One Good Job

“You only need one good job,” Luther said.

“And one good boss,” Smitty added.

“One good job and one good boss, that’s all it takes,” Lachlan, the Scottish immigrant chimed in.

“You’re right, Luther,” Michael Scott admitted, “You are all so right.”

“Sure we are,” Luther plunged in. “You know we are right.”

“You’ve got to take that first step, thou, before you can climb the stairs,” It was Smitty’s turn to speak.

“Yeah, that’s right, you’ve gotta crawl before ya can walk,” Lachlan summed it up.

“I’m done crawlin’,” Michael Scott, the thirty-year-old homeless man said. He was the youngest by at least a generation of all the homeless men in the small group hanging out on Foremaster Street that morning. “I’m not crawlin’ no more.”

The sun was up and the men were gathering up their bedrolls before the police would come by to make the sweep and drive them off the sidewalk.

At dawn, not long after the street sweeper went by and woke them up, the four men began getting themselves together and started their early morning chatter. Michael Scott adapted the nickname, “Alarm Clock”, for the street sweeper on account of that is what Luther, Smitty and Lachlan called it.

The street sweeper was their alarm clock because it always woke them up in the morning when it rolled rapidly by and kicked up dust and vibrated the ground they were sleeping on while it was coming so close to the edge of the sidewalk where their feet were hanging out. If one didn’t pull his feet in, surely he’d loose them into the huge rotating brushes of the street sweeper.

Now wide awake, the four men who had grouped together like they always had, every night, were brushing the dust off themselves and getting themselves ready to vacate the property before the police came.

“Well you ain’t gonna make it off the streets if you don’t find somethin’ to get yourself started with,” Smitty said, as he rolled up his sleeping blanket and tied two rawhide shoestrings tightly around it to hold it in place for the day’s travel, “Like I said, ‘you’ve got to take that first step before you can climb the stairs,’”

“He ain’t wrong about that, Michael,” Luther said, as he rose up from his knees and hoisted his sleeping bag and backpack over his lean shoulders, “Get yourself any job to start with. Then find yourself that one good job and one good boss.”

The three older men, all old enough to be Michael’s father, or even grandfather, as was in Luther’s case, were trying to steer the younger homeless man in the right direction. But like all parental advice, or at least it seemed, it was difficult for the youngster to follow since the elders didn’t seem to be following their own advice.

Why do older people always preach something they don't themselves practice?

Michael could hear the voice inside his mind; Do as I say, not as I do.

It was the voice of his father.

But he knew the older men were right. They were absolutely right. All he needed was one good job with one good boss running that job. The problem was, finding it.

“You boys goin’ for coffee and donuts this mornin’?” Lachlan asked as he slung his gear over his lanky shoulders and stepped off the sidewalk and into the streets, headed for the open gate to St. Vincent’s Catholic Charities poverty assessment campus.

“Right behind ya,” Michael said, as he stepped off the curb into the street and walked at an angle toward the back gate off Foremaster.

“Me too,” Luther said, and Smitty echoed as he brought up the rear of the pack.

“I’m gonna bust a gut if I don’t get to the men’s room in time,” Lachlan complained as he reached the gate and passed through, making his way around the winding maze of the large poverty complex.

“The air’s getting fresher in here,” Luther said, “Can’t understand why those guys out there go where they sleep?”

“Their elevator shafts are broken,” Smitty said, “Cables done wrapped around the mind post.”

“Know what ya mean,” Luther said, “but they still know where to go to eat, don’t they?”

“So don’t animals, don’t they?” Lachlan made a statement, rather than a question.

“Peculiar, isn’t it?” Smitty added.

“Follow the Yellow Brick Road,” Michael humored.

“Yup, that’s what we are all doin’” Lachlan, the Scottish man, chuckled. “Jest followin’ the Yellow Brick Road.”

Once the men reached the area in front of the social services outpost inside the complex, between the spot in front of the coffee line, they set down their camping gear and backpacks for it was prohibited to be carried through the coffee lines.

“Watch my stuff,” Lachlan grunted, “I’m gonna go play race horse.”

“Hope ya win,” Smitty smiled, pointing up the walkway toward the men’s room with a single facility, “Look at that line! My God, you’ll be the last one outta the starting gate, horsey.”

“Gee, I’ll wee my pants before I get through that line,” Lachlan growled as he shook his head and hurried on up the walkway before the line got any longer.

"It ain't the first horse outta the starting gate that counts," Old Luther stated, "It's the first one over the finish line that counts."

The rest of the men followed Lachlan, going beyond those waiting in line for the restroom privileges, out toward Main Street where the end of the coffee line began. It was only 6:30am and coffee wouldn’t be served until 7:00am promptly and then would only last until 7:30. Still one could get back in line as many times as he wanted to while the coffee lasted or 7:30 which ever came first.

Already there were over a hundred homeless men and women in line, and by seven o’clock that number would certainly double to maybe two hundred. But the coffee was good, and it was free. So, why not? The donuts on the other hand were something else. Sometimes they were fresh and sometimes they were as stale and frozen solid as hockey pucks.

Michael Scott looked at the empty faces of the homeless people waiting to start their day with served coffee. Most of them looked like homeless people. Folks who were down and out and of the kind that would never return to productive society. They were the faces of the forgotten. The faces of the lost. Some of those faces seemed to want to be forgotten and lost.

But some of those faces were faces like his own. And faces like Luther’s, Smitty’s and Lachlan’s. Faces that just didn’t seem to fit. Faces that just didn’t belong here. They were the faces of poverty, the faces of people who had fallen off the High Horse and never got back up again. Maybe some of them didn't want to get back up again. Faces of people who just didn’t belong in line with homeless people. But they were there. He was there. Luther, Smitty and Lachlan were there.

Michael Scott liked Luther, Smitty and Lachlan a lot. They were friendly to him. Sure they were from another generation, but they were kind to him and let him sleep along beside them on the sidewalk across the street of the Catholic charity. They taught him things. Surviving on the streets of Las Vegas while being homeless wasn’t an easy task. There were many obstacles against you. Many things got into your path that hindered your successful voyage to escape the evilness of the streets.

But escape was the only thing on Michael Scott’s mind. He didn’t want to live like this. Getting out was the only thing which occupied his mind. The only thing.

Michael Scott had spent a month or so on Foremaster Street. The proper name for the street was Foremaster Lane, but Michael like most of the homeless crowd, adapted the former name rather than the latter. Foremaster was the bar that connected the H of the parallel running of Main Street and Las Vegas Blvd.

Main Street was the subliminal Yellow Brick Road which led to the homeless corridor, where one could live the American Dream. It was opposite Las Vegas Boulevard where dreams began and nightmares begin when the dreams end. The "life changing experience" the subliminal mind tells all of the gullible people who listen to and read the advertisement campaigns coming out of Las Vegas. The place where everything happens here and stays here. The place were there are no losers, but only winners. The place where everyone gives up security, and anything with an established foundation and pulls up roots from home or where they were raised and go for a second chance and a new life. But the deception, as Michael had learned, wasn’t the new life changing experience he had expected to find. No, it was something else, something the opposite. They weren’t lying, they just weren’t telling the truth. For it was a life changing experience, the elevator just wasn’t going in the right direction, that’s all. It went down, and it kept going down, not up like it was supposed to. For Michael, and all of the other homeless people on the streets of Las Vegas where he lived among, the elevator went down and down and down and down. Down until he found himself in a new world. A world he never knew existed. Well, he knew it existed, but he didn’t know he would one day be living in it. He didn’t know it existed for him. But then, none of those who lived there did.

Now in the new world, the world of life changing experiences, Michael Scott found friends chasing the same American Dream. He found friends hopping along the same Yellow Brick Road. He found those trapped like him, in the land of no return. But then, he refused to think like that. There was a way out. He was sure there was a way out. All he had to do was be like the Munchkins said and listen to those who knew the way of the journey out along the bright path taking him safely to the boarder of Munchkinland, along the Yellow Brick Road. But then….

Did he want to start for the Emerald City or did he want to run as fast and as far as he could from Emerald City?

“What the heck are you doin’, day dreamin’ or somethin’?” Lachlan asked, nudging younger Michael in the elbow, when he returned from the restroom, and joined the others in the coffee line, “You look like you are way out there.”

“Naw, I’m just thinking,” Michael said, bringing himself out of a cloud, “’bout what you guys said.”

“Well, don’t think too damn hard,” Smitty teased, “You’re liable to get smoke a rising on your head and start a brush fire in your hair, not that you’ve got much.”

“‘bout what?” Luther asked, ignoring Smitty’s remark, “we’ve been talkin’ ‘bout lots of things.”

“About finding one good job with one good boss.” Michael said, “It might be like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

“Well lest you start lookin’ you ain’t gonna find it,” Lachlan stated.

“I know, but how do I find it?”

“Well, for starters, after we have our coffee, you get on that 113 and ride it north to North Las Vegas,” Luther said, “Up there you’ll find at Lamb and Las Vegas Boulevard North two temp service places, one on each side of the street, in little malls.”

“It’s too late to get a job today,” Smitty continued, “but you can get your applications in and start the procedure and learn all you need to know about them.”

“And then go back to Pecos and take the bus up toward Craig Road, there is another one up there, another temp service.” Luther said.

“And if there is enough time, on your way back, stop at Job Connect and see what they can do for you. At least you can get all of your information and fact finding in today.” Lachlan added.

The men were moving inside the zigzagging coffee line, which reminded Michael of herded cattle being led to slaughter. The coffee and donuts was being served and as they moved up and down, and up and down the aisles inside the S-shaped type chute they neared the moment of their purpose—coffee and donuts.

“Listen, Son, you’ve got to start somewhere,” Luther said, his bushy white eyebrows twisting, “All those temp services up there, I think pay daily. So you can get some cash into your pocket, and feel human again. Get the stuff you need, like bus passes and such…”

“And keep eatin’ at the soup kitchens when you can, as much as you can handle,” Smitty interrupted, “Save as much as you can and keep workin’ the circuit, take whatever you can get for a job and work everyday.”

"Don't never say no to nobody," Luther advised.

“The day shelter is open in here,” Lachlan added, pointing to the way where it was, on campus, referring to the day shelter at St. Vincent’s, “so you can take a shower and keep yourself clean and presentable.”

“Not smelly like us,” Smitty chuckled to himself, wrinkling his stubby nose and shaking his head foolishly. His eyes were shaking around like loose marbles inside his head.

Luther was first to get his coffee and donuts, and then Smitty, and then Lachlan, whom Michael had let squeeze in ahead of him after he had returned from his trip to the restroom.

The men walked back toward the end of the coffee line hoping to receive seconds. As they passed their bags in the mountain piled on the concrete between the coffee chute and the social service outpost center, they checked for their own personal belongings to make sure they hadn’t been stolen and disappeared.

“Donuts aren’t bad today,” Smitty said, as he gobbled a bite down followed by a slug of coffee.

“No, they aren’t,” nodded Lachlan, with a mouthful, “Pretty good, actually. That’s unusual.”

“Jest climb that first step, Son,” Luther said, between sips of coffee, “Get a temp job, get some money in your pockets and then keep looking for something else to come through.”

“Once you get your confidence back, you’ll find something you like in no time,” Lachlan said, “maybe you’ll even find a better offer from a job while you are working on one.”

“Like we said, you only need one good job,” Luther said.

“And one good boss,” Smitty reinforced.

“One good job and one good boss, that’s all it takes,” Lachlan, the Scottish immigrant chimed in just as he had before,“ And keep lookin’ until you find what you are looking for,”

The four men enjoyed their coffee and donuts while inching forward in line, hoping to get seconds. The line was smaller now as fewer homeless people seemed to be concerned with seconds, one serving having been enough for many who were now wandering off and on their own way.

“Keep an eye on those bags,” Lachlan warned.

“If my eyes gets any more watchful, I ain't gonna be able to see straight,” Smitty said.

“They’re okay, I can see ‘em,” Luther said, “Done lost my stuff once, I ain't about to let that happen again.”

“Sneaky rascals some of these characters are,” Lachlan sighed, “Jest like them creepers who come in the night, steal anything that isn't bolted down, rather they have a use for it or not.”

“After coffee I’m gonna take you guy’s word for it and head on up north,” Michael said, nodding his head with a satisfied grin on his face, “I think that’s the thing to do.”

“Damn right it’s the thing to do,” Luther said, “You don’t want to be neighbors with us old coots for the rest of your life. You still got a lot of years ahead of you, Son.”

Lachlan patted Michael’s breast pocket, “And it might not hurt you to do some readin' of your pocket bible and maybe even some prayin’ on your way up the road.”

“Can’t hurt,” Luther nodded.

Michael grinned but said nothing.

Smitty just scratched the back of his ear and looked the other men over before looking away without words.

Michael looked at Luther, the oldest of the men. His weather-worn face, wrinkled with age. His navy blue knit hat he wore year round pulled half-way down his forehead. Double layer of old gray wool sweaters he wore year round, too. He had a determination about his blue eyes that told you he was a survivor. A survivor of things much worst than this—street living.

Lachlan took things the way they came. For the old Scottish man, younger than Luther, but older than Smitty, things were the way they were. Why try to change them if you don’t know how too? Make good of what you have to make good with and don’t complain because there are other people who are worst off than you. That you can count on. His leather derby cap pulled forward on his forehead to the brow line, his dark eyes watching everything that moved around him, and the things that didn’t move, too. He was a lean and lanky gent, and he still wore that old, faded sports jacket that gave you the feeling he wanted to feel like somebody, even though he said he didn’t.

Smitty, the youngest of the three old and wise men, and nearer to Michael’s fathers age, he seemed like a man trapped in a life he couldn’t escape. But he was always quick to tell others how to escape that same life. He was perhaps in his mid fifties and the other two gained increments of ten in their years as they climbed the seniority scale. Smitty thought he was too old to get a job and start over again, yet his appearance from living on the streets for so many years made him look older than he really was. He wore an ordinary baseball cap, and sometimes eye glasses. A flannel shirt was his usual winter attire and blue jeans. There was something secret about Smitty’s life, not even a month of knowing him could give Michael a clue. Something mysterious and deeply hidden inside his heart and mind.

Three old and wise men, seemingly just like parents, dispensing advice, yet failing to yield to it themselves. For whatever reason, and age could be the only reason used as an excuse it seemed, if at all that excuse was allowable. Otherwise, one would sense that each one of these three had given up and had lost all hope of ever escaping the life they were now living on the streets. Perhaps their only salvation, glory and pleasure were giving good, sound advice to the younger ones who strolled along now and again in their lives.

Younger ones like Michael.

In Michael’s mind he thought it was a waste these old men would weather and wilt away on the streets of Las Vegas, or on any back street for that matter. They had usefulness left in them, but like three men going to a baseball game and rooting for the same team, shouting the correct moves for the players to make, and sometimes the incorrect moves.

They were like a trio in a three-piece band, seldom disagreeing with one other, almost always on the same note.

But then wasn’t life a game for players and fans alike? Some lived to play the game and some only lived to watch the game. Watch others playing as they sat on the sidelines, cheering or sometimes booing.

Life--a game for players and a game for those who only watched the players. That was what life was all about.

At least that was the way life on the streets was about, or so it seemed.

New players came and went, but the same old guys on the sidelines remained there forever cheering for a homerun grand slammer for the players passing by them.

Coffee was over with and the homeless men, like the others, were gathering up their personal belongings of sleeping rolls, backpacks and bags from among the pile in the center of the walkway.

A donut in the belly and some coffee to slosh it around with made one feel good when there wasn’t much else to feel good about.

“You guys wanna ride up north with me?” Michael asked, unable to bring much enthusiasm to his voice, as he already knew the answer even before he asked of it.

“Naw, I’m goin’ to walk up to the library and read the newspaper,” Old Luther said, shaking his head as he adjusted his camping gear on his thin back.

“Same with us,” Smitty said, of him and Lachlan, “be time for soup in ‘bout three hours. Give us time to get some readin’ in.”

“Good luck, kid,” Lachlan waved as he strapped his backpack and blanket roll over his back and shoulders, “see ya tonight, and bring us some good news, huh?”

“Sure,” Michael nodded, “I’ll be back in time to tell you all a fairy tale, comrades, maybe the one about Napoleon and Snowball in Animal Farm.”

“George Orwell,” Luther chuckled as he stepped away from the others, heading toward the streets.

“Real name was Eric Blair,” said, Smitty, not to be left out of being known as the knowledgeable one, “Damn good writer, told it how it was even before the time. Still is that way!”

“Think positive, Michael, not negative,” the old Scottish man said, as he began to move out, following Luther and Smitty, “You got to get your foot on that first step and then just keep climbing. Making excuses ain’t gonna get you nowhere accept hard!”

Michael went off his own way, out across Las Vegas Blvd. North to catch the northbound 113.

One good job with one good boss, he thought as he sat alone on the bus stop bench across from St. Vincent’s Catholic Charity and watched his three old friends, Luther, Smitty and Lachlan cross Foremaster and walk slowly up the hill on the sidewalk along Las Vegas Blvd toward the Las Vegas public library. He was certain he could hear the three singing along the Munchkins songs and singing Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Not a one of them turned back to see him watching them.

The Nevada sun was coming up over the mountain peaks in the east and letting everyone alive in the world know that it was going to be a nice day.

If he stayed positive like the three wise men told him too, he could one day escape this life he was now living.

As his gaze wandered back in the direction of the old men, climbing the hill toward the public library, their shadows dancing on the streets, he witnessed them frolicking with their elbows locked together and kicking up their heels in silly, childish style, and knew they were singing the Munchkins songs together.

Crazy old coots, you’ll get yourselves locked up acting like that, he grinned to himself. Or kill yourselves with over exertion.

Michael wondered in his own mind why those three men, his old friends, didn’t follow the same sound advice they had given him. Perhaps, they didn’t want to get out of the life they were living. Perhaps they were happy living that way they did, on the streets. One thing for certain, they were free as free could be, but for that freedom there was a sacrifice, a price to be paid and that was comfort. A discomfort Michael did not relish and one he would give up a certain degree of freedom in order to abandon.

The 113 soon pulled in front of him and he climbed aboard, after scanning his bus pass, he quickly moved to the back of the bus to take a rear seat.

Then he sat down and like Lachlan had suggested, pulled his small Bible, a street ministry had given him, from his breast pocket and began reading a few verses. Along the way to the temp service, he prayed for a better life than he had now on the streets.

One good job and one good boss, that’s all I need, God.

4,086