by Khurt Khave
Today, Lenny had nothing but empty time and cheap beer with which to fill it. That and bitterly bilious thinking. The combination of an early buzz and absence of aim carried him far across town late on this textureless morning. Finally, tired and too warm, he sat down heavily upon one of the green metal benches in Elm Street Park. On the weekend, the park would have been swarming with boisterous kids and their hawkeyed parents by late morning. Today it was nearly deserted. Lengthening tree and playground shadows crossed few paths. The umbra cast by the slide covered a line of four impatient toddlers waiting their turn. A pudgy Latino boy and his blue-eyed chum played and shrieked with glee as their mothers or nannies alternated watchful glances with passages from trashy romance novels. How joyful a doover in life would be! Moments spent dwelling on the impossibility vaporized that faint hope, too. Do what over? He had never been good looking enough to have his choice of female companionship. Neither had he ever been bright or motivated enough to have many career options. The thought dropped and weighed like lead upon him that even if he'd known then what he knew now, life wouldn't have turned out much different. If he had grown up in a bustling city like Boston or New York, a new Lenny Balcerzak would have matured into the same old Lenny Balcerzak. Anyways, he voiced within his skull, there's no sense looking back, no replays. Life, he reckoned, is a one shot deal. Gotta go forwards, no matter what.
Lenny rolled up his cotton blend sleeves, rested his elbows on his thighs and his jaw in his hands, and stared absently at black ants swarming around a crumb of cherry red ice pop some kid must have dropped. As chaotic as they seemed individually, he observed, every ant had its place, its job to do. Where was his? Why do ants attain this benefit of security that men do not? Lenny rubbed his eyes and gave his head a shake. C'mon, he mused, you're not the first guy with a setback. What does everybody else do?
So Lenny sat on a green bench, barely feeling the flesh of his wellcushioned backside squeezing through the diamond shaped gaps in the broad wire mesh and vaguely registering the giggles and squeals of carefree children. He was facing the ants carting off bits of melting sugared ice but he kept his eyes closed. Mental instant replay of the last few years ran, backed up, ran again, despite his wanting it to stop taunting him with false possibilities and real liabilities. The prolific and pleasant sunshine's warmth was squandered on the man frozen to a bench in misery he couldn't help creating for himself.
After an hour in glum reverie, Lenny felt something like urgent tightness in his legs; it was past time to move again. To where, though? He had the motivation but not the destination. A litany of potentials trickled by him. Donut shop? Coffee? Too early for a bar. What friends he had would be at work by now. Bleakness was resolved at last in the humdrum solution upon which Lenny settled more often over the span of his unemployment: head back to his apartment for a beer, TV and an afternoon nap. Maybe two or three brews today. It was Friday after all, wasn't it? Lenny hadn't been keeping track of the calendar lately but it felt vaguely like the weekend was imminent.
Shoulders slumped, head held low, Lenny Balcerzak made his lethargic way home.
It didn't take much daytime television, and only two cans of the cheapest beer they'd had at the package store, to lull Lenny into snoring, fetal position shuteye on the stained gray couch that still held the slightest odor of his ex-wife's long ago smoldering Parliaments. He woke much later to the opening teaser for the local evening news. Sitting up, he tousled his thinning hair lightly as had always been his habit upon rising. He pretended to ignore the heap of bills metastasizing across the coffee table. His roiling stomach insisted that dinner be served. Tonight, that would be the leftovers he'd toted home from a diner two nights before. It wasn't much, but Lenny found that it didn't take as much to quiet his belly as it had when he'd worked for a living. At least he could save a few pennies on food this way, he consoled himself. Despite a half decade now living on his own, Lenny had never developed cooking skills beyond getting the proportions of milk and butter just right when he stirred up a box of instant macaroni and cheese. As he waited the minute and a half for his microwave to beep that supper was ready, he resolved that he'd hoof it over to Vinny's Pub and throw back a pint or four for dessert. Repast underway, he text messaged his buddy, Terry Jewell, with his left hand as he shoveled pulled pork into his mouth with the right. Moments later he had Terry's confirmation that the pair of them would meet. Having consumed every crumb of his meal, Lenny dumped his dishes in the sink where they joined yesterday's undone washing up. Then he was off to Vinny's.
As soon as Lenny entered he spotted his portly, orange-haired friend in the thinly occupied bar. He nodded a greeting as Terry looked at him with his ever-present sympathetic expression, a side effect of years spent in goodhearted social work. Drunk or not, Terry could always be counted on to provide a metaphorical shoulder without concern as to how damp it might become. Lenny had learned over the last few years how scarce such shoulders could become when they're needed most.
“How's it going?” Terry greeted and grinned.
“It's going. Hell, it's almost gone,” Lenny replied as he shook his buddy's hand.
“First round's mine, then.” Terry smiled and waved down the bartender. The two men put their orders in and turned again to face one another.
Lenny hated the thought that he was turning into a whiner. These days, having someone with whom to converse was unusual for him. He couldn't help pouring his guts out to Terry who, for his part, was an expert listener. After a half hour and another round, Terry had a solution for his troublingly distraught drinking companion.
“I know just the place for you, Lenny! There's a group that meets over on Ward Street, in that old church. Damn, the name. . .Our Lady of. . .maybe Chechnya?”
Lenny knew the church from childhood. His great-grandparents had been parishioners from the day its doors first opened. His grandparents prayed there often, his parents not as much, and Lenny had only ever been for his first communion and Easters and Christmases years before. He hadn't set foot in there for at least a decade but the name was too deeply etched into his history for a few points of blood alcohol to obscure it. “Czestochowa?” he offered before lifting his glass for another swallow of pale ale.
“Right! That's the one!” Terry chimed in response, “The archdiocese closed it a few years back. Maybe six months ago, a new bunch moved into the place. Partnership for Hope, they're called. Lately, my office has been referring problem cases there. Repeat offenders with heroin and meth, chronic alcoholics, tough cases that failed at the usual therapies. I'll tell you, perfect score. One hundred percent of the cases we send there get clean in a matter of weeks! Matter of fact, Social Services is talking about full partnership with these guys. They're like miracle workers.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds great, but I'm not on anything. Should I be?” Lenny joked, winking an eye as he sucked down more beer.
“Ha ha, no,” Terry gently mocked, “You've already been doing more than your fair share of drinking lately. You've got enough to deal with. The Partnership has this whole spiritual thing going on. Like AA, you know? Surrendering control to a higher power, letting go and letting God.”
“Interesting, but I still don't see the. . .”
Terry cut him off. “Look, you're in this tough spot, at a crossroads, as they say, right? And you want something spiritual, something to get you unstuck from your mess, right?”
“Yeah,” Lenny said, anticipating the catch.
“That's what these guys do with our clients. They do it for free, too. They somehow get all the hopeless cases shaken loose. People way more stuck in much worse places than you, and they come out clean and sober. I bet PFH could work for you, and even if it doesn't, no harm done. They don't take payment at all, y'know?”
“Come on, man,” Lenny retorted with a skeptical tilt of his head, “What's the catch? What do these Partnership guys get out of the deal?”
“Nah, nah, nothing like that. They run a kind of halfway hous
e out of the old church. It's only been a few months, you understand, but so far all the people we've referred to them have opted to stay on. All voluntary, though. They're happy for the free room and board. Nobody's expressed any desire to leave, anyhow. Mother dresses them funny, though.” Terry gave a coy grin before taking a pull from his bottle of Wachusett Blueberry.
“What's that mean?” inquired Lenny. Terry set the bottle down and pointed to his balding head.
“Kind of oddball hats with built-in goggles. It's a religious thing, I guess. No big deal, takes some getting used to seeing them,” Terry took another suck from the bottle. “You could check it out, though. They're nice enough. I don't think they'd mind.”
“I dunno. Seems too easy,” Lenny said.
“The only rule for a visit is that you bring nothing with you but the clothes on your back. Leave your wallet and watch at home. No drugs, no alcohol,” Terry tapped an index finger on the Wachusett bottle, “no weapons, no phones.”
“And he was never heard from again!” Lenny retorted with a halfsmile and a burp.
“We haven't lost anyone yet,” Terry reassured him, “All I have to do is make a phone call. You in?”
“Oh, why not?” surrendered Lenny, “Not like I have anywhere else to be. Something to do.” He leaned his head back, gulped a mouthful of hoppy brew and belched again, then shrugged.
“Fair enough. I'll let you know for sure tomorrow.” His bottle now empty, Terry held it up in a gracile hand and caught the bartender's eye. “Another, sir!”
By the time Lenny and Terry parted company, Terry had bought three rounds and Lenny pitched in one. Lenny was thoroughly buzzed and feeling a good deal better for the time he'd spent with his best-by-default friend. He had made his mind up to give Terry the green light to connect him to the Partnership. Despite minor trepidation about spending time around recovering addicts, he trusted Terry's judgment. No money would be changing hands and, Lenny figured, he could always take off if PFH didn't feel right after a few days. Maybe they could steer him in a better direction than heavy drinking and sitting around in parks while would-be employers blew him off.
Lenny arrived home and proceeded directly to the fridge for a nightcap of malty crap in a can. He resolved to give Terry a call in the morning. Then he thought, why wait? He settled heavily on his couch, set down his brew, and texted Terry, “PFH go 4 it ty” and Terry replied “yw” almost instantly. Lenny chugged the rest of the beer, stretched himself out so that his size twelves dangled beyond the arm of the sofa, and was soon dead to the world.
Lenny woke up late with cottonmouth and reeking of stale beer. Terry hadn't gotten back to him with a time, just a “drop by 2mrw“ texted a little after midnight. A thorough tooth brushing, shower, and shave eliminated the clingy funk from Lenny's person. He wished that he owned a suit. The trips to church had been infrequent in his youth but they always carried the requirement of appropriately formal dress. Our Lady of Czestochowa would always be church for him, even if it wasn't for anybody else. Still, the best he could do with a budget of nil was a clean-but-creased button down shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. “Good enough,” he mumbled to no one as he checked himself over in the mirror. His cab arrived and took Lenny to his destination. He paid the driver from the bills wadded in his pocket.
The building that had once been Our Lady of Czestochowa, now the headquarters of Partnership for Hope, closely resembled the image in Lenny's memory. It was still a white edifice of moderate size and humble stature. The unassuming steeple stood as it had when Lenny had come years before for Christmases and Easters with his parents, practically the only days of the year possessed of enough religious gravity to merit more than utterance of a perfunctory grace over dinner. True, the cross had been removed from the apex of that tower and the stained glass window that once graced the front of church was gone, replaced by clapboard to match the rest of the exterior. There was no longer a sign bearing the name of the church over the door, but a stone block commemorating the structure's erection in MCMIII was in place by the foot of the entrance. Lenny felt no particular fidelity to the building or the faith for which it had been raised, only a warm baptism in nostalgia for the better days of youth and his devoted parents. He had long since lost count of the times he wished for his father's advice or his mother's comforting touch these last five years of lousy fortune.
Lenny absent-mindedly patted his pockets to reassure himself that he had come with nothing forbidden. Satisfied, he pulled open the black tinted glass door and stepped into the shadowy foyer.
Despite the dim lighting, the walls to either side were festooned with messages of positivity and photos of whom Lenny assumed were PFH members. All were smiling with a cheeriness that he found irritatingly saccharine in his current frame of mind. While otherwise variously clad, every one of the subjects wore an identical black wrap on his head and round black sunglasses with side shields. Neither a head of hair nor a pair of eyes was visible in this gallery of happy faces. Lenny also noted that other than a couple of shots taken in front of the former church, everyone had been photographed next to what looked like the wall of an office cubicle. Some sat, some stood, some waved at the camera, but all were posed next to dull fabric framed by matte black metal.
One of the double doors at the far end of the entry swung open and a tall, slim figure was highlighted against the light behind. The person took two long steps and welcomed Lenny. He instinctively greeted the thin man with a smile, a nod, and a “Hello, father.” Momentary inspection discerned a few non-standard traits about this fellow. He wore the black clothes that Larry associated with Catholic clergy but lacked the white collar. No cross pending from chain or cord adorned this cleric's chest. Most striking, though, was his peculiar headgear, exactly like the ones on the domes of the happy people in the tacked-up photos. The coarse-looking fabric was wound thrice about, covering the expanse from the back to the top of his head as well as his forehead and ears. Depending from the jet black wrap was a pair of blackrimmed round glasses with smoky gray lenses and side shields. The priest walked with his hands folded over his lower belly and smiled vaguely at Lenny.
“I am not a Catholic father,” replied the black-clad man, still smiling. “I'm Brad Gleaming of Partnership for Hope. Gleam will do fine.” Gleam's speech seemed forced to Lenny. Not like Gleam was speaking a second language or reciting scripted lines; it was his exaggerated breathing. Gleam exhaled hard with every word in a manner resulting in too much stress on his vowels and f's and h's. Not an accent; maybe a lung disease, perhaps the laborious puffing of an ex-smoker? Lenny ignored the idiosyncrasy and extended his hand.
“Oh, pleased to meet you, Gleam. I'm Lenny Balcerzak. My friend Terry Jewell set up with someone here for me to visit. I hope I haven't come at a bad time.” Gleam did not return Lenny's gesture. His fingers remained interlaced inches below his breastbone.
“Not at all!” effused Gleam, “Terry has been a great help getting the word out about us. What can I help you with? Would you like to talk awhile first or shall I give you the tour?”
“Well, I sort of grew up coming here when it was a church. I'm curious about what it's like in here now, so let's start with a look around,” Lenny answered.
“Good, good. We can walk and talk.” Lenny wondered how his guide could finish a sentence without becoming lightheaded. Every word required so much breathy effort! Finally uncoupling his hands, Gleam turned up the corners of his mouth and opened one of the heavy wooden doors dividing entry from sanctuary. “Please come in.”
Gleam held the door for Lenny as he crossed the threshold into what looked more like an office than a hall for worship. The altar was still in place, visible through the central passage splitting cubicle walls of taupe textile, but neither cloth nor crucifix were there. All windows were cloaked by black velvet curtains that Lenny guessed to be floor length though their true extents were concealed behind the cubicles. All the light was furnished by rose-hued strip fixtures on the ceiling
that emitted a reddish-pink glow not bright enough to read by without eyestrain. The room would have been as silent as a tomb if not for the faint, tinkling tones of a piped in smooth jazz rendition of Electric Light Orchestra's “Mr. Blue Sky” barely audible but easily picked out against the otherwise soundless atmosphere. The air itself was stale and perfectly still until Gleam forced cumbersome words into it. “Care to meet some of our beneficiaries?” he extruded into the stagnant air.
“Sure,” Lenny answered.
Gleam called to the silent, unseen inmates hidden among the textile and metal maze and they began to step forth and show themselves. All had headgear identical to Gleam's, black wrap and glasses. Too, all were remarkably slim. Their clothing, as diverse as one might see on any street in Worcester, fitted every one of them loosely. Lenny wondered whether a special diet would be part of the program; a mandate to give up bread or meat, he decided, would be sufficient reason to leave the premises at once. He also felt the need to know the significance of the ubiquitous head coverings. Gleam dismissed the interrogative with a flick of his wrist and a robotic “It signifies our common commitment.”
