M ost everybody on the street called me “Homeless Harry.” A few of the area’s cops and ever-present pimps and party girls just said “Harry.” The night was cold and I had just left the Downtown Mission Center where the soup and other stuff was fresh and good. The quick shower and a gift of some free new underwear and socks also helped. Circulating around the central city had developed my finicky, albeit hungry taste buds. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated all that I got for free, but some shelter cooks can’t cook worth a damn.

Now I was in the ally between a small theater and a small hotel. It was dark and smelly. Up ahead I could see the blinking parking lights of a police cruiser. I knew it would be Sergeant Dune the “bad cop.” He never rode with a partner and claimed the night streets as his own. Several times he had cornered me and gave me a few sharp jabs with either his nightstick or that long hard flashlight when I didn’t move fast enough for him. I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of harassment tonight.

Desperate for cover, I saw a door on the side of one building that was cracked open so I headed for it and went inside. It happened to be the backstage of the theater where a play was going on. Just offstage was a table that got my attention. The coffee and sandwiches were mighty tempting. I smiled at the few people I saw and helped myself to a steaming cup of coffee. Just as I reached for a good-looking ham and cheese, someone grabbed my arm and yanked me back. I had been found out as an interloper! My mistake. It was some nervous sharp-eyed guy who looked me over and sadly shook his head. “If you are the replacement for Stuart, all you have to do is act shy and stutter like a proper Englishman. Damn! That’s a dumb looking costume from wardrobe.” Before I could answer he shoved me on stage and said, “Start your speech when you get next to Barbara on the couch.”

I stumbled on stage with my coffee cup sloshing. The small audience laughed at the bumbling idiot edging across the platform toward the couch and a waiting Barbara. She was dressed like a flapper out of the twenties. I looked back to see if I could escape but noticed some confusion at the wings. Sergeant Dune was arguing with that nervous sharp-eyed guy and pointed to me on stage with his nightstick. How do I get out of this?

Barbara pulled me down onto the couch. That finished spilling my coffee on the floor. The audience laughed again. She looked at me and whispered, “Who the hell are you? Stuart is supposed to kiss me right now. Do it you jerk, before I die out here!” Tossing caution to the winds, I obeyed and kissed her full on the mouth. I guess someone was supposed to tell me to duck Barbara’s powerful left-hand slap. No matter. At that moment I bent over to retrieve the fallen coffee cup and she missed. The audience guffawed this time.

By now I was enjoying the whole bit until I looked over at Sergeant Dune who broke loose from the scuffling stage hands and headed straight for me. This would not do. I didn’t want that nightstick probing my gut tonight, so I ran off stage right—still holding the empty coffee cup. The insistent policeman double-timed across in full pursuit. The audience was in stitches by now, thinking my antics and the chase were a part of the script. In fact, I was beginning to enjoy it myself.

If you’ve never been back stage in a theater, you could easily be confused. Right now, I was completely baffled by the darkness, the shouting people and unmarked doors. A circular iron stairway looked like a possible escape so I took it two steps at a time until I reached the upper level. Apparently, Sergeant Dune missed me in the confusion and did not follow up the stairs. I was out of breath and desperate to get away. This level had a short corridor with three doors. It was a no brainer, and I took the first door. It was locked. The second door opened easily so I quickly slid through the gap not looking at the interior of the room. With the door safely closed and separating me from my nemesis, I slowly turned to find three sets of sequined eyes focused on me. Somehow, I had stumbled into a chorus girl dressing room! It was small, crowded and full of costumes thrown over the backs of chairs and a movable dressing screen. The occupants must have been ready to go on stage as part of a “girly show” following the now disrupted play. Maybe I was in luck!

“Hey ladies!” I cheerily said. “Sorry I did not knock, but old Dune the cop was chasing me down to crack my skull. I didn’t do anything but light in the ally he thinks he owns. Is there a back way out?”

“Look girls, we got us a runaway drifter. What should we do with him?” That was the voice of the big bosomy one with a dreadlocks hairstyle hanging down to her waist. She had on a diaphanous fuchsia costume that accentuated every curve of her body, and then some more. Her other two scantily clad companions tittered and rose to an unnatural stiletto heel height and moved toward me, lips ruby red and smiling. There was a knock on the door.

“Open up! This is the police!” I panicked and was ready to throw all my recent meal onto the floor. “Dreadlocks” raised a finger to her lips for silence and motioned me to hide behind the dressing screen. One of the other girls joined me and started throwing unmentionables over the top. I suspect that was to divert attention of anyone looking for me. Anyway, I was trembling and so scared that I could not adequately enjoy the wild display of such lovely bare skin. Right now, the male hormones failed me. Of course I was grateful for the ladies’ help.

Opening the door just a crack, Dreadlocks turned out to be a wisecracker who traded vicious verbal jabs with Dune until he was ready to force his way in. I guess what saved the day, was the crackle of his service radio that summoned him to an emergency some distance away from here. Swearing to come back with a search warrant, he left. By now, I was drenched with nervous sweat next to collapse when my behind the screen partner planted a big juicy kiss on me. Wow!

“Thank you ladies,” I heard my quivering voice trying to express my gratitude for being saved from disaster, “Sorry I broke into your room like this.”

“That’s okay, Honey. Dune is all full of shit. Get out of here before he comes back.” I don’t know what it is about show people, but I got another big kiss from both Dreadlocks and number three girl. I left.

The pandemonium I had caused downstairs had died down, so I slipped out the stage door into the dark alley. I could see Dune’s tail lights near the north end of the ally. Sticking to the shadows, I raced down after the car and when it turned right on Pearl Street, I turned left. It was just now that I realized that I still clutched the empty coffee cup in my hand! What to do with it?

A crowd came toward me on the sidewalk and I just stood there smiling. People from St. Stephen’s Missionary Church, a half-block away, were on their ways home. Most ignored me as I stood on the sidewalk in their midst. They continued their animated conversations about the pastor’s sermon on alms giving. A few of them must have had pity on me and stuffed money into my coffee cup. But before I could protest that I was not a panhandler, they were gone.

The street was quiet now. I glanced at the cup of money and wondered what to do with it. I hadn’t earned, or borrowed money for years. I was lucky to survive on the street. Tonight, my survival depended on staying out of the meaty hands of Sergeant Dune – and there in the distance I could see a familiar police cruiser heading my way. Here I was a kind of fugitive in the mind of my nemesis, apparently begging on a public thoroughfare. That was against the law. The slammer also figured in my future. Then I heard a deep sonorous voice.

“Well son, what are you going to do about it?” Had God caught up with me? I wheeled around to see the pastor of the storefront church standing there with his hands outstretched. He was at the front door still in his religious attire. Pastor Jones’s beautiful golden robe hung gracefully over his ample body. It was a Hausa men’s ceremonial garment decorated with blue and silver designs across the chest. In a flash I recognized those symbols from my frequent visits to the local art museum’s Africa collection. Many Fridays when there was free admission, I would spend two or three hours out of the cold looking at the art. On one of my “art excursions” I heard a Docent speak about the meaning of such designs. Those on Pastor Jones’ flowing robe were identical to Islamic symbols on a similar African garment displayed in the museum! Did the pastor realize that as a Christian he was wearing Islamic emblems of power and purity? That did not really matter right now.

In a desperate moment I quickly poured the coffee cup money into his hands. “Take it Pastor. I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. Give it to the poor of your church.” He put his right hand, which was as light as a feather, on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “Bless you my son. And please put that coffee cup in your pocket. The police don’t like to find panhandlers, prostitutes, or even ‘Beggars for the Lord’ soliciting on the street.” At that moment, the police cruiser slowed down opposite us but did not stop. Sergeant Dune glared at me, but tipped his cap to the Pastor. I bade the smiling Pastor Jones goodnight and went whistling on my circuitous route for Friday night. Maybe I would find a warm doorway or grate as a place to sleep out of the clutches of the relentless Sergeant Dune. As I fingered my “lucky cup” I wondered if they ought to now call me “Lucky Harry.”

The persistent morning sun crept under the found sheet of cardboard I had placed over my head last night to ward of the cold. I didn’t want to get up, but I knew if I didn’t hurry all the chocolate doughnuts would be gone at the Tower Mission down the street. They were my favorite. The kind volunteer attendants always had a small hygiene kit ready for you to wash up before breakfast. Despite my years on the street, I always tried to brush using a Crest toothbrush from one of those hygiene kits and wash my face every day. Maybe that’s why I still have all my choppers. Shaving facial hair was never a problem for me. It never grew more than a quarter of an inch a year. Not so with my full head of hair. Sometimes it would hang below my shoulders before some guy at the Tower Mission would hack it off with scissors he found in a desk drawer.

This morning I found a single chocolate doughnut waiting for me on the breakfast line! I was elated. The hot coffee and a cruller were just what I needed after a long and eventful night. As I went down the line, munching my prized doughnut, I heard a familiar voice from the other side of the steam table. “Hello Harry. Remember me?” It was Barbara from the stage play (I don’t remember its title). She was serving as a volunteer staff person and was last night’s actress I was expected to kiss. That was all before sensible judgment sent me running off stage. “Hello –o- o.” My old high school before the prom-stutter-asking-for-a-date suddenly came back. “Sorry if I messed up your lines last night, but that guy back stage just shoved me out there with you. I only came in to get away from the long arm of the police and to get a cup of coffee.” She smiled.

“That was Charles, our new stage director. He thought you were the new actor for that part. Anyway, you’re a good kisser.” I couldn’t imagine what was happening, but I blushed. “Th-h-anks!” The hungry man next in line jostled me along and broke up this little tęte-ŕ-tęte. I eagerly accepted the little hygiene kit at the end of the breakfast line and headed for the shower room. Maybe I would forget about Barbara under a stream of hot water and real soap. I thought that was a good kiss too. Wonder what is her real name?

About forty minutes later after cleaning up and checking the news on the recreation room TV, I decided to leave the mission and start my rounds of the district. Searching for usable shoes and maybe a heavier coat was my daily goal. Sometimes the clothing stores would toss out sample shoes and other stuff they couldn’t sell. The sneakers I had on were from last year and had holes in the soles. My feet were getting too damp. If I am lucky, maybe I’ll find a pair. Which brings me to my “lucky cup.” You know I still had that thing in my pocket.

Back of the Steering Clothing Store, I searched the Dumpster for the twentieth time this month. This time I found the “Holy Grail” of sneakers. Amongst the trash and waste paper there were a pair of Nikes staring at me. Anxiously, I reached with both hands and tried to lift them out. Unfortunately, I had to tug harder. Something seemed to be tugging back. In a moment I knew what was keeping me from my prize. The shoes were still filled with feet, which meant there must be a person’s body under the mess! Although the weather was cold, I felt an additional chill as I recoiled from my horrific discovery. What do I do now?

The investigating police were not too sympathetic toward my explanation of why I was there on the scene with a dead body. I answered the same questions from at least four homicide detectives before they huddled and made up their minds. Apparently they decided that I was just the finder, not the doer of the crime. Also since I had no permanent address or visible means of support, I became their guest downtown in the main lockup. This I did not like. Maybe one good thing did happen. When I was booked into the jail they took away my “lucky cup!” They also never mentioned who the unlucky dead man was, or how he was killed, or why his body ended up in the Dumpster. To the booking officer, I was just another vagrant with the name of Harry.

I sat in jail for three days until the local vagrant ordinance said I could leave. The rotund desk Sergeant scowled and handed me a manila envelope with my name on it. Inside were some of my alley gleanings – a nickel, two paper clips, a piece of chewing gum, and my cup. It was impossible to get rid of that thing!

A few quiet and safe days went by and the weather got better. I even out flanked Sergeant Dune on the night shift. He was becoming very predictable in his patrol pattern. If I had been a thug, or robber, the coast was clear for me to do whatever.

Located on the edge of “my neighborhood” was the Central Community College. It was a very popular and well-attended school. I often sat on the benches around the small fountain near the entrance. Sometimes I would bring a loaf of discarded bread and feed the birds. No one seemed to mind. One brisk day, a large group of students stood around, talked and smoked cigarettes before going inside to “A smoke-free Facility.” Perhaps it was just to get out of the wind, but I followed the crown inside the building. Most of the students headed for a pair of doors marked “Lecture Hall B.” I was curious and quietly entered behind the chatting young people. I eased into the last row by myself. We were hardly seated in the amphitheater when a professor stalked up on the platform hardly looking at the crowd.

“This is the day you have all been waiting for,” the smirking professor said. You get to show how much you remember about the last three lectures on the life and times of the “Jazz Poet” Langston Hughes. The hundred or so students all groaned and started consulting their notes. My mind flashed back to high school where our English teacher Miss Myrtle Banks read some of Hughes’ poetry to the class. It was so impressive that on my own, I memorized a verse or two. Without thinking, I spontaneously rose from my seat in the back and quoted the famous poet; “Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.” All hundred or so pairs of eyes were on me as I spoke. No stutter!

“Well done!” The now smiling professor said. “Come down to the lectern and give us some more, young man.” That jarred me out of my brazen reverie. Who did I think I was? I didn’t belong here. My nerves shattered into a million sharp shards. Then it happened. That damn cup slipped through the parted seam of my pocket and bounced down the carpeted stairs to the very bottom, banking like a bowling ball off the teacher’s lectern. In a single movement like the legendary baseball pitcher, Satchel Paige, a first row student caught the cup and hurled it straight to me! Old habits are hard to die – so with a one-handed shortstop stab I caught it. As a body, the students rose and cheered!

This was just too much! So I bolted from the room with the cup in my stinging hand and raced to the front door.

Safely outside, I slowly walked toward the corner like nothing had just happened. The classic film, “Casablanca.” came to mind. I thought of the scene where “Rick” Blaine, (Humphrey Bogart’s imperfect character) and the equally flawed police Captain Louis Renault (Claude Raines’ character), exit the foggy airport arm in arm. To my hoisted cup I mimicked Rick’s closing speech, “Louie, this may be the start of a lasting relationship!” At that moment, the sun broke through the thin Cirrus clouds and warmly lit the entire street.

The End