where he was. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up. When he did, a noxious odor floated from his shirt. It wasn’t subtle anymore or discernable only when he moved a certain way. He was now nose-pinching foul. He greeted the Lord in prayer, then made his way to the toiletry station. It was closed.

  Jonathan stood a moment watching men, in various levels of disarray, swarm into the dining room. He headed for the lavatory. Only a handful of men were there. He’d wash and leave without breakfast. The mirror told him just how big the task of clean-up was going to be. His stubble was more than just a dark shadow now. It looked like something alive, with a mind of its own, jutting in different directions. His hair was a mess too, sticking up in greasy spikes all over his head. And then there was his mouth. It smelled like a cesspool, while his clothes looked like dingy rags.

  He turned on the faucet, then pushed the soap dispenser and was rewarded with a squeaky sound and nothing else. He didn’t bother trying any of the others but just splashed his face with water, then rinsed his mouth. Finally, he wet his hair, slicking down the spikes. When he was finished, he studied his reflection in the mirror. Someone resembling a drug dealer in a police movie stared back. He felt horror and shame as he darted out the bathroom door.

  It was easy getting back to his bed. The swarm of humanity had already migrated to the dining room. He’d retrieve his jacket and leave. No need to stay any longer. He had already felt God’s release. Later, after a hot shower, shave, and some breakfast, Jonathan would review what he had learned here.

  But before he even reached bed 139, Jonathan saw that his jacket was no longer next to the pillow. He pulled off his sheets and shook them. He checked the floor then looked under the bed. Panic gripped him. How could he walk the streets without that thin shield of respectability? He looked around trying to spot anyone with the contraband but without success. He then scouted around the other beds hoping to see it on the floor. After awhile, he gave up and walked out the big double door.

  Jonathan moved east on Angus Avenue all the while praying that God would be merciful and not let anyone he knew see him like this. He laughed when he realized no one he knew frequented Skid Row. Until yesterday, he had not seen it himself. He felt an overwhelming sense of shame. Why hadn’t he been here before? Why hadn’t his church done more for these people?

  He passed the Angus Avenue Hotel and looked f
or that woman with her child. If he found her, he’d give her his remaining ten dollars and worry about how to get his car out of the parking garage, later. As his eyes searched, he stepped into a puddle of vomit. For a moment, he thought he was going to heave what was left of last night’s dinner. He tried scraping his shoes on the curb but all his scraping couldn’t leave the stench behind. Now the smell of vomit mingled with the other odors that floated from him.

  He walked another five blocks, thinking only of getting his car and going home. It wouldn’t be soon enough to suit him. He stopped at the corner of Angus and Fourth, puzzled. Where was he? He didn’t recognize a thing. Had he missed his turn? He was about to backtrack when he felt the pull of the Lord and groaned.

  Not now, Lord, please not now. Just let me get home.

  But the pull was too strong, like that of an undercurrent gripping his ankles and towing him into deeper waters. He found himself walking up Fourth. A building to the left caught his eye—a four-story brick structure, attractive, well kept and free of graffiti. Mounted on the roof and rising several feet into the air, was a huge, white wooden cross with the word JESUS written across it. Under the cross hung a sign, BEACON MISSION.

  Jonathan stood gazing upward, feeling both puzzled and alarmed. And when he moved to the alcove beneath the wooden canopy, his heart thumped wildly, though he didn’t know why. He stared at the front door, feeling like a man on the edge of a cliff. A glass-enclosed sign, made up of little black letters that could be changed, hung to the right. “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” He wondered how many tired, homeless souls had come to this door seeking refuge and found eternal life instead. He turned the knob but the door wouldn’t open. Next, he peered into a window and saw it was dark inside. That’s when he felt the edge of that cliff give way. That’s when he knew.

  “Lord, this has to be a mistake.” His palms began to sweat even as his mouth became a desert. How many times had he told God, “Here I am, send me”? He had meant it, each and every time. He was willing to go to any church, large or small, to a church in any part of the country, to a church in any country for that matter.