Father River

New Year’s Resolution: A Syndicated Message

2011-12-31T23:39:00.000-08:00

I Can Dream Can’t I?

By Cliff Harrison

The last day of the year 2011 has arrived and we will soon be going into the 2012 New Year.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My New Year’s Resolution is described below…along with my last post of the year and my first post of the year.

Writer Dave L Turo-Shields, Psychotherapist and Success Coach, wrote in one of his columns posted in bipolarworld.net about New Year’s Resolutions: The most important question for you is... are you ready for a change? And, if the answer is "yes," the second question is... how ready are you?

Those are great questions.

We all want change, don’t we? We’re all ready for change, aren’t we? But like Dave asks just how ready for change are we? I’m real ready. I’m so ready for change I can taste it. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I’m tired of poverty. I’m tired of the lying, stealing, corrupt and greedy self-serving nonprofits, politicians and corporate slave masters. I’m tired of elective officials screwing the very people who have put them in office. I’m tired of nonprofits disrespecting the poor and getting fat and rich off of the homeless victims they tread on. I’m tired of a lot of things. I’m tired of poverty. I’m tired of losing my independence. I’m tired of depending on people you can’t trust let alone depend on. Like the people in government and in nonprofits and in corporations.

I’m ready for change. I’m big time ready for change, real change. And I mean change.

Today, network wide, I’m going to talk a little bit about what changes I’m going to be making as a New Year’s resolution for the network, the Cliff Harrison Network. The resolution I’ll be talking about is being syndicated throughout the entire network, or at least as far as I can reach in the time I have to reach. Change is coming. I resolve to make the change happen. Isn’t a New Year’s resolution really about change? It is. If we start doing something or stop doing something we’ve changed. And that’s what makes a New Year’s Resolution so exciting, especially if the change sticks.

As I started posting this article and resolution across the network for a syndicated release in some of the blogs it is already midnight and therefore the New Year, in New York. In fact, by the time I managed to get all the posts finished it is the New Year in Vegas as well.

Editing continuing…

Recovery Again

2011-08-20T00:59:00.000-07:00

Again I've had yet another surgery and again I am in recovery. If I can make it past this time of suffering and slow healing, I will get Father River stories published and set into motion what I set out a couple of years ago to accomplish.

Father River's story is one which needs to be told.

Merry Christmas 2010

2010-12-22T22:29:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas & Happy New Years

In three days we will celebrate Christmas again. Christmas time is both a season of sorrow and a season of joy for me. Nearly my entire family passed on either on Christmas Day or within a few days of Christmas. Last year my bother Kenny died on New Years Day. This year his family will have their first Christmas without him.

For them, I pray.

My niece, Kenny's daughter, has come home from the War in Afghanistan, after serving one year there, that in itself is a joyous Christmas gift for me. I can now sleep at nights and be at peace.

Mother of God holding Baby Jesus

One year ago for nearly the entire month of December, I was in the UMC hospital recovering from major surgery. I have been blessed to have survived this long. Christmas came and gone while I was in the hospital. I'm still trying to recover from that time of my life and it is most difficult. Still, I am grateful for having made it this far. I was homeless when I left the hospital and lived on the streets where the homeless took care of me until friends opened their homes until I could recover enough to function. For all of them, I am grateful.

And I'm grateful for the good doctors and nurses I has while at UMC. There were many evil ones among them, but the angels who cared for me are sacred in my heart. I'm fortunate to have survived this long and especially in the ability to keep my legs. I was prepared to lose them if that was God's choice, but so far luck and prayer has been on my side. Or should I say, hope and prayer?

It was days before I had learned of my brother's death. I had been on the streets and when my family in New York had called friends to inform me, my friends couldn't find me on the streets.

A year has gone by and I'm not the same man I was a year ago. Still, I try. At Church, and at home, vigil candles glow in memory of those that are gone. I have always prayed daily for the aborted and their mothers during the entire month of December, this December is no different, and for them, as for my family, vigil candles glow.

Once, I asked a priest why God has taken all of my family at Christmas time and it took a long moment for the answer to come, but when it did come I heard these words, "They've gone home to be with the Lord." And it was like a ton of bricks lifted from my shoulders. It was a simple, easy answer, but drowning in my own sorrow, I failed to know it. Now that I know it, life is just a little bit easier.

So if this sounds like a sad post, think not of it. For God has a reason for everything. It is understanding that reason that makes it interesting. For many of those who have gone, He has another purpose for them. God is finished using them on earth and has another calling for them. Perhaps sometimes they become angels that help Him look after His scattered flock. But like God Himself, it is all a mystery and shall remain so until He chooses for us to know otherwise. We simply need to accept His judgement and let it go.

The 40-day Nativity fast will finish Christmas morning, and then it will be time to feast. I'm pretty proud of myself, for me to go a 40-day strict fast without meat, and dairy products, especially eggs and cheese is a huge accomplishment itself. I was never able to fast while I was homeless. Sometimes I never knew when my next meal was coming from, so I always ate when I had the opportunity to.

Over 3,000 years ago, God told us via the Bible through the writings of the Apostles what foods were healthy for us. Grapes, wine, whole grain wheat bread, fruits and vegetables, nuts, green-leaf produce and man using the sorry excuse of what is called "science" has just made the discovery of the benefits in the last few years of these God-given and God-recommended foods.

I remained loyal to fasting all through Thanksgiving and maintained a strict fast of fruits, vegetables, special breads and nuts. Christmas day I intend to pig out, maybe even catch up to both Thanksgiving and Christmas meals as I celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ our Lord.

As Christmas carols play around us and we see Nativity displays we rejoice of the first coming of Christ. We honor Mary, Mother of God, and cherish the idea of her having been the most holy and purest of human beings.

Christians see the word "Christmas" fading fast from our language, replaced by the word, "Holiday" by retail stores and commercial centers. But then, Christianity has always been persecuted from the beginning of Christianity until this very day. Millions of good Christians have lost their lives simply because they were Christians and millions more probably will before the End Time comes.

A Christmas Card - Virgin and Child with "Christ Is Born"
greeting in many languages. © 2010 Conciliar Media Ministries, Inc
www.conciliarpress.com
Icon from Janet Jaime, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma e-mail:
eleusa@cox.net

But today we worry not about those things. Instead we celebrate the birth of Christ. And I leave you with my favorite Bible verse, "I command you to love one another as I have loved you." John 15:12

And if we all did just that one little thing the Lord asked of us wouldn't the world be a better place in which to live? Well, wouldn't it?

For those who are homeless, particularly those on the streets of Las Vegas and all across the nation, in this inclement weather, I pray.

I look forward to publishing some Father River fiction very soon.

God bless you all and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

With Peace In Loving Christ
Cliff Harrison

Happy Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-24T20:47:00.000-08:00

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY!
God Bless You All!

Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit: now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.

Let us pray for peace in the world. Let us pray for the homeless, the hungry, the needy and the poor. Let us pray for all of those oppressed by the forces of evil.

My tour with hell is finally over with. That is, I am no longer homeless now that I have my own home, my own car and my own life back.

It has been a long, hard road to get to where I am today, but that road taught me something while I took my journey along it. The thing it taught me the most is that those wonderful homeless people I left behind on the streets of Las Vegas are not going to be forgotten--they mean too much to me. I will work for the rest of my life to help those homeless people I left behind.

I will work to stop the abusive, aggressive and hostile acts against them by evil government forces.

It is my sincere hope that once I get my own house in order I will begin working full time on all of my sites again. Being homeless not only made it difficult to keep up with them, but sometimes nearly impossible.

With prayer and hope, in the very near future, I again will resume Father River: The Street Priest.

Today more than any other day of the year we use this opportunity to give thanks. Thanks for our great nation. Thanks for the great people in our lives. But most of all, our thanks to God for the many blessings He has given us.

On this day I especially want to thank God for all He has done for me. I thank God for all of His blessings that He has given me. I thank above all else, God, for ending my homelessness and giving me comfort in my own home.

I believe Jesus Christ put me on the streets and made me homeless so I could learn something about the street people. Now that my tour with hell is over with I will work hard to help those my leaving the streets have left behind.

Father, I now know what needs to be done.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us poor sinners.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, I pray for peace and the deliverance from evil for all of mankind. Amen.

With Loving Peace In Christ
Cliff Harrison

Listen to Father River's Playlist

2010-06-03T18:58:00.001-07:00

The Swimming Pond

2009-07-30T22:10:00.000-07:00

It was at the far end of the cow pasture. It was a good distant from the farmhouse, the barn and barnyard. It was a summer haven beyond the rocky ground trampled from decades and generations of dairy cattle and beef cattle alike. At the border of the cow pasture was the smooth, green grass absent of many stone and rocks.

A barbwire fence stretched through one end of the big pond which allowed the cows and horses to drink from that side, but kept them off the green grass of the swimming pond.

Oh, what a beautiful pond it was indeed. And the green grass which surrounded it, leading up to the cow pasture.

It was the summer haven where the farm boys and girls went on hot days when their farm chores were done.

It was a big pond. The pond was big enough for a row boat and one which took several minutes to swim from one end to the other.

Ducks and geese swam on that pond, too. It was fun watching the ducks and geese, especially when they had little ones swimming behind them.

The green, grassy area was over an acre and the pond itself took up another acre and that didn’t take into consideration the green area surrounding the beach of the big pond.

In the middle of the grassy area were a cluster of huge shade trees. And there was an apple tree, too.

In the summer, the country kids would go swimming. In the winter, after the pond had frozen over, and the kids shoveled the snow from the top of it, it was a skating rink.

Up in one of the sheds behind the barn were the old ice saw, a huge thing to any child, and generations of grandfathers before used to cut blocks of ice and carry them with ice hooks, taking them back to the old stone milk house and in there was an old milk cooler where blocks of ice were layered with sawdust which kept perishables cold all summer long. That is what the grown ups used to tell. That was in the old days. The old days when generations ago, grandfather’s grandfather used to run the farm.

Along the pond was a makeshift boat dock. The kids would tie the row boat to that wooden dock. They’d also get a good and running start and jump off the end into the pond. Sometimes they would climb the big old oak tree which grew so strong and leaned over the pond. On a long branch of that oak tree was a rope. They’d swing off that rope into the pond. Sometimes they climbed the old oak tree and just dive into the pond off the limb. Like they did the wooden boat dock.

That wooden boat dock was also the source of entertainment when it came fishing time. Sitting on the end of the long dock, or sometimes just on the edges of the side, the boys would hold their fishing poles and cast their lines far out in the pond where the big fish were.

But swimming was the favorite sport for both the boys and girls at that big pond. That’s why it was called the swimming pond, and not the boat pond, or the fishing pond or the ice skating pond, of which all would have been true if anyone had said so. Nor did they call it the animal’s drinking hole, which was also true. It was the swimming pond.

When the kids splashed in the pond, the ducks and geese would swim away to the other side, sometimes they’d leave the pond altogether and not return until the kids climbed out of the pond and went home.

The pond was a special place for humans and animals alike. A very special place.

Sixteen-year-old Colby got sixteen-year-old Sarah in that swimming pond one summer afternoon when only the two of them were swimming. They were in the water and no one could see what they were doing. It just happened. Things like that happened to country boys and girls who were teenagers coming of age.

Colby and Sarah used to go to the swimming hole all of the time to be alone. They could see as far as the eye could see if anyone was coming. The privacy they had allowed them to fall in love and do things that lovers alone did. No one ever knew.
It was something that was only shared between Colby and Sarah.

Sarah was so beautiful. There were so many of the country boys wanted to be with Sarah. But Sarah only cared enough for Colby to let him go all the way with her. And that way was the beginning of a love which grew stronger and stronger as the days, the weeks, the months and the years went by.

Both Colby and Sarah had known that what they had done was wrong in the water of the pond when they first made love. They were Christian children, but their attraction for each other grew so much that they without thinking did the forbidding thing.

Colby was such a handsome young man, Sarah thought. And he was so nice and polite and just so good to her. He was in the same classes in school as she was and he worked so hard on his father’s farm which was right next to Sarah’s own father’s farm.

In her two-piece bathing suit, with her dark hair tied back and her gorgeous figure, she’d dive into the swimming pool and Colby in his swim trucks and his muscular body looking so delicious, he’d dive in after her and they would frolic in the water like mermaids, diving and splashing and rising up high in the air, above the water with water falling like a water fall back into the pond before the gravity brought them down and under again.

And they’d play like that for the longest time.

And then, standing with their feet on the bottom of the pond, they would embrace and kiss. Of course, they only had done that after checking that no one was spying on them.

And they would kiss and the kiss grew deeper. And then the kiss was known as a French kiss and then it would happen, slowly it would happen and eventually it did happen, until it was over with, with both of them the same age with wide grins of pride on their teenage faces.

They’d embrace and a plant tender loving kiss on the other’s face and lips and then once again they resumed their swimming and playing.

The swimming pond was their favorite place. But sometimes they’d go up in the haymow and make tender love when they could get away with it.

And when Colby got his driver’s license, they’d go for a ride and find some back road to play their coming of age game alone, inside Colby’s pickup truck.

And then there were times in the backfields, sometimes while riding horses together, and other times while driving a tractor and a hay wagon or some sort of farm implement down there.

And in the winter time, after the snow had fallen on the backfield and the hills surrounding the farm, Colby and Sarah would sometimes ride their snow machines up in the hills or the backfields after their evening chores were done and they’d sit and watch the night lights of the farm. They’d sit on the snowmobiles and see their breath and then the romantic mood would come and one thing would lead to another and they were happy the way it ended.

But the big swimming pond was the most memorable to them, for that was where the first time they did it was. There was always so much to do around that swimming pond. Anytime of the year while they were growing up, that swimming pond provided year-round fun for them. They never out grew that big old swimming pond. It was a place of memories that would last a lifetime.

Sometimes in the evening, in the fall, after their chores were done, Sarah and Colby would go for long walks down around the big swimming pond, holding hands and talking about their plans for the future.

The teenagers were so much in love. Sarah’s parents and Colby’s, too, well approved of their romance and already were making plans for the future for them as a couple.

And then that future came, shortly after Colby and Sarah graduated from high school. They both turned eighteen that summer, shortly after graduation, and the high school sweethearts got married in the month of July.

There was a big shindig with outdoor country music and all of the farmers and their families from miles around coming to attend the union of Colby and Sarah and the wedding party thereafter. There never seemed to be happier teenagers in love and marriage and their never seemed to be happier parents or farm neighbors either. Everyone had a grand time.

Colby and Sarah lived on Sarah’s family farm, which was the farm where the big swimming pond was. And even as they left their teen years and moved into their early twenties that pond was a source of night walks and peaceful time alone together as it had been while they were growing up.

Soon, Colby or Sarah was holding a little one in their arms as they walked as a young couple. And then there were two little ones.

The family was growing and the source of labor was on the two farms, Colby’s fathers and Sarah’s father were the work was spilt since both families needed the labor of Colby.

The little boys and girls of Colby and Sarah’s were growing like weeds, as the maternal and paternal grandmothers would say.
There were four children in all, starting from the oldest to the youngest, Jake, Bonnie, Kyle, and Jennifer.

The family was growing and there was a solid future. It was already planned that Colby and Sarah one day would merge the two farms and run them as one once the old folks retired.

The big old swimming pond was where Sarah and Colby would go for walks while one of the grandmothers would watch the children during visiting time. There was peace there at the swimming pond and Sarah and Colby were as fond of that pond as any other place on God’s good earth.

Sometimes they’d sit on the boat dock after removing their shoes and socks and hold each others hands or have their arms around each other as they dangled their legs off the edge with their feet soaking comfortably in the water.

They’d smile to one another, not an once of their love ever faded, and one or the other would nod in the direction of the very spot they first made love in the watering hole. They’d giggle like children and speak of how wonderful their life together was.

Now and again, a cow would bellow, from on the other side of the barbwire fence, her head rising up from the waterhole with pond water dripping off her nose back into the pond water making ripples, before she would dip her snout back into the water and drink some more.

Just like every time the two young lovers went to that place they loved so much, one would say to the other, usually Sarah would begin, “I love you, Colby.” And Colby would respond, “And I love you, too, Sarah, my one and only love.” Then Colby’s arms would go around Sarah’s slender waist and he’s hold her tight. She’d lay her head back against his shoulders and they’d sit there holding one another in silence. They only sound their was, was their feet moving in the pond water, a cow bellowing, a frog croaking, a cricket chirping, or dog barking in the distance. The melodies playing in their minds came from heaven and as they leaned against the other their love grew closer still.

The children were growing up and farm life wasn’t for them. The unfortunate time came when first Colby’s father and then Sarah’s father passed on to that great farm in the sky. Not long after so went Sarah’s mother followed by Colby’s mother.

Soon, Sarah and Colby were alone on the big farm, now the two of those huge spreads one. Colby had great difficulty running the farms by himself, and without the boys having an interest he was forced to hire two hands to help him manage.

More years went by and Sarah and Colby still went down to that big swimming pond almost nightly for their evening walk. They were alone, but of late except for one of the old farm dogs, Shep, who would tag along and sleep on the boat dock as the two lovers sat side by side, spending their quality time together exactly as they had done for so many years now.

“Do you think God ever forgave us, when we…” Sarah spoke softly.

“Of course He did, Love,” Colby answered even before she had finished her sentence, for he knew what was on his wife’s mind.

Sarah leaned her head back against his shoulder as she had always done and placed her hand over his and closed her eyes.

She spoke with her eyes closed, her voice as soft and gentle as the breeze which was passing them my, “You know, Babe, that was the only thing we ever did wrong in our entire lives, and it doesn’t seem so wrong, does it?”

“I think because it was true love and not lust is why He would forgive us.” His arm across in front of her, his hand resting on her opposite shoulder, closed tighter, “We did right, we married, our love grew as it continues to grow, we raised fine children and we let Him guide us and here were are now, in the hands of the Lord.”

“Yes, it seems soooo, perfect.”

“And it is.”

“I love you, Colby,”

“Not as much as I love you.”

“Oh yes, I dooooo.”

Soon they were giggle and Colby teased his wife, threatening to push her in the water.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would.”

“Shep! Help! Shep! Get him, Boy!”

Shep was on his feet and barking, his tail wagging rapidly. Colby reached around and petted the old German Shepard on the head, “Easy boy, or no biscuits for you tonight!”

The laughing couple made their way back to the farmhouse with old Shep following along.

Then the news came when Jake, their oldest son was killed in action. The war had worried Sarah more than it had Colby, but the loss was tremendous on both of the parents. Such a wasteful loss it was of a fine, upstanding boy.

As if that struggle wasn’t enough for the country couple, it was only a year later that their baby, their youngest girl, Jennifer, was killed in an automobile wreck just outside the county line.

Colby never took to drinking. He’d only consume a beer or two and that was only during family reunions or some other big celebration which gave reason for him too.

But after ‘Daddy’s little girl’ went away, Colby began drinking some, but only after all of the chores were done. Along those walks he and Sarah would take in the evening, down to the big old swimming pond, he’d bring a few bottles of beers with him, just to drown the thoughts.

For a long time, Sarah never said a word about her loving husband bringing along those bottles of beer. She didn’t really mind. But then a time came when she would worry about her man and she said something to him while they sat on the boat dock near the pond.

“Love, are you going to stop drinking one day?” she spoke softly and gentle as always.

For the longest time her husband did not answer and when he finally did his voice was so low, she could barely hear him, “Someday.”

The farm couple went on with their lives. It was Sarah who seemed to handle the tragic losses of their lives better than Colby. Although it wasn’t visible to others, Sarah could see the change coming of her husband and that worried her more than anything else.

They only time it seemed that the couple were happy anymore was when their two middle children, Bonnie and Kyle came to visit. But their visits were few and far between since they both had their own families now and lived several states away.

Whenever Bonnie or Kyle came to visit with their own families, Sarah and Colby would make up a big shindig and they’d party outside, barbecue on the lawn in front of the farmhouse or inside if it were winter. Colby would find an excuse to drink, often stating that he had reason to celebrate. But he always seemed to over do it, and on times like those he’d get drunk and pass out on the lawn or on the sofa depending on where he was at the time. That brought great displeasure to his wife, Sarah, for she was embarrassed that her two remaining children would see their father like this.

“He’s never got over the loss of Jake or Jennifer,” mother would explain to her two adult children.

But Bonnie and Kyle understood full well the pain inside their father’s heart. He was a good man, they knew, for he raised them right. They didn’t know how to help him, so they just let things be. The only thing they could do was pray for him and along with Sarah while he slept off his drunkenness, they prayed.

When Bonnie and/or Kyle would leave with their families, it would be so lonely for Colby and Sarah. It was a long time coming before either of the two children would visit again since they now lived so far away.

And for Sarah, the most heartbreaking thing for her, the nightly walks she and her husband made to the big swimming pond at far end of the cow pasture were becoming fewer and fewer. It was a good distance from the farmhouse and she didn’t care to walk there alone. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Colby would often finish his chores on the farm, send the hired men along their way to the bunkhouse, after supper and then he’d be in the refrigerator opening a bottle of beer.

Sarah would mention she wanted to go for a walk, and Colby would promise her, “In a minute, right after I finish this beer.”

But he’d always open another and before long he’d be snoring on the sofa.

Sarah would just sit, content, in her chair and read a good book. Sometimes that good book was the Bible.

Maybe God is angry at us, because we didn’t do it properly, like after we were married, like we were suppose to do, she thought to herself. Sarah was beginning to wonder. In her own mind she was no longer certain. She asked for forgiveness and she asked the Lord to forgive her husband.

Once in awhile Colby would forsake the nightly beer and go for the walk with Sarah down to the pond. He began calling it the milk pond, but Sarah paid no mind. She simply held her husband’s hand and enjoyed their walk with Shep following along behind them.

Where did all the time go? Sarah wondered in her own mind. It seems like just yesterday we were kids frolicking in the pond and planning our future. Now our future is here, and it came so fast.

Sarah didn’t share her thoughts with her husband; she only thought them to herself. Colby didn’t speak much on these trips, not like he used to. He was a bit withdrawn, seemingly like in a world all of his own. He was never belligerent or in anyway disrespectful of his wife, Sarah, he just seemed to remain to himself.

Sarah leaned on his shoulder, he head turning so her face could feel the warmth of her husband’s body, but it just didn’t seem to be the same. Their times spent together at the pond were growing shorter and fewer. Colby couldn’t seem to wait to get back to the farmhouse and have a drink. Often it would take six drinks or more before he nodded off in his chair or the sofa and later, much later Sarah would have to wake him for bed.

Time passed and Sarah asked Colby to take her to the doctors, she had made an appointment, she said. So, Colby drove Sarah into town and waited in the parking lot while his wife was being attended to by the doctor. He never said much to her, he just waited for her response. Time passed again and Sarah had been referred to another doctor and Colby was always willing to take her where she needed to go, without asking questions, which he figured was woman’s business.

Then one day on a return trip home to the farm from the doctor’s office, Sarah dropped the bomb on her husband, “Colby? The doctor said I have cancer.”

Colby swallowed hard. He didn’t say a word. Tears welted up in his eyes. He never let his wife see him cry and he struggled now to keep her from seeing him as he looked out the driver’s window and secretly wiped his tears away.

“Baby… I’m sorry!” He said, his chin quivering, “I promise you Sarah, I’ll be a better husband!”

“Oh, Love, there could be no better husband than you, you know I’ve always loved you. I will always love you!”

Colby said nothing. He just drove home. He escorted his wife into the farmhouse and she prepared supper. He talked to her all the time she was preparing the evening meal. He seldom did this anymore, like he once did. He asked her questions, he wanted to know what this cancer doctor had said and he wanted to know how she was feeling. How long did they have together?

The men came in from the barn and had supper with them and then went to the bunkhouse to leave Sarah and Colby alone. Colby didn’t touch a beer this evening, instead he helped his wife do the dishes and after they were dried, he took her by the hand and led her out the door.

With Shep following along behind them, they walked slowly, more like strolling, toward that peaceful haven at the far end of the cow pasture.

Sarah was smiling, but Colby was grim faced. Anything that could make him sober up so quickly and not desire a beer had to be pretty powerful stuff.

Colby didn’t say many words as he held his wife’s hand and led her toward the ‘milk pond’. The words he did speak he didn’t need to speak for Sarah already knew.

“I love you Sarah. I love you so much.” He choked, he couldn’t speak the next words without a paused, and as he paused he turned into Sarah and hugged her, his chin resting on her shoulder, he cried, “I can’t live without you, Love! You are my soul mate and God knows that!”

“Easy, baby,” Sarah whispered, as she rubbed his back, soothingly, “Shhhh! Don’t cry for me! Don’t cry for me, Baby!”

Colby cried all the more. Seldom in all of their years together did Colby every cry in front of his beautiful wife. He always maintained an appearance of strength, even when he felt weak.

Sarah was the kind of woman who took things for the way they were. There wasn’t much sense in sobbing away the few days, weeks or months she had left. She intended to enjoy life to the fullest, what time she had left.

“I can’t live without you,” he whispered again with a choked up voice filled with quiver.

“Don’t talk like that, Baby,” she whispered, stroking his back, through his flannel shirt, “Think of the children. You need to stay strong for Bonnie and Kyle. Promise me you will. You’ve always been a strong man now is not the time to forsake me.”

Sarah place he hand under her husband’s chin and lifted it slightly as she peered into his eyes, “We are almost there, Baby! Let’s continue. God will remain with us.”

The couple walked hand in hand. The autumn leaves were in full foliage color of fall. Colby spoke no words and it took him several moments to get himself together so he could speak to his wife. His eyes were on the well-traveled path, the same path he and this woman had stepped since they were kids, together.

Soon, they were walking around the pond along the smooth, green, grassy area until they came to the boat dock and walked along the wooden planks.

“Let’s take a ride in the boat,” Sarah suggested.

Colby nodded, shaking his head quickly in agreement, but unable to lift his eyes. He offered his arm and his wife took hold of it as she stepped carefully into the boat. Once she was sitting down, he climbed in and sat on the seat across from her, and then untied the boat.

Using an oar, Colby pushed against the boat dock and shoved the boat out into the water.

Then he rowed. He leaned forward and pulled back. He leaned forward and pulled back, both oars, bringing the small row boat out toward the center of the pond.

Sarah leaned forward and held her husband’s shoulder, “It’ll be okay, Colby. God will see you through.”

Colby’s chin was quivering. He managed not to cry, but at the moment, he couldn’t lift his eyes. He just nodded his head; more like a child would at his mother, than a man would his wife. But then, this wasn’t an ordinary moment for the man.

A few moments later, Colby stopped rowing the boat. It just drifted in the old pond. Husband and wife sat alone in the sway of the boat, looking at each other, smiling and looking around them.

“Why?”

“Shhhh, my dear!” Sarah whispered softly as she gently pressed her index finger against his lips and winked at him.

They spent several moments in silence.

Soon, Sarah’s eyes fixed on a spot in the pond. Her focus lingered. The smile on her pretty lips and the sparkle in her eyes told Colby what she saw, but he asked anyway.

“What? What do you see?”

For a moment she did not answer, she simply soaked in her thoughts of yesterday.

“Us!” she said with a flirtatious grin, without looking directly at him. Her eyes where on that area they both remembered well enough they needed no reminder. “Us, when we were kids.”

Her husband grinned, too, but said nothing.

“You wanna?” she asked, her thin eyebrows dancing with suggestion.

“Are you serious?” her husband replied, first looking at Sarah and then following her sight. He could almost see what she saw, two young teenagers splashing in the swimming pond, doing the forbidden thing that tied them together for life. The way it should be. He could almost see. His eyes scanned the perimeter, just like they did when he was a kid, decades ago, all the way back to the farmhouse, the barn, the barnyard and beyond. “you can’t be serious, Sarah?’

But she was already in the water, “The water’s cold!”

She was waddling outward from the boat, toward the spot. Colby was in the water, swimming toward his wife. Old Shep covered his eyes with his paws and whined from the boat dock. The sounds of music filled their minds and teenagers splashing in water, frolicking through the journey of life together, the alpha and the omega.

Shivering, the married couple hurried back to the farmhouse with Shep far ahead of them. They raced together, for the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, and a towel to dry themselves with. They were as happy as the teenagers they used to be, and felt just as silly. The autumn water was much colder than the times they used to swim, but all of the life they enjoyed, they had enjoyed again.

“You wanna go into town for a pizza?” Colby suggested after they were in a change of dry cloths, his face beaming with the only moment of joy he had shared with his wife for a long time.

“Only if we can stop for a soft ice cream cone, vanilla dipped in chocolate afterwards,” Sarah giggled. She already had her purse and windbreaker in hand and was heading for the door of the farmhouse.

“No, Shep, not this time,” Colby said, as he tossed Shep a biscuit, which the old dog ignored. Colby squeezed out the door with Shep whining behind him.

Sarah sat next to her husband as they drove toward town, just like she used to when Colby first got his driver’s license and used his father’s truck.

She leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. “You haven’t taken me in town for pizza and ice cream in years.”

“You are still a thin woman,” Colby said, laughing, “But I’m sure it won’t put too much weight on you.”

The next few months were difficult on the couple. It was more difficult for Colby than it was for Sarah. It fact, it was so hard on Colby; he never spent more than a few moments at a time away from his wife. Too, he never touched a drop of drink. More than two six packs of beer remained in the refrigerator, untouched since the time Sarah had announced to him that she was dying of incurable cancer.

After Sarah’s funeral, Colby sold off the two farms as one. After he lay off his farm hands and gave them a severance bonus, apologizing for their fate, he divided up the income from the sale of the farm and gave equal amounts to Bonnie and Kyle and himself. That of course, was done after he paid off the farm bills, of which were few, since many of the farm bills were paid off years ago. He had finished those beers that remained in the refrigerator during the time he was going over the financial paperwork and scheduling the payoff of remaining loans.

After a visit to the IRS office in a nearby town, Colby was settled with anybody who needed settling with. A short time later, he landed in Las Vegas.

He could now drink twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if he wanted to. And often he wanted to. And he could gamble as much as he wanted to, for he had plenty of money to do that with. But he really didn’t care about winning money. Money was of no real concern of his. He just wanted something to do, something to take his mind of things. Unpleasant things. And for several years it seemed to work.

Colby was growing old. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t think of his Sarah. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t think of his son, Jake. And there wasn’t a time he didn’t think of Daddy’s little girl, Jennifer, either. But the booze killed his pain and the casinos killed his time. And as time faded, so did his body.

It took almost five years for Colby to run out of money and when he did, he because homeless. But being homeless didn’t bother Colby as long as he had enough money to buy booze to drown in. In Vegas, booze was cheap to drown in. He didn’t much care about gambling, that after all, to Colby was just something to pass the time away with. The good thing about gambling was free booze the casinos gave to the players. And then, there was always that chance he could win big and that could leave him enough to buy more booze.

Colby liked to take the bus down Eastern Avenue and go into the Sunset Park. The sunset park had a huge pond, almost as large as the one back on the farm.

There was lots of smooth, green grass surrounding the pond, too, just like back home.

With a twelve pack of beer, sitting under a shade tree, Colby would feed the wild ducks and geese. He’d think of Sarah and he’d think of Jake and Daddy’s little girl. And he’d drink. And he’d think. And he’d drink and think.

He was homeless for over four years, maybe longer. Sure, it was longer. It was a lot longer. His memory was fading. But he never loss memory of Sarah or Jake or Daddy’s little girl. No, he remembered them just like they were here with him. Just like they were still part of his life.

It was sad, though, Colby had lost Bonnie’s and Kyle’s phone numbers a long time ago. Like he lost a lot of papers he once used to keep close to his heart. He thought it was one time when he had been arrested for vagrancy that he lost those phone numbers of his two surviving children, but he couldn’t be certain now that age was creeping rapidly upon him like a winter storm coming.

Nearly every day now, he’d catch that bus and ride it all the way down Eastern where the airplanes could be seen up close as they landed, or took off from the airport. He enjoyed watching them. Seemed like their where a lot of them. Planes filled with people coming to Vegas to party and planes loaded with people, leaving to go back home again. Lots of them.

The duck pond was his favorite spot in the entire valley. It was a close to being home as Colby could get. Real animals, like on the farm.

One morning before he started drinking, while he was sitting in the park, under his favorite shade tree, watching the water fowl, and looking over the acres of green grass, he said out loud, “Sarah would like this place. I know she would.”

Sometimes, Colby, with his back up against a tree, would look out at the pond and watch the ducks and geese swim around. Sometimes he’d watch them long enough and he’d see Sarah and himself swimming and frolicking on that old pond back home.

Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! He’d call out. Sometimes people walking by would look at him strangely and sometimes their eyes would follow his and look out to the center of the pond. But they could never see what he saw. And sometimes, nice people would slip money in his hands, even though he didn’t ask them to. He’d look at the dollar bills, sometimes five, ten or even twenty and he’d smile and thank them and then say, “God bless you.” And then his eyes would gaze back out toward the pond, Sarah! Sarah! Sarah? It’s me, Colby!

Sarah, come to me, Baby! Come for me! I love you, Sarah! Come for me!

Colby leaned back against the shade tree drinking his beer. Sometimes he sat so long it got warm, but he’d drink it anyway.

The police would come along and arrest Colby and take him to jail. That happened a lot. But it didn’t bother Colby. He’d spend a couple of nights in jail and sometimes a week or even a month, but sooner or later he’d get out and eventually find his way back to Sunset Park with some beer he managed to find a way to buy.

He’d sit there and feed the ducks and geese, and they were growing in family size, and he enjoyed that. Then he’d drink and look out into the pond to see if he could see Sarah come by. Sometimes Colby had to wait a very long time to see Sarah, but then he’d see her. She’d come up out of that pond water with her beautiful body rising up and up and up and the water falling off her back and body and making a big splashing sound. His eyes would grow wide as he watched his wife and he’d wave to her.

Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! And people would walk by thinking he was crazy, but they couldn’t see Sarah like he could. He’d wave to her. Sometimes he was so happy to see her; he stood up and waved to her. Sarah, come to me, Baby! Come for me! I love you, Sarah! Come for me!

But Sarah didn’t seem to see him and that made him sad. Sometimes he would cry.

He’d drink harder and faster and when he had drank too much he’d managed to get up and go walk around the park, thinking he was walking with Sarah. He’d walk all the way to the back of Sunset Park, around the pond, holding hands with Sarah. Way in the back, far from people’s vision, almost as far as the pond back home was from the barn, at the very end of the cow pasture, he stepped into the desert. There was desert shrubbery there where he could hide behind and lay down and crawl up close to the shrubbery without being seen and go to sleep.

In the morning he’d go over to the little store and buy beer and some kind of bread to feed the ducks and geese and pigeons. Sometimes people were mean to him, because they said he “stinks.” But they were just people, and Colby had no business with people anymore. He stopped doing business with people when he sold the farm back home.

Colby would again find his shade tree and sit with his back against it, and he’d drink and talk to the ducks and geese and pigeons. And he had named them all, but he couldn’t remember their names all the times, so he’d just say, “Here duck, here goose, or here ya go, good lookin’ one.” Or something like that.

Colby would spend the greater part of the day, drinking and feeding the fowl before he’d see Sarah rise up out of the water. And to his surprise, one day, she had Daddy’s Little Girl with her. And Jennifer was waving to him and he waved back. Jennifer saw daddy while Sarah had not seen him.

“Hi Daddy!” Pretty little Jennifer yelled, waving cheerfully.

“I’m coming for you, Jennifer! I’m coming for you and mommy!” Colby called as he was on his feet and walking toward the pond, his arms outreached, “I’m coming to get you, Daddy’s little girl! I’m so happy to see—“

Just then Colby feel into the pond and because it was a huge step down, that first step, the water was so deep, he went out of sight.

When he came up, he thought he remembered Daddy’s little girl and Mommy both had wings. White wings. He felt someone pulling on his collar, and he struggled to break free. His eyes were searching for his little girl and his wife, but he saw no one out in the pond.

Good Samaritans in the park had jumped into the water to help Colby, who fought them off, and struggled with them as his only attention was on Jennifer and her mommy. But eventually the strangers managed to bring Colby ashore.

Under the shade tree where the Good Samaritans held Colby’s shoulders, he wept.

“You want us to call someone to come help you, Mister?” One of the young men who helped rescue Colby asked.

Colby shook his head, and said nothing for a long time, “Just leave me alone,” he said, finally.

His privacy was honored. Again he was alone. But now when he looked out across the vast pond he saw no daddy’s little girl, nor her mommy. Thank God, Colby thought, “I’ve got lots of beers left.”

It wasn’t more than an hour or two after that, while Colby was drinking and weeping, a man came along and stood tall in front of him. Colby looked up at the towering man from where he sat with his back against the tree, “Oh, you. I know you.”

“How are you doing, my friend?” the soft voice of the man said, as he stood looking Colby over.

“I’m doing,” Colby nodded.

“Are you hungry?” the man said, as he pulled sandwiches from a black bag he was carrying, “I’ve got sandwiches, ham and cheese or turkey?”

Colby shrugged his shoulders.

“How about one of each?” the tall, well-built man asked, handing two sandwiches to the homeless man sitting under the tree.”

“OK,” Colby said, taking the sandwiches from the tall man’s hand. “Thank you, Father River.”

“You are welcome, Colby,” the tall man said, “Can I sit with you?”

“Sure, why not?” Colby said, patting the lawn next to him, “Want a beer?”

Father River laughed, “No, I think I’ll take a rain check on that, Mr. Colby.”

“Figures,” Colby said, starting into the turkey sandwich and taking sips of beer as he ate it.

“So why are you so wet, Colby?”

“Went for a swim.”

“Did someone push you in?”

“Naw,” Colby said, his chin quivering a little. He turned his face away and continued to eat his sandwich.

Father River said nothing. He just watched Colby as he sat next to the homeless man. He was glad Colby was eating. That was not always the case. Some of these homeless men didn’t eat when he brought food around and that bothered Father River a great deal.

He put his hand on Colby’s boney shoulder. He had noticed how Colby had lost weight and wasn’t looking too well lately. He was growing older and his memory was fading. Father River had tried to get him to come into a program before but Colby always refused. It had been, maybe three or four years, Father River had known Colby, perhaps longer. He could certainly see the old man was fading and he was deeply concerned.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my friend and brother in Christ?”

Colby had finished both of his sandwiches. Father River knew he had been exceedingly hungry. Often, Colby had only finished one, or at best one and a half sandwiches if he took any at all.

A long moment passed, as Father River held his hand on Colby’s shoulder. The old homeless man looked out in the park, and then his eyes turned toward the center of the pond before he turned his body around and sat with his arms down at his sides as if he were surrendering to defeat.

“I wanna go home, Father, I’ve had enough.” Colby said, unable to keep the tears from streaking down his dirty cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away. His beer can not yet empty sat on the lawn on the other side of him. “I wanna go home.”

“Then come with me,” Father River said, gently, "I have the car today. I’ll take you back to the church and you can get cleaned up and in new cloths. Then I’ll take you to the airport after you get some rest and we’ll fly you home.”

“No,” Colby said, looking into Father River’s eyes, “Not tonight. Come for me tomorrow. Will you come for me tomorrow? I’m ready to go home.”

“Sure, I’ll come for you tomorrow.”

“I wanna…I wanna spend the night with Sarah and my little ones.”

“I understand,” Father River nodded. He was well aware of Sarah and Colby’s children. He also knew how Colby would see them in the pond. Father River, closed his fingers around the boney area of Colby’s shoulder and prayed for Colby to Jesus Christ, “In the name of Jesus Christ, Son of God, I pray this man, Colby, can be removed from suffering, and that You will have mercy upon him, Lord Jesus. Please, Lord, remove his pain and suffering and guide him to Your safety.”

Father River formed the sign of the cross on his figure and said, “Amen.”

“Amen,” Colby whispered, “Thank you, Father River, I appreciated that.”

“I’ll be back in the morning for you, Colby.” Father River said, as he rose to his feet. “You want another sandwich before I go?”

Colby just shook his head.

“Well, then you better be getting back in the desert. It’s almost closing time in the park, and you don’t want anyone to see you here after dark.”

Colby nodded, and Father River helped him to his feet, and then patted him on the shoulders.

The sun was setting in Sunset Park.

Colby picked up his beer and started for his bedding ground deep in the desert in the back of the park. As he staggered, his eyes roamed over the pond.

Father River watched him until he was on the other side of the pond, fading deep into the desert and finally disappearing behind thick desert shrub.

Father River continued to pray for the old, lonely homeless man. Over the years Colby had told Father River his story. But it wasn’t easy learning of his life. Colby like most of the other homeless people in Las Vegas, pretty much kept to himself and kept his life to himself as well. But Father River understood the unspoken words of the homeless.

The next morning when Father River pulled his sedan into the parking lot of Sunset Park, an ambulance and two police cars where there with their emergency lights flashing.

He saw the paramedics and the patrolmen near the tree where Colby always sat under. He raced on foot toward the area, ducks and geese scattering as he ran. He was wearing his clergy cloths as he intended to take Colby back to the church with him that morning.

“He’s passed on to the Great Sleep,” Officer McMinn, said as Father River reached Colby’s shade tree. Colby sat there, his eye open and a smile on his face as he appeared to be looking out toward the center of the pond. He was dead, it was obvious. The paramedics were preparing the stretcher, and before they could reach to close Colby’s eyes, Father River reached down and placed his hand on Colby’s cold, boney shoulders and said a prayer. Then he formed the sign of the cross on his person before stepping back to allow the paramedics to do their work.

“He’s going home to be with his Sarah and his little ones,” Father River said, “He’s going home to be with the Lord.”

“This was in his hand when we arrived,” one of the police officers said, handing Father River a note. He read it: “Father River, Please contact my daughter, Mrs. Bonnie Davenport, and my son, Kyle Hall. I wish to be buried next to my wife, Sarah and with my two children, Jake and Jennifer in the family cemetery on Sugar Hill. Thank you for being there for me, Father River, Your Brother in Christ, Colby Hall.”

Taking a note pad from his breast pocket and a pen, Father River jotted down the names and badge numbers of the paramedics and police officers, and then handed each of them his card.

“I’ll make the funeral arrangements,” Father River announced, “Please have your superiors contact me before this afternoon.”

The paramedics moved Colby’s body to the ambulance and closed the back doors before leaving Sunset Park.

The patrolmen shook hands with the priest and then returned to their cruisers and left, too.

By that afternoon Father River would need to use the search engines and locate Colby’s surviving children. If he had any difficulties, he would consult the church attorneys, but he was certain he’d be successful himself.

Father River sat in Colby’s spot under the shade tree and looked out toward the center of the pond and prayed for Colby.

He heard a splashing sound and as he looked out over the pond, he saw something caused his breath to turn heavy. Then he relaxed, as he witnessed the most incredible sign the Lord had ever sent him. There above the water were four angles, two adult-size ones and two the size of children. Their white wings were slowly fanning, causing the water to ripple. The four great white angels appeared to be waving at him, and he knew Colby had made it home. Then the angels raised high above the pond and blended in with the white clouds like great big scoops of melting ice cream.

Father River waved out over the pond and up toward the sky, never even caring if anyone was watching him. “So long my friend. And thank you, Father. Praise the Lord.”

The sun was just coming up at Sunset Park.

8,186 First Draft

Author's Note: My friend, a homeless man, whose name and life created the conception for this story, died on the streets of Las Vegas after the first draft of this story was written. He was a murder victim who died in one of the top ten most dangerous neighborhoods in America.

Wanted Man

2009-07-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

“I’ve got to get out of this hot town,” Jacob Daniels murmured as he scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off.

Jacob had slept on a mere piece of cardboard. He had found the sheet of shipping container someone had tore from a used box the night before and made it into a bed. His backpack was his pillow.

The 28-year-old homeless man removed his T-shirt and wiped the sweat off his body. He put the cotton material over his head and rubbed the cloth vigorously, drying his sweat-soaked auburn hair.

“I’m tired of this,” Jacob whispered in disgust, “every damn morning it’s the same thing, wake up in filth and sweat!”

“You’re lucky to have wakened up,” Little Tom, who was aroused by Jacob and was now on his own feet as well, said.

“It never cooled down last night,” Jacob said to the smaller, much older man.

“I know it,” Little Tom said, nodding, “The heat came right through the sidewalk last night like we were sleeping on a grill.”

“Must still be ninety degrees and it isn’t even seven o’clock yet.”

“The ground temperature is always ten to twenty degrees or hotter than the air temperature,” Little Tom explained, “During the daytime the sun bakes the infrastructure and these sidewalks so much they never seem to cool down.”

Jacob slipped back into his soaked T-shirt and looked up and down Foremaster Street. The two homeless men had camped out midway up the street. On the hill, near Main Street, no one seemed to be stirring. That was where the hard-core drunks and drug addicts stayed. Cuban gangs and a mix of life’s misfits, rejects from society, lived there. They had makeshift tents made out of disaster blanks tied to the iron fence behind them. They were a noisy bunch, kept you up all night with their yelling and screaming and fighting. They’d party well into the morning hours until they passed out from abusing their gods, or got knocked out by someone who didn’t want to listen to them anymore, which ever came first.

Below, his eyesight flowing down the hill, toward Las Vegas Boulevard, most of the homeless who had slept on the sidewalk was stirring or were already aroused. They were at different stages of morning life. Some were already on their feet, packing up their gear. Others with backpacks and bedrolls slung over their shoulders were heading out in various directions up and down the street, some toward the coffee line, some toward the bus station, some on foot to go off to some purposeful destination, maybe the smoke shop on Main or the library on the boulevard, or someplace to find daytime shade in some park under a cool shade tree.

A couple of men were watering the fence posts twisting their necks constantly as they urinated keeping an eye out for cops.

Others were still sleeping in, some on pieces of cardboard, or sheets of newspaper. Some on blankets they found when they came in over night. Others slept, motionless forms, inside real sleeping bags. They’d be roused soon, for any moment now the battalion of Las Vegas Police vehicles, SUVs, patrol cars with emergency lights flashing and bullhorns blasting, and uniformed police foot soldiers converging on both side of the sidewalk would be coming down around the corner of Main Street and down the hill of Foremaster, followed by a large column of City of Las Vegas “Rapid Response Team” trucks and heavy-duty equipment like dump trucks pulling trailers loaded with bobcat bucket loaders. It gave the appearance of a large column of military vehicles, moving into a defenseless territory and with Soviet-style aggression oppressing the poor people whose community was invaded.

It happens every morning—the invasion on Foremaster—and it stays here. It stays here in Vegas like lots of things do.

The outside world never hears of such things as like this.

They would come soon, sure enough, like they did almost every morning.

Jacob Daniels wanted to be out of there before they came. Little Tom wanted to be out of there, too. No, he had to be out of there. So, Little Tom struggled to catch up to Jacob who was already well ahead of him, heading up the boulevard toward the library's direction.

“So, where are you going to go, back home?” Little Tom asked Jacob, his breath coming short.

“No, I can’t go back there.”

“Well, let’s pick someplace good and I’ll go with you,” Little Tom said, now stepping side by side of Jacob.

“Naw, I’d rather stay by myself,” Jacob said. He knew Little Tom was a wanted man and he didn’t want that kind of baggage holding him back. One could never tell what might come down keeping company with a wanted man, or when.

“I thought we were buddies, you and me,” Little Tom said, looking up at Jacob who was looking straight ahead.

Jacob didn’t say anything. Little Tom seemed to understand. It was always that way with friends he made on the road. When ever someone learned he was a fugitive from justice, they didn’t want to hang with him for much longer.

For a long time they walked without words.

Then Little Tom started telling Jacob places he could go. After all, he should know, he had been on the run for a long time and he knew all the homeless shelters and camps across the country.

"LA is bad, too big. Denver is no good. Neither is Detroit. If you go down south, it can get hotter than here. Up in Utah, Salt Lake ain't bad. If you go back east, New York, Jersey or someplace like that, it's okay, but it's damn cold in the winter time and...."

Suddenly from behind them came the sound of police sirens and tires screeching. Overhead a police helicopter soon hovered. Over the public address system of the patrol car came the announcement, “Get down on your knees on the sidewalk and keep your hands high above your head where we can clearly see them.”

“I’m done for now,” Little Tom said glancing up at the loud, low hovering chopper. “Ain’t no way for me to escape with that bird crapping right on top of my head.”

It seemed like eternity as the two men waited for the police to take action.

"Those damn street cameras," Little Tom sighed, "They don't miss a trick. I should of known."

“I’m sorry, Little Tom,” Jacob said, as he, too, knelt with his hands over his head.

“You ain’t as sorry as I am,” Little Tom laughed, “I should have been getting up earlier and moving out while it was still dark. But no, I had to get lazy and sleep in and let them get a good look at me on camera.”

The police officers were surrounding Little Tom and Jacob with guns drawn. Officers behind the two were putting handcuffs on the homeless men. Then they helped them to their feet and moved them in front of the patrol car.

“Are you Thomas Brite?” The police Sergeant asked Little Tom.

Little Tom nodded, “I am.”

“You are wanted in Fort Worth, Texas on a felony warrant.” The sergeant stated.

“Let the kid go,” Little Tom said, “He ain’t got nuthin’ to do with me, he don’t know nuthin’.”

“We’ll decide that, once we run a check on him,” the sergeant said as he led Little Tom to the backseat of the cruiser, “Watch your head.”

“See ya, Jacob,” Little Tom said, to his street buddy just before he climbed into the back of the cruiser and the door was closed.

A few moments later, after Jacob was clear of any charges or outstanding warrants, his backpack and person searched, the police released him. He stood on the sidewalk and watched Little Tom being hauled off to city lock up and would soon be proceeded for a return to Texas to answer the violent felon charges.

Jacob waved to Little Tom as the cruiser pulled away, and the other patrol cars and chopper resumed their duties elsewhere.

Alone, Jacob walked toward the library and then beyond toward the downtown transportation center. “These cops are good,” Jacob said out loud to himself, “Fugitives don’t have a chance in this town.”

And it was true. The Las Vegas police had an extraordinary record apprehending wanted fugitives.

Jacob felt sorry for Little Tom. He didn’t know the particulars of his crime, but he knew he seemed like a nice guy for the time he had known him. And, he knew Little Tom had been on the run for a long, long time. Now he wouldn't have to run any more if that was something good which could come out of a bad situation for him.

Like many of Jacob’s friends, good and bad, it always seemed like someone was always leaving.

What Jacob decided it was time he, too, was leaving.

And, so it was, after he reached the downtown transportation center, he cut across the lot and made his way up to Main Street, in front of the Main Street Station Hotel and Casino and then up past the Plaza Casino until he reached the Greyhound bus depot, where he purchased a one-way ticket to New Jersey.

Vegas would soon be just a memory.

1,567

One Good Job

2009-07-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

“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

Dream Train

2009-07-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

“Damn, it’s hot out.”

“Yeah, looky up there,” the small man, Tony, said as he pointed to the Binion’s Horseshoe Casino 25-story hotel tower clock with time and temperature readings flashing alternatively. “It’s a hundred and fifteen degrees and it’s fifteen minutes until chow time.”

“You can see that far?” Ralph said, squinting his eyes, “Hell I can’t read that. It’s too far away. You say it says four forty five?”

“Yup it does,” one of the younger homeless men standing in the soup kitchen line said, “And now it’s a hundred and sixteen degrees.”

"Jeepers, that means the ground temperature is around a hundred and twenty-five or thirty or better." Someone said.

People were filling water bottles and gulping water poured from the big orange water cooler pushed up against the iron gate for the homeless people to reach through and quench their thirst.

“Dang, I feel like a baked potato already,” Ralph said, removing his dirty baseball cap long enough to swipe the sweat from his weather-beaten forehead with the back of his hand. “All I can see is that great big B up there and some yellow blur.”

“Better get your eyes checked old man,” the kid said to him.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my eyes,” Ralph insisted, “I can see as good as a hawk.”

“Yeah, as good as a hawk with coke-bottle glasses on,” Tony nudged the kid.

“Eye glasses that fell off his face, that is,” the kid chimed in.

Just about then three yellow engines of the Union Pacific pulled a line of freight cars along behind them and rumbled northward. The train whistle blew and the ground shook from the passing train, long with box cars, oil tankers, containers stacked double high on flatbeds and trailers of the eighteen wheeler kind hauled the same way, grain cars and others. It was a big train, long and beautiful like... a good dream.

A train going somewhere long and far away. Certainly somewhere where it was cooler. Much cooler.

The three men, in line at the D Street Mission soup kitchen line watched the train as it slowly passed by. Ralph was the one paying the most attention. Ralph’s old eyes worked well when ever he saw a northern bound Union Pacific Railroad train. Trains like that one gave hope. Hope to a better life. Hope to a cooler town. Hope to a town much cooler than the sweltering hot sun of Las Vegas town—a town as hot as hell itself.

And as mean too, mean and evil as hell.

Ralph's eyes were focused on that Union Pacific Railroad train as it slowly rolled by and in Ralph's mind that was a ticket as good as any dream. A ticket for a ride far, far away from here.

Tony, the small Italian man, rolled himself a handmade cigarette, his dark brown eyes dancing with Ralph’s blue ones.

“You really thinkin’ ‘bout it aren’t ya, Ralphy?”

“I keep telling ya, one of these days I’m gonna do it.”

“Do what?” the kid wanted to know, “Gimme one of those”

Tony didn’t argue. He knew what it was like to be out of smokes. He gave both Ralph and the kid papers and while they held the cigarette papers, filled them with rolling tobacco.

“He’s been talkin’ for years ‘bout jumpin' a train,” Tony told the kid, “He calls it his dream train.”

“I’m gonna catch a train and blow this town.” Ralph nodded with pride. "Soon. Real soon, I tell ya!"

“Where you going?” the kid wanted to know.

“I dunno, maybe up in Utah. Maybe Salt Lake City way or someplace like that.”

“I hear they treat you pretty humanly up there.” Tony said. "Mormon Country."

“Yeah, they do. The only problem is getting there.” Ralph reasoned.

“What’s holdin’ ya up, old man?”

“Ain’t no gamblin’ up in Utah,” the old man said, taking his eyes off the slow moving train for a moment, “Too many Mormons.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.” The kid said as he towered over the two smaller and older men. Towered over them like that Binion’s Horseshoe time piece Ralph couldn't quite read.

A cloud of cigarette smoke rose about the heads of the three smokers and drifted away like their uncaptured dreams.

“It ain’t so easy, Kid," Old Ralph tried to explain, “There’s problems jumpin’ trains, at least out west here.”

“Why’s that a problem?” the kid wanted to know.

“Those damn railroad hobos; they’ll kill ya if they catch ya on their train.”

“Yeah, they don’t like nobody,” Tony added, “I’ve heard some awful stuff ‘bout them.”

“Me too,” Another homeless man standing nearby chimed in, “I was reading in one of the newspapers over at the library awhile back, that the FBI claims those railroad tramps are responsible for some three hundred murders. They be a bunch of Nam vets who forgets the war is over with.”

“It’s dangerous jumping trains now a days.” It was Ralph who so admitted.

“It’s always been dangerous jumping trains. But this town is getting more dangerous, too.” Some other homeless and hungry man jumped into the trio’s conversation.

“I hear ya.” Nodded, Ralph.

“Damn glad somebody does.”

A volume of laughter rose above the line of homeless people waiting for the soup kitchen to open.

“I’d make sure you take a good knife with ya.” The same man, the last one who spoke, added.

“Knife? Hell.” The old man countered, “I’m buying me a brand new machete and I’m gonna sharpen the piss out it befo’ I go.”

“You ain’t no match for a killing machine,” Tony said to the old man, “maybe you ought to find another way to get up there.”

“Yeah, I’ll ride my horse, jest like the olden days, huh?”

“Jackass more like it,” Tony chuckled.

The line started moving. The gate was opened and men began moving toward the chow line. Handicapped people were let in first, followed by women and children and couples. Then the single men followed.

“Let’s go get something to eat and maybe between us we can think of something intelligent.” The kid suggested.

“I’ve already been done thinkin',” the old man, Ralph said, tossing his spent cigarette butt to the pavement. “Gonna get me a good machete and then I’m gonna jump a train and go up north, jest like I said I was.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearin' that for years,” Tony said, to no one in particular as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the old man who was behind him, and following him into the D Street Mission, “That’s his dream train. It keeps going by, but he never gets on it.”

“You’ll see!” the old man protested, “You’ll see, one day soon, I’m gonna be on it and then you won’t have me around no more.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’ll see.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’ll see, too!”

1,154

WORDS

2009-06-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

From a Sermon Written and Read by
Father River: The Street Priest
By Cliff Harrison

WORDS
By Father River

Words. Words are like feelings. Words are like gunshot wounds. Words are like love. Words hurt. Words hate. Words heal. Some of us use too many words. Some of us don’t use enough of them. Words are like a big blow right between the eyes. Or a knife straight though the heart. Words are like a big warm hug, squeezing us so tight. Sometimes words are empty. Sometimes they are so full. Sometimes they are so meaningless, other times they mean so much.

It depends on which words we select. Sometimes we say something and hurt others without us even knowing it, even if we didn’t mean to. And sometimes, we know they hurt and don’t care. Maybe, we wanted our words to hurt. Sometimes we just don’t think before we say them. Or write them. Or don’t care. Some of us hurry our words. Some of us take our sweet time and think before we use the words we choose. And then, sometimes we never use any words at all. We never call that special someone and tell them we love them or that we were just simply thinking about them.

Some of us, we are strong. Words never hurt us. Well, not really. We’ve been through worst. Flying bullets? Yeah, now that hurts, if one hits us. Burns and sizzles right to the bone. Oh, so painful. To some, words are flying bullets. Words hurt them for the rest of their lives. They never heal. Their wounds just never close up. And you can’t always see those scars that came from hurting words. Sometimes we say or write things that hurt somebody and we can never bring those words back again. Never. We shot them. We can say we are sorry. But sorry just doesn’t heal. Sometimes, that person we hurt passes on to the other side and with them goes those words we said to them. They never forgot, those hurting words, even though we may have forgotten we ever said them. They remembered those words, even years down the road and they took those words with them when they moved on. Then we feel guilty. We wish we never had said them. We feel so bad, so sorry. But it’s too late. Our words will never come back. The only thing we can do is think before we say those hurting words to someone else next time. In that, we grow, we learn, but somebody else paid the price. But words of love, we never have to bring them back. We have plenty more were they came from. And no matter how many times we say words of love, we just never seem to say them enough.

Words. Words can be like music. Sometimes they sing. Sometimes... well, sometimes, they boom. Like a drum. Pounding and pounding and banging and banging. Over and over again. Words can be a lot of noise. Or, words can be like magic to someone’s ear. They long to hear those words you say. Other times, they already know what you are going to say. Because, they’ve heard those words before. Like the drum. The drum that never changes its beat. Never makes a song, just all that noise. Like some households were there is never music in the words, just beating drums with the same old beat.

We use words toward complete strangers. We use words to those we love. We use words with those we just happen to know because they are in our lives. Family, friends, complete strangers and all those in between. What would we do without words? A lot of us would be lost. Others, well... they might enjoy the lack of words. And still others might miss those words they enjoy seeing or hearing so much. Like words of love, and kindness and joy. Words of compassion. Words expressing care. Words that just say, "Hey, I’m here... I’m your friend; I’ll listen to your words anytime!" Words that tells stories. Words that sing a song. Words that teach and words that tell us how to get along. Words we learn from. Words we share. Oh, there are so many words. And words can make or break a heart.

We use words to express ourselves. Some of us do a better job than others in selecting our words and telling someone what we think. Some of us don’t express ourselves very well. And, sometimes, someone else takes what we said completely different than what we meant.

Words are like paintings. They are like music. They are like art. Some of us have a way with words. We can be so creative. Others, well, just need to keep trying, that’s all. But one thing for sure, words, like paintings and music and all sorts of art mean different things to different people. Three people can look at a painting and have three different opinions or ideas of what the painter was trying to express. The same holds true with words, sometimes. Sometimes as readers or listeners we agree with the writer or one speaking and sometimes we don’t. And then, of course, we may be undecided.

Words have so much meaning, if they are the right chosen words. Sometimes they are so full of just the right things to make somebody feel good. Other times our words are empty and the only thing that someone else feels is a great big ache in their heart.

I remember a long time ago; this public message came on TV at the end of the broadcast day, late at night. Back then, you were lucky if you had all three TV stations. Rabbit ear antennas and lots of snow. Absolutely black and white. Why color wasn’t even in someone’s mind yet then. TV itself hadn’t been around all that long. Radio was the way you heard things before TV came along. So, a TV was a big deal. There were lots of public broadcast messages at the end of the day in those early decades of TV before the station signed off for the night. Words that would make you think. Like, "Have you hugged your kids today?" and "It’s eleven o’clock, do you know where your children are?"

The one I really liked, had words that went something like this, "Have you told someone you loved them, today?"

I can’t improve on those words, folks.

Remember, Jesus tells us to use words of love. The words Jesus used told us to love one another as He loved us. Amen.

Thank you for joining me. God Bless You.
And always remember, JESUS LOVES YOU!
Father River

1,111

The Son of God

2009-06-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

From the Diaries of
Father River: The Street Priest
By Cliff Harrison

The Son of God
By Father River

After completing two and a half weeks on the streets during my most recent mission I returned with mixed emotions. Those two and a half weeks have brought emotional highs as well as lows.

The lows were due to the fact I didn’t have the funds to do what I wanted to accomplish, such as feeding the hungry. However, I made use of the time by accomplishing other things such as learning of other services for the homeless that I wasn’t previously aware of or hadn’t previously experienced.

I could now pass that information on to stranded homeless people.

The most pleasant thing occurred a couple of weeks ago. I was at the D Street Mission talking with Pastor Tom South from the Las Vegas Valley Bible Ministry after he gave his open-air ministry under the shade dome outside the Mission.

Being a Sunday, Tom provides religious services for the homeless prior to the early feeding of soup.

As I turned, there grinning at me from ear-to-ear was the familiar face of Mel Gibson’s look-a-like, my old friend, Danny. “What are you doing here?” we both said to each other, at the same time.

Neither of us thought the other would be back on the streets.

I hadn’t seen Danny in over a year. Seeing him again was the most rewarding sight I could have ever imagined. I mention Danny in a piece I wrote in the ROCK, called: I Am My Brother's Keeper. He is visiting Vegas for a month, before he returns to West Virginia. I am so proud of Danny’s accomplishments and I am so happy of his strong faith in God.

Danny was the most instrumental person in helping me survive on the streets during my first homeless experience in the winter of 2007. Justin Wright, another homeless friend, helped me with locating many services during that initial time when I first became homeless.

The three of us met at the "D" Street Mission where we stayed for seven nights during the coldest Las Vegas winter in twenty years.

During the day, we had to leave the Mission. We traveled together on the streets. I was severely handicapped at the time and had difficulty walking because I have fragmented knees. I needed to use a cane to get around.

Both Danny and Justin looked after me during those turbulent times I was forced to walk around in dire pain.

Recently, Justin and I found each other again, after over a year of not seeing one another. Like Danny and I, we caught up on the events which had taken place in each of our lives during the course of one year.

As delighted as I was in finding both Danny and Justin again, and bringing one another up to date, the sad thing is they are both leaving town soon. Danny will return to West Virginia and continue working with his church and doing God’s work there. Justin will head north for a promise of a better life.

Both of these guys would be a valuable asset to the RIVER Organization and could provide superb talent to the mission of the organization. Both of them believed, trusted and supported me when I mentioned early during my initial homelessness that I believed Jesus Christ put me on the streets so I could see and understand what was happening to the homeless in Las Vegas, and so I could do something about it.

It is such a tremendous loss to the Church and the humanitarian organization that they will both be leaving Las Vegas soon. But perhaps, over time, we can reunite again, or at least communicate over the websites of the RIVER Organization. Their input and ideas would be most valuable. Their combined and individual experiences would be priceless. They both have diverse talent which could help the Church organization become a viable force to help eradicate homelessness, especially during the start-up phase.

But life goes on and we need to make do with what we have. I am greatly indebted to both Danny and Justin, who I always called J.W., for what I’ve learned from them during the time I have known them. It is unlikely, without them, I would have survived on the streets due to my physical condition at that time.

During the past two weeks, after meeting Danny again, we stayed on Skid Row, Foremaster Street. The homeless corridor is along Main Street and Foremaster Street in downtown, Las Vegas.

Just like old times.

The August heat was relentless. Even in the night, with 100 degrees at ten o’clock and the concrete baking from a day’s sun scorching the body. Sleeping on cardboard, and what blankets we could later find. Life on Foremaster was pretty much unchanged, the darkness of Satan abound.

The only difference was, this time I wasn't homeless. I was on a mission. The church and the organization were growing. But I still sometimes stayed on the streets with my many homeless friends.

And for Danny, he wasn't homeless either. He was just visiting Vegas and would soon go back to West Virginia and do the Lord's work for the poor in his new community.

For now, Danny and I, and our other homeless friends, were having a family reunion and remembering the life we lived when we were "living the dream."

The newspaper strewn sidewalks where homeless people slept on cardboard or newsprint showed its ugly face in the morning when the sun came up.

The stench of urine, believe it or not, was a better smell than which came in the night. Behind us were four crematories and after darkness falls you could smell the stench of human hair and human flesh burning. The prelude to nightmares. Nothing could foster the imagination of darkness more than that stench, in the sleep. Some needed to be told what that smell was, it’s unforgiving in the sleeping mind.

A 66-year-old black man, who exchanged seldom words, sleeps on cardboard to my right. Danny slept on my left. I’m deaf in my right ear and have a substantial hearing loss in my left. I lost most of my hearing in Nam. But I was luckier than others to come out of that war.

So, Danny beds down on the side of my “good ear” so I can hear him when he speaks. The old black man is deaf in his right ear, too. His hearing was lost, I learned, in the same war. And he has the same first name as my friend, Ben.

Ben was a soft spoken man, although he was big, much bigger than I.

In the morning, when I awake, he asks, “Are you a Christian?”

I asked Danny what he had said, because I could not hear him. Danny tells me what he said.
“Yes, I am,” I said, pulling my cross forward and up, to show him. He nods and grins.

He said something else, and again, I ask him what he said. Again, Danny translates.

“He said, you were talking in your sleep, you kept calling out to, ‘The Son of God’”

“Gees, I hope it wasn’t Judgment Day.” I joked. “Not yet, anyways.”

The old black man said, “You said good things in your sleep.”

He smiled, new friendships were made.

A new day was born. Scratching and itching from our bug bites from the night, we gather up our belongings and leave the littered, newspaper strewn sidewalk behind. It’s just another day in the life of the homeless. It’s time to move on.

Over the course of a few days, Danny and I traveled, usually on foot for lack of bus passes, and sought food and shade were we could. During the horrendous August heat—the unforgiving Nevada sun--it is most difficult to stay cool.

Danny showed me places I hadn’t yet visited, and I showed him a few places he was unaware of, too. The joint company of “Mel Gibson” and “John Wayne” shared during our adventures of knowledge collecting was truly rewarding to the soul.

It was nice to be back on the streets with my old friend, Danny. If being on the streets is a good thing, then it can be with real friends.

I was amazed and content as I listened to Danny speak to homeless people enlightening them with sound advice to encourage them to find their exit from street life, through spiritual means and self-determination.

I once had great plans for both Danny and J.W. once I managed to get the church up and running. I knew in order to help many of the homeless out there, especially what they call the chronic homeless, those who have been on the streets for years, you needed to be able to communicate with them in ways most social workers and non-profit organizations don't.

That communication comes from living among the homeless. It comes from staying with them on the streets, being right there going through everything they go through. It is the only way you can communicate with them, to earn their trust. You have to keep building rapport with them, earning their trust to the extent they bond with you, and then you may be able to lead them into a program to help them.

Street Soldiers like Danny and J.W. and me could do that job. Just like bringing the Lord's sheep back to the Master's flock.

Because these guys lived on the streets as I had, they knew how to communicate with the homeless. And, that was what I was hoping for, depending upon them to help me, once the church and the organization got up and running.

But unfortunately, I guess it wasn't meant to be.

That's just one of the reasons I would miss Danny and J.W. so much once they left. They were so important to me and the Church. So important--to Jesus Christ--The Son of God.

Danny had a real means in speaking to the homeless in convincing terms. They listened to him when he spoke. And although I knew he would soon be leaving, it was interesting how he easily convinced some of those homeless people to get a hold of themselves and through spiritual means, pull themselves up by the bootstraps.

Getting some homeless people off the streets would be so easy. But for others, it would take a long time and a lot of hard work.

Danny and J.W. are both examples of formerly homeless, street people who were able to lift themselves up and move on to a better life. That usually meant getting out of town.

Vegas is such a harsh town for those who fall through the cracks and wind up in destitution.

It is hard to believe someone made this barren desert into what it is today. But for many, especially the homeless living on the streets it is still a barren desert.

But with the Lord's help, anything is possible. One simply has to have faith and hope and not lose that faith and hope.

I spoke with Nancy Ann Logan, a long-time homeless advocate in the Las Vegas area. She is also editor of the Las Vegas Poverty Magazine. The mayor, she says, wants to sell the Frank Wright Plaza, the only park the homeless are allowed to go to in the city, without fear of arrest for trespassing. She claims he wants to sell it for a fraction of its value to the new owners of the Lucky Lady casino and hotel, so they can build a high-rise there. The mayor wants to sell all city parks so they can be privatized, she said, so the city doesn’t have to deal with the homeless population.

Privatizing the golf courses the city owns around town would be a better Idea, I told her.

The city seems to be always pushing and pushing the poor homeless folks.

The old and the frail are still woken up and sometimes arrested and taken away in handcuffs for napping inside the bus station lobby. The homeless are still woken up and sometimes told to get off the bus they were riding because sleeping on the bus is not allowed.

There are more Asians on the streets than ever before. For some reason, Asians were always a rare minority before, but no longer is that true. What ever it was that seemed to reduce the Asian population from being homeless doesn’t seem to be working now.

There are more fresh faces on the streets, more people who don’t look homeless, and the foreclosures of the nation’s number one city of housing failures causing a new wave of first-time street people. Faces filled with sadness and disbelief that they could be living this way.

Foremaster Street has more people sleeping on the streets than I had seen in nearly two years. Services for the homeless are being cut and reduced just when services are needed the most. Just when things are getting worst, the top brass are slashing programs. Times are bad, and there is no let up in sight. The challenges are great.

Another man dies in the streets and even the most harden street people are upset because of the lack of assistance for him while he was dying and the willingness to call for medical help. It’s a common occurrence, dying in the streets and the lack of those who could render assistance to do so. What is the value of a human life when time is of the essence?

Apparently nothing in Las Vegas. A place where dreams are made and dreams are broken.

There is more bad news than good news. There have been many improvements over the last couple of years toward services for the homeless or public attitude toward the homeless. I attribute that mostly to the Las Vegas Poverty Magazine and folks like Nancy Ann Logan and Maria McMann, the magazine's publisher. At the same time, much needed services are being cut due to lack of funding—or will.

The difference between what the RIVER Organization will be, and is, is that we will not wait for the homeless to come to us. We will go to the homeless. We know who the homeless are; we can identify those in true need. We can do this, because we are there, and we see who the ones are that need the most help. Those who are crowed out by the aggressors suffer and go without in the game of the streets.

There are lots of bullies on the streets, other homeless people who like animals attack the weaker ones. With our knowing who they are, that won't happen near our humanitarian services. With guys like Danny and J.W. keeping an eye out for us, we will be able to prevent such things as that.

Our church is small and it is still in the start-up phase, but one day, with God's will, people won't have to suffer like they do here in Vegas.

Aggressive homeless people often take more than they need. It is the survival of the fittest. The strong prey upon the weak, the weak goes without. Be it food, such as bread, bag lunches, snacks or clothing. The aggressive take more than their share and the weak walk away empty handed. I will take clothes to those who have none. Or need some. I will go to them, for I know who needs what. The destiny of the RIVER Organization shall be in the hands of the poor, and as long as there is a need, we will be there doing what we can to provide what comfort we can for the poor.

Some day God will reward us with a new start and we will be able to move ahead and serve more people and Him.

The Son of God has called our name and we shall hear Him with the ears of our heart. We shall see with our own eyes the need of our fulfillment of His commandments.

It will obviously be a long road for us to travel, (To bring the RIVER Organization beyond the start-up phase) but then if we don’t take the first step we will never get there, to our destination. So, forward we go, in obedience to and of, the Son of God.

My two-and-a-half-week mission on the streets ended sooner than I wished it had. I returned home and after taking a long, hot shower, I finished my mission report in my diary while my thoughts were still fresh.

I have kept the journal since I first became homeless myself.

I'll miss Danny and Justin Wright.

It won't be long when they both are thousands of miles away from Vegas. I can only pray for them, and wish them success in what ever it is God has for them to do.

I hope to see them before they are off.

I'll stop down and see Ben once in a while and see if he needs anything. Just like I will do for my many other homeless friends.

It is almost time for bed. I know I'll feel a little guilty like I always do when I first return from a mission.

It doesn't seem fair that I have a nice comfortable bed to sleep on in a safe house when so many Children of God are forced to sleep outside without any shelter from the harsh element.

But I have to move on and stay strong and keep the church moving forward.

I think I'll play my John Wayne CD, Why I Love Her.

And then, I'll read my Bible and soak in the Lord's wisdom.

Tomorrow will be another day.

Father River
Las Vegas, Nevada
Tuesday, 19 August 2008

2,971

Bio & Photo

2009-06-22T16:57:00.000-07:00

Cliff Harrison is semi-retired from the automobile industry. He has been a manager most of his adult life. He spent thirteen years in the printing industry as operations manager and plant manager. He is chairman of the RIVER Organization Christian Church in Las Vegas, Nevada. He experienced homelessness during much of 2007 and 2008 on the mean streets of Las Vegas. He is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction. Much of his writings reflect those periods of time on the streets and those street people he has met there. He spends much of his time helping the homeless and writing about them.

He is fond of saying he was “born in a junk yard.” He grew up in the auto business. His father and mother owned a small used car lot, a junkyard and a wrecking service in New York.

He comes from a diversified background. His family came from all walks of life. From city people to country folks, his growing up on both sides of the track, mingling with rich people and poor people, farmers and city slickers gave him a good communication skill and a sense of people from most any background.

His great-grandfather on his father’s side was a New York Senator. His grandmother on his mother’s side was half Blackfoot American Indian. Many of the male members of his family were combat soldiers. He is patriotic and engages in political circles often debating the current event issues of the day.

He started writing at an early age using his mother’s old Smith-Corona typewriter. He suffers from hearing loss and has speech impairment which hinders his writing. Modern-day computers helps tremendously to correct the flaws, but don’t always overcome all of the negatives associated with the disability.

He has always been interested in social, political, economical and religious issues. He spends a great deal of time among the homeless people of Las Vegas of which he has many friends. His writing reflects those friendships. The homeless, especially the street people are always in his prayers and in his heart.

Fresh Blood

2009-06-08T19:31:00.001-07:00

Father River: The Street Priest
Fresh Blood
By Cliff Harrison

It was cold and windy. The Nevada winter was rising up to haunt the faces of the weary homeless people scattered on the streets without shelter.

Father River really wanted to just go home and relax. Perhaps crawl into bed with a good book and read the night away until his weary eyes couldn’t stay open anymore.

But he couldn’t do that.

He had worked more than an eight hour day at the auto auction. He was up at four in the morning and caught the 6:15 bus to take the two-hour ride to work. The employee shuttle bus picked him up promptly at 8:15 and then he couldn’t start work until 10:30.

Without a car to travel back and forth to work, he had no choice but to utilize what he could, and that meant using the city transit buses and the employee shuttle bus. That also meant waiting another couple of hours at work before he could punch in because the last available employee shuttle bus left at 8:15.

He had no complaints. He was living the dream.

Now the day and the week were behind him. He arrived home, getting soaked with the downpour of winter punishment.
It was now past eight and he’d already been up for over sixteen hours. But it was a Friday and he didn’t have to work tomorrow. So, his day was just beginning.

With the wind, the cold and the rain, he couldn’t leave those poor hopeless souls out there without some kind of comfort.

Instead of going to bed, he went to the storage shed and gathered up some supplies. He filled a medium-size duffle bag with knit winter hats, gloves, and socks for both men and women. His meager pay didn’t allow him to purchase too much, but most of the winter hats, gloves and socks only cost him about a buck each. He’d often spend from $40 and up to $100 at Wal-mart for supplies for the homeless and then store them in the shed for future use.

From the storage shed Father River gathered up about 40 pair of hats, gloves and socks. Then he took another empty duffle, threw in a large pack of cough drops.

He added about ten packs of Top cigarette tobacco, a few rollers and some odds and end things homeless people might need.

Then he grabbed his umbrella, and then he headed back to the bus stop.

While waiting the half hour for the next bus, Father River asked the Lord to ease the rain and reduce the wind.

He thought how much nicer it would be to have just gone home and crawled into bed and read that book. But no, he had a mission to undertake in this miserable weather. God’s children were scattered like sheep across the Las Vegas Valley and he had to go find them and bring them supplies.

Father River boarded the East bound 208 Washington Ave bus and watching the rain splashing against the windowpane, he gathered his thoughts and created his plan for the night.

He wasn’t worried about the hundreds of homeless folks who were near the homeless shelters around the downtown area. His concern was for those who were scattered around town, in the inner city, near the storm drains, and away from shelter.

The storm drains were a dangerous place for homeless to be hiding out in this kind of weather. More than once, homeless people have died in those storm drains from flash floods.

River knew exactly where to go to find the helpless homeless citizens stranded in the harsh Nevada weather. After all, he had spent the better part of two years homeless himself so he knew where to go. Vegas was a mean town, and those stayed
their distance from that meanness—away from downtown--were the most vulnerable in weather like this.

The 208 arrived downtown and Father River boarded another bus, this time the 113 North Las Vegas Blvd. bus. In another half hour he’d back up north near Nellis Air Force base. There at the Wal-mart, he’d go to the McDonalds and purchase bags full of one-dollar double cheese burgers to feed the hungry.

There were several Wal-marts in town and they were Father River’s main supply source. The added benefit of having 24-hour McDonald’s allowed him to obtain supplies and food around the clock.

Rain dripping off his face, Father River set his backs down and did a head count of the homeless people inside the McDonald’s restaurant. He counted fifteen rain-soaked lost souls belonging to the group from the lost world. Some were sleeping; their heads down on the table and other slouched, trying to stay awake. Only God knows how long its been since these street folks last had any reasonable sleep. This was a town the kept the homeless on the move and on the run. Sleeping was a high crime and getting caught usually meant punishment like jail.

“Hi, River,” Sonia, the Hispanic shift manager said, as she greeted Father River with a warm welcome. He was a big spender here and that sometimes helped with providing a save haven for the flock in weather like this—that is, as long as they behaved themselves. “What can I get for you?”

“Hello, Sonia,” Father River nodded with a grin, “Please give me one-hundred and fifteen double-cheese burgers and fifteen coffees. I need the coffee and fifteen of those double-cheese burgers on a stray for here, the hundred in bags of twenty, okay?”

“Sure thing. Are you tending to the Lord’s sheep tonight?” She smiled as she rang up his order. “That comes to one-hundred and thirty-nine dollars and seventy-five cents, please.”

“You know it,” Father River grinned as he swiped his The Bank ATM card through the slot of the credit card machine.

Father River was distracted when some of the homeless people in the restaurant yelled greetings to him and waved.

He smiled and waved back.

His eyes were scanning the restaurant, most of the homeless people with their luggage, suitcases, duffle bags, backpacks and green or white plastic garbage bags filled with content, lying scattered about, he knew.

“Are my people behaving tonight, Sonia?”

“Oh, for the most part,” Sonia replied, “you know me; I can handle even the difficult ones.”

“I want to thank you for your kindness to them, Sonia, if it weren’t for people like you; they’d have absolutely no place to go to seek any kind of rest or comfort.”

“Let me get your order,” the middle-aged Hispanic woman said as smiled warmly at Father River.

She returned with a tray of fifteen burgers and handed it to River before pouring the coffee. Father River went to serve the homeless their meal, telling them he didn’t have time to stay and visit, that he had to get food delivered to those still outdoors.

The poor homeless people were soaked form having been out in the rain. Some still had rain dripping down the back of their necks.

He then delivered the coffee, with help from Jason, an old friend, a black guy, he knew from back when he was on the streets. Jason passed out cream and sugar packets to those who wanted them. Everybody thanked Father River and bid him farewell.

“Jason, come here, buddy,” Father River motioned to his old friend.

Father River slipped a twenty-dollar bill in Jason’s hand and whispered, “Go get four or five packs of white crew socks and pass out to everyone here. They’ll need a change of socks from being soaked. You look after them for me, and make sure they keep this place clean and behave themselves.”

“You got it, Father River,” Jason said, tucking the money in his shirt pocket, “And thanks again for all of your help!”

Jason was one of Father River’s most trusted companions when he was on the streets, so he knew he could trust Jason now to carry out his desires.

Sonia had his five bags of double-cheese burgers waiting for him when he returned to the counter. He carefully loaded them into the smaller duffle bag, and glancing at his watch to record the time. He then thanked her and said goodnight to her.

Two hours is the usual time Father River used as a maximum time to hand out hot food, but he always strived to keep it closer to only one hour in order to reduce the chance of spoilage.

He didn’t know it at the time, but Sonia had thrown in a few extra burgers and about a dozen baked apple pies which were about to expire soon.

There was a break in the rain, but the wind was cold and fierce. Sometimes winds like these gained speeds of up to seventy-miles an hour or more.

Father River made his way toward the bus stop with both duffle bags, one slung over his shoulder and the other, with the food, he carried in his hand. He decided to take the long way, going around the block incase some isolated homeless people were hanging out outside instead of finding a shelter inside. Many avoided going into any kind of business, especially if they had no money. The outdoors was a better option than being hauled away by Johnny Law to a place called Jail.

It was about thirty-five degrees, with the wind chill much lower. Father River was a New York boy, so he had lived through much colder weather than this. But he’d lived in Las Vegas for some dozen years or so, and his blood still accruement to desert temperatures.

Still, he was bundled up better than most street people, wearing his famous Green Bay Packers winter coat, jersey gloves and a navy-blue New York Yankees knit hat. His blue jeans were wet at his thighs, but other than that, he wasn’t all that uncomfortable.

Toni sat cuddled up at one of the bus stops along Craig road. She was leaning into the side of the shelter with little if any protection from the wind.

“Are you Okay, Toni?” Father River called out to the heavy-set black woman who had her hands tucked under her underarms. Being from Chicago, Toni knew how to keep warm during inclement weather. Father River had taught many, especially the Mexicans, and those from the south how to put your bare hands under your armpits to warm them, and how to blow into your gloves so ones breath could warm the gloves and reduce the chill against the flesh.

“I’m doing,” Toni’s emotionless face was being slapped by the Old Man Winter.

“I brought you some food,” Father River said, as he sat down on the bench and unzipped one of the duffle bags and handed her a couple of double-cheese burgers and napkins.

“Thanks,” Toni whispered, her black face still absents of emotion. He then unzipped his other duffle bag and pulled out a few women’s knit hats, pink, red, navy blue, brown and gray, “what color you want?”

“The brown one,” she said, while starving down one burger and then digging into the next.

Father River set the hat on her lap and pulled out matching ladies gloves. He also laid a pair of white socks on her lap while she consumed the balance of her food. He knew the way she was eating she was nearly starved, so he took out two more burgers and gave those to her as well. She had an enormous body weight to maintain for a woman, so Father River didn’t get stingy when it came to common sense decisions.

“I’ve got to go, Toni, you try to stay warm.”

“Okay,” she replied, as if nothing in the world mattered to her, not even her own survival.

Just as Father River was walking away, Toni called out in her soft, barely audible voice, “Hey River, you got any smokes?”

“Yeah, I do,” River turned, reaching into his duffle and pulling out a package of Top cigarette tobacco, “here you can have this.”

“Can you roll one for me?”

“You don’t know how to roll?”

“Nope.”

Father River pulled out a new cigarette roller and showed Toni how to roll her own cigarettes. With the cigarette paper rolled around the tobacco and the gum edge still visible he said, “Now just lick the gum edge and then continue rolling the rollers around like this,”

She did as he told and then she lit the rolled cigarette taking a lung deep drag, then waiting a moment before blowing a cloud of smoke which quickly dissipated into the air.

“I haven’t had a smoke for days,” she sighed, before taking another drag.

“I’ve got to go, Toni, you be safe.”

“Okay,” she said, treasuring her cigarette as she slipped her knit hat and gloves on and then slipped her new socks in a carry bag.

River walked steadily up the block and found two more homeless guys leaning up against the side of a building trying to keep out of the wind as much as possible.

He gave on a knit hat; the other one already had one. He gave both shaggy-looking men a pair each of brown jersey gloves and new white socks. Then he handed them each two burgers and off he went looking for others.

“Thanks buddy,” one of the men called after him. He waved over his shoulder at them,

“God bless you,” the other yelled out.

Father River stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around and looked the two men who society called vagrants and degenerates. The homeless citizens were feeding their faces as if it would be their last meal.

“God bless you, too, men,” the priest said, “I’m Father River, and you will be in my prayers.”

“Can you pray for sunshine then?” One of the drunken men laughed causing the other to join in his humor.

“Lots of sunshine?” the second man roared with a mouthful of food.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Father River smiled, as he continued his journey. It was already dark. Way past dark, so he wasn’t about to pray for sunshine, at least not at this hour.

Father River reached five more homeless people, pausing to give each what ever they needed in line of hats, gloves, and socks and of course he gave two and sometimes three double-cheese burgers to them. Some he gave handfuls of medicated cough drops to as well.

Then he made his way around the balance of the block and found the Southbound 113 waited to return to the downtown area. He boarded and shortly thereafter the bus which was at its layover began to move.

Some of the guys who were in McDonalds when he was in there were on the bus as well and they all began talking.

As Father River conversed with his many homeless friends he kept a close eye out, looking out the rain-dripped windows for isolated street people.

“Hey, you in the back, wake up or I’m gonna stop this bus and throw you off at the next stop!” The female bus driver screamed through the PA system as she hit her brakes and accelerated repeatedly causing the bus to rock on its wheels.

One of the homeless men sitting near the sleeping homeless man shook the sleeper’s arm to arouse him.

The bus filled mostly with homeless people who rode the bus for the only shelter they had, often trying to sleep a little, was also crowed with their belongings. Backpacks, suitcases over filled, duffle bags or whatever containers they had to carry their belongings in were stuffed into seats, on their laps or even in the walkway.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, Lord forgive this woman,” Father River prayed silently for the female bus driver.

Police emergency lights could be seen while looking out of the front of the bus, through the windshield.

The 113 pulled up to a bus station and Father River noting a body lying in the street with policemen standing over him and directing traffic around the body decided to get off the bus.

“See you, guys!” Father River said, waving to his homeless friends as he hurried to gather his things and climbed off the bus onto the wet street.

He walked the short distance to where the police officers and the body were.

The 113 moved slowly around the group of police cars and Father River waited for the roaring of the bus to fade before asking the police officers, “Hit and run?”

A couple officers nodded. One said, “Yeah, a vagrant jaywalking, think he’ll do it again?”

Father River pretended he didn’t hear the officer’s remark, “Mind if I take a look at him?”

One of the officers said, “What for, you think you know him?”

“Yeah, he looks familiar,” Father River said his eyes held to the body in the streets with blood surrounding him like a pool of crimson abhorrence.

“Go ahead, then,” the officer standing nearest the still body motioned.

Another officer was waiting to cover the body with a yellow canvas.

“That’s Jimmy Stone,” Father River said, forming the sign of the cross over him, “Nam combat veteran. He served in the Army and was in Sơn Mỹ in sixty-eight.”

“Where in the hell is Sơn Mỹ?” the officer covering Jimmy Stone’s body with the yellow canvas asked.

“Mỹ Lai,” One of the older officers said, “haven’t you ever heard of the Mỹ Lai
Massacre?

“Can’t say I have,” the younger officer responded. “This guy was a degenerate, right fellow?’

“He was homeless, if that’s what you mean?” Father River replied, with a defensive tone.

“Hey, fella, you getting smart ass with me?” the younger officer spit back.

Father River stared at the lifeless form draped in yellow canvas, Jimmy was nearly sixty. He had spent the better part of the last twenty years on the streets. After his domestic problems with his wife, due to his high drug and alcohol abuse he found himself on the streets. Now the former combat soldier who couldn’t shake the horrors of his military life could now have piece. His was in the hands of the Lord.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! Answer me, damn it!” the young officer hissed as he stepped over the body and approached Father River.

Father River slowly lifted his eyes from Jimmy Stone’s covered body and looked into the cops beady eyes.

“Get over on the sidewalk and set those bags down so we can take a look inside of them.” The officer snapped.

Two officers remained in the road, guarding the body and guiding traffic around it while the rain began to fall again.

Two other officers, ordered Father River to the sidewalk for a search.

Father River moved under the bus shelter and set his bags on the ground.

“If you want to search me or my bags I demand you get yourself a search warrant.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” the younger officer growled, “Well that’s no problem.”

Sirens were getting louder as the ambulance and two more squad cars approached.

Father River took a deep breath and then turned toward the older officer who seemed to have more control of himself, “Sir?”

The older policeman lifted his head as his brown eyes held steady to those of Father River.

“I’d like to give Jimmy his last rites,” Father River said, never taking his eyes from those of the officer. “My name is Father River, I am a priest.”

“Ha ha ha, a priest, no shit,” the younger officer spat, “You look more like a bum to me.”

The older officer placed the back of his hand into the belly of the younger cop to silence him, “Let me handle this,”

He looked Father River up and down, and then said, “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“He’s already dead, asshole!” the young cop growled.

“I said, let me handle this,” the older officer injected, “and you can give last rites to dead people.”

“Look, why don’t you just let us search you? We could use probable cause and force you into a search.” The senior cop told Father River who silently was asking God to forgive these men.

“There is no probable cause and…”

“There is if I say there is, now you either comply or we’ll take you down and force a search on you, you got that?”

The only thing Father River could do was wish that he was two years in the future. At the moment he was a priest, but he was a poor priest and didn’t have the funds to fight corruption on his good looks.

He slapped his hands at his sides and sighed, “If you insist, but you know this is wrong.”

Father River conceded to the search, but even as he did, he was angry at himself for complying when he either could have demanded or search warrant or been forced and then could have sued.

Homeless people go through this all of the time and never have any protection of the law on their side. The priest swore to himself, “one day…”

The paramedics were loading Jimmy Stone’s body into the ambulance.

Father River was moved in front of one of the squad cars and his pockets were searched.

Then after being cleared once they ran an identity check on him, they searched his bags.

“What’s with all the burgers?” the young cop said, holding one up after he had pulled it from the bag.

“For the homeless.” Father River replied, softly.

“Dinner,” the young cop laughed as he tossed the older cop a wrapped double-cheese burger, and then another.

He grabbed an armful of burgers and passed them out to the other officers while Father River shook his head and asked the Lord to “Forgive these men.”

The ambulance pulled away and Father River watched it disappear down North Las Vegas Blvd. He formed the sign of the cross over his body. Noticing the 113 bus approaching from the north, he asked the officers if he could gather up his things and board the bus.

The older officer gave him permission to vacate while the younger officer sneered at him while stuffing his rotten face with the food Father River had purchased for the homeless citizens scattered unsheltered around the city.

Father River eased back in his seat and drowned in his thoughts. He spoke to the Lord in prayer and at the same time the human side of him was promising revenge on the City of Evil someday in the future.

He had a sour taste in his mouth and a bitter feeling in his heart and there was only one thing he could do—soak in the Jesus Prayer.

Though his inner voice, he repeated almost endlessly, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

He dared not close his eyes for he did not need a confrontation with the bus driver.

There was another group of homeless men and women riding the bus, one of the main routes for the homeless to use. Before reaching the downtown bus terminal, he passed out several burgers, hats, gloves and socks for those in need.

He still had a long night ahead of himself, and glancing at his watch he had less than one hour for the two hours to expire.

Fortunately, one of the 109 Maryland Parkway South buses was parked in the stall when he arrived. He quickly boarded and found more of his homeless friends aboard. Discreetly he distributed food and clothing after the bus pulled out of its hanger.

He got off at Maryland Parkway and Charleston where he quickly found more homeless men and women and again went about distributing the goods.

Back on the next bus he continued South and again got off a few blocks down.

He ran into Victor, not far from the bus stop. Victor was leaning up against a building, all bloody and bruised, holding his face.

“What happened to you?” Father River asked as he reached him.

“A gang of kids beat the living daylights out of me and there was nothing I could do about it,” he said, “they caught me while I was sleeping on the bus stop bench over there.”

Fresh blood was pouring from Victor’s facial wounds and his nose. Father River knew he must have missed the attack by only minutes. He wish he had not.

“Let me get you to the hospital,” he said to Victor, tugging on his arm.

“Noooo!” Victor exclaimed, pulling back until he again landed on the wall of the building, “I’m okay, Father, I’m used to this kind of shit.”

Father River sighed, “C’mon, Vic, let me help you get medical attention.”

Victor shook his head no, and wiping fresh blood from his face, looked through swelling eyelids at the priest.

Tomorrow his eyes would be most certainly swollen shut. He was most vulnerable out here in the streets with gang possibly returning in the middle of the night. Father River had an uneasy feeling about that.

“I know you are beat up and sore, but if you are hungry, I’ve got some food.”

“Just leave it on the ground, there, Father, I’ll eat later.”

“Okay, kid,” Father River nodded, as he left a bag with three burgers in it on the ground next to Victor’s feet.

Victor’s cloths were all bloody, his torn shirt, his jeans and his shoes were spotted with the dripping of fresh blood. Father River prayed for him.

“I’ll leave you a change of sock, too,” the priest said, “and a clean hat and pair of gloves, too.”

“Thanks, Father River,” Victor said.

“You take care, Victor,” the priest said, shaking his head as he looked at the sorry condition of the 30 something younger man. “And get yourself out of this neighborhood as soon as you get that bleeding under control.”

“It don’t matter where I go, Father, they always find me,” the hurting homeless man said, as he nursed his own wounds, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll survive, and if I don’t… you gives a shit?”

“I do,” Victor, “I do!”

“You better go now, Father.”

It was raining again by the time Father River stepped off the bus at his next stop just before Tropicana.

Martha a prostitute in her late 20s, was hugging a telephone poll trying to keep dry, but there wasn’t much use in the wind.

The working girl had unkept blonde hair and her two front teeth were missing. Years of smoking crack and beatings by her pimp didn’t help her otherwise good looks.

“Take my umbrella,” the priest said, as he opened it and handed it to the shivering prostitute.

“Thanks, Father,” the street hooker grinned showing off her ugly smile.

“Martha, I’ve got to hurry up and catch the next bus, but if you are hungry, I’ve got some food.”

“I’m starved, Father, what you have?”

“Double-cheese burgers, tonight’s special.” He joked.

“Mmm, sounds good, deal me in.”

“I bet your pimp is in some nice and warm casino eating steak on your money, right about now.”

“Yeah, and blowing it on craps,” she laughed, taking two cheese burgers from the priest while holding the umbrella over her head with her other hand.

“Just remember what I’ve always told you, if you want to make an escape from the life, I’ll help you get out of this mess.” Father River said, as he pulled a pink knit hat and matching gloves from his sack.

“And like I’ve always told you, Father, he’d always find me, no matter where I went.”

The priest handed the working girl the hat and gloves and then dashed to catch the next bus.

“Just think about it!” He shouted as he ran. But there was no reply.

During the next couple of hours Father River had distributed all of the food, most of the hats and gloves and all of the socks. He had passed out the last of the packs of cigarettes and was not leaving the South Strip Transfer Terminal (SSTT) and heading back to the McCarran International Airport where he had previously been after seeing Martha.

He stayed on the bus when it stopped at McCarran since he had already serviced that area. Then he took the half-hour or so ride back to the downtown bus terminal to catch another bus home.

He was tired. He had eaten the last two cheeseburgers and was ready for a good night sleep. If anything, he was less than content. There was much work to do and without adequate funding, it would take along time, perhaps years to get where he wanted to be.

Certainly, his meager waged he earned on his job wasn’t enough to support the programs and services he had in mind for the homeless. He did manage to do what he could with feedings and basic survival cloths, but not much more.

These poor lost souls that nobody seemed to care about other than a few church people here and there would continue their unpopular life until Father River could reach his goals.

Tomorrow, Saturday, he would sleep in. He shouldn’t, but that was the plan.

It was an exhausting night falling on top of a full work day. Had Father River not been so tired he would have found another Wal-mart and 24-hour McDonalds on the other side of Vegas and continued his outreach services trying to help as many homeless people he could.

But there would be another day. And, with each new day he was getting closer to his vision of creating the most innovated services ever seen in eradicating homelessness and solving the problems of hunger.

But that was for another day.

5,001 Words

Introduction

2009-06-08T11:01:00.000-07:00

Father River: The Street Priest

Fiction by Cliff Harrison was created as an outlet for the numerous stories the author has to tell of his experiences on the streets of Las Vegas as a homeless man.

The author felt the fictional stories told through the eyes, ears and mind of the character Father River was better told through creative writing form than through nonfiction--although much of the material is based on actual, true events.

Father River: The Street Priest incorporates reality with imagination.

The author, Cliff Harrison, operates and publishes his work from fifteen different websites, with the majority in the nonfiction category. Most of those publications are Christian-based and deal with social problems concerning issues of poverty, particularly homelessness, hunger and the poor.

The creative writing and imagination the author injects into the works of fiction contained in the Father River stories upholds the way life is on the streets for many homeless and poor citizens; especially in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Through Father River the stories of the streets are voiced by the characters he connects with. Many of those characters from the streets are United States war veterans. The tales tell of first-hand experience of the combat veterans’ conflicts of war and the impact those battles had and still hold on their lives.

Homeless men who served in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, The Cold War, Afghanistan, Iraq and major fighting hot spots in between and the battles they fought in are recaptured and told in the vivid tales of Father River.

The men and women of the streets each have their own unique stories to be told. What went wrong in their lives? How did they wind up homeless and on the streets where society calls them "bums"? Why do some of them prefer to remain on the streets and keep their distance from the greater society?

Father River, through the characters he meets, will travel the world and go back in time with his characters as he puts together the bits and pieces of the puzzle of what went wrong in their lives--and then he writes a repair order and tries to fix it--if he can.

The broken hearts and the broken lives of the homeless and how they ended up on the streets of America are told by Father River.

Some of the stories are short-shorts, others are longer length short stories and some even portions or excerpts of a larger work-in-progress novel.

Sometimes the stories are told in narratives using the first person viewpoint; other times the third person point of view are used and rarely, some stories will even be told in the second-person narrative mode.

The characters Father River comes in contact with are characters from all walks of life and all kinds of backgrounds. Each has a unique and different reason for being on the streets. The characters are from all age groups, both genders and every race and social and economical class.

The stories herein are not for everyone, but those readers who want to see the real inside story from the outside will need to put on a pot of coffee, fasten their seat belts and hang on.

The readers will be taken to the outer limits of society and travel into an evil dimension on the dark side of life.

One will ask, "How can this happen in America?"

Through the life of Father River the reader will see the failure of the "system" and find possible solutions to one of society’s most horrible social problems--poverty through the extreme extent of homelessness.

Father River takes the reflections of life--real life on the streets--and salt and peppers those communications with street people with seasonings of imagination.

Foreword

2009-06-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

Father River: The Street Priest

Father River is a collection of short stories and a series of work-in-progress novels by Cliff Harrison. Using the fictional character, Father River, the author creates stories with scenes usually involving homeless characters set generally in Las Vegas, Nevada. Each work of fiction carries the name of Father River and the episode subtitle which reflects the collection or series' story name.

Father River is a unique character in that he is basically his own man. He is a specially ordained priest of the Eastern Orthodox Church. His ordainment was a rare and unprecedented gesture provided by the Eastern Orthodox Church in which he was provided an exceptional opportunity to fulfill his work for the Lord.

His ordainment to the holy priesthood of the Eastern Orthodox Church under the ecumenical patriarch of Constantinople was an unconventional move on the part of the church. Never before has the church ever ordained a priest in the manner in which Father River was ordained.

He is known among Orthodox Christians as Father River: The Street Priest.

His self-appointed, and church approved, mission runs counter with traditional church activities, since he is considered, among other things, a street evangelist. It was a struggle to get him approved and ordained by the church, but his efforts with the assistance of high-ranking church officials paid off. His competence and his negotiating abilities provided influence to those who are not easily influenced to new ideas and change. He simply used, as he always does, the three P's of success, Patience, Persistence and Perseverance.

Father River is chartered with a difficult mission, one in which most would shy rapidly away from. He not only is determined to bring Christians together to work united, he demands solving problems. Social problems, political problems, economical problems, religious problems and everything in between. He is a problem solver.

His commission allows him a great amount of freedom in making his mission work, but he is on his own in finding funding for his various projects. He is also under close scrutiny of the church and can not violate traditional practices to the extent it could cause him to be stripped of his experimental priesthood.

His priesthood is an honor no one else holds, so he respects the privilege with grace.

He is determined to not only bring Christians closer together, he desires world peace. But his major projects is to find ways to eliminate poverty, eradicate homelessness, reduce hunger, help the needy and give to the poor in a meaningful way in which encourages them to give back once they are back on their feet.

Father River is loved by many. He is hated by a few. He is the kind of man who demands results, and that sometimes intimidates those in power, for he threatens their power.

He is a man who stands for change.

He is a man who takes charge.

He is a man who stands firm.

He is a man who doesn't take no for an answer, and when you are that kind of man you can intimidate a lot of people.

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner," Father River frequently repeats endlessly, and teaches others to use the Jesus Prayer, too, and he preaches spiritual strength, "In the name of Jesus Christ, give me strength to accomplish my mission of the day,"

"Κύριε Ιησού Χριστέ, Υιέ του Θεού, ελέησόν με τον αμαρτωλόν." Η Προσευχή του Ιησού (The Jesus Prayer).

To Father River, a challenge is nothing more than an opportunity. Success can not come without risks, and he is the kind of man who sometimes risks it all. He is the kind of man who will, as they say, in Vegas, "bet the farm, and don't look back!"

He is a fighter of evil and a compassionate man of those with humanitarian needs.

Father River is a problem solver, a trouble shooter and a maker of repair orders in which to fix the broken things in people's lives.

He understands people better than the 'experts' and he has the keen wisdom to communicate with people from all walks of life and all social and economical classes.

Father River is a man of ideas.

He is an eyebrow raiser. Some of the things he does bring questions to people's minds. His ideas can sometimes seem strange. But he is not in a popularity contest. He has only one focus point and that is to get his job done. The job of serving the Lord righteously.

He is outspoken, and sometimes that offends people.

Some are confused of just exactly what it is he stands for. Some would ask, just which side is he on? Whose side is he on?

In his own mind, Father River is on the side of justice. He is on the side of righteousness. He encourages goodness and vows to root out evil. And... evil is something he faces each and every day as he performs his work for the Lord on the mean streets of Las Vegas, Nevada USA.

When Father River creates something, he is the kind of man who is not afraid to put his name on it.

Being a man of many hats, Father River sets out to change the world, one piece at a time.

He's begun that mission in his own hometown, Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada.

He is not afraid of evil. He looks evil in the eye. He walks straight into the eye of the storm and he comes back with positive results.

The Lord is his Shepherd and Father River, the Street Priest, goes after the lost souls and brings the flock back to their Master.

The path he takes to get there and back is filled with unfruitful evil. The darkness where Father River roams is often looming with the most evil of forms. But his strength is his faith and his faith is his destiny.

"Thank you, Google, for giving me this opportunity to do my own little thing in helping to change the world--making it a better place in which to live," Father River might say if he could speak freely.
--Cliff Harrison