Bill woke to the lovely strains of profanities being hurled at him. He lifted his head slightly off the pavement. Apparently he was to live yet another day. The trash collectors continued cursing at him to get out of the way. Bill scratched himself and climbed slowly out of his box. He smiled a dopey grin. Sometimes the grin calmed people down. Today the insults and profanity simply increased. Eh, what did it matter. Better to be cursed than run over.
Reaching back into his box, he grabbed an old army surplus bag that contained all his belongings. A few bottles worth a couple pennies, a perfectly good shoe that someone and left beside the road, a few shirts he had found in a dumpster that he was holding to for winter, and the letter. Far and above the letter was his most prized possession. It was stained and wrinkled, yet he valued it far above everything he had. He reached quickly into the bag and assured himself that it was there and with the horn of a garbage truck blaring in his ears, he left the alley headed for the bathroom.
It was ten blocks of walking before he reached the loading dock of Mantenilli’s Restaurant. He was blessed. Just over a year ago he had been sleeping right here in this alley. Some workers had come out arguing who was going to dig though the dumpsters to find a ring that a wealthy diner had apparently lost the night before. It was a dumpster full of discarded pasta and sauces. A real mess that neither had wanted to dig into. Since he hadn’t anything better to do and since he was already planning on visiting that dumpster for breakfast, Bill had spoke up and volunteered. Taking the letter out of his bag and tucking it in his pocket for safe keeping, he had dove in. Perhaps it was a miracle or maybe just luck, but he had found the ring.
Out of pity and a thankfulness that they did’t have to do the the digging, they let him clean up a little in the tiny worker’s bathroom right by the loading dock entrance. Thus began a ritual. That back loading door was always open for him to slip in and relieve himself in the morning. He had no idea that the workers only did it so they could hear their boss gripe and complain about why the bathroom always smelled so bad when he came in around lunch and then chuckle as the newest hire was sent in to clean them yet again. Even if he had known he wouldn’t have cared.
He slipped in and out as quick as he could. People changed in an instant so it was always best to keep a low profile. With the pressure relieved, there was nothing to do now but wait. The downtown delicatessens and bake shops were in the rush of breakfast. People were paying outlandish prices for a cup of coffee and danish that weren’t even that good. Involuntarily Bill licked his lips. A coffee, even bad, would hit the spot. Maybe luck would shine upon him. Maybe he would find a cup of coffee in the trash that was still warm. A coffee and the remains of someone’s sandwich. His stomach growled. There was at least another hour before the trash would begin to be taken to the dumpster. He transferred the letter to his shirt pocket, and turned and headed towards the park.
The park was a peaceful place to wait. Since it was public space he had every right to be there. As long as he kept his head down the cops would leave him alone. The morning joggers, as always, strangely altered their paths in different directions as he approached. Bill chuckled. It was always done so deliberately, like they suddenly realized they had somewhere else they wanted to jog. If one kept an eye on them you would see them eventually make their way back to the same path they had just left. All done to avoid passing Bill. What did it matter, he had more important things to attend to.
He rounded the curve and spotted his favorite bench, the one that was first to be enveloped in the warmth of the sun. After the long night on cold ground the warmth of the sun always did wonders for him. A businessman that he had never seen before was there. If only all of life’s problems were so easy. Bill sauntered up and plunked down right next to him. Within nine seconds the man had folded his paper and left. Bill congratulated himself on his new personal record, swung his feet up onto the bench, and sat there to enjoy the sun.
As he did every day, Bill pulled out his most prized possession: the letter. He turned the envelope over and over in his hands before he pulled out the folded sheet of paper. It was dirty and stained, but it was still here. He had received it seven winters ago. That was back when he was still staying at the shelter. Back before funding had run out and it had closed. He had been checking in to get a bed when one of the social workers had pulled him aside. A sealed letter had arrived with his name on it. She had asked him if he knew the sender of the letter, a one William Parks according to the return address. When Bill realized that it was his uncle, his own mother’s brother, the very man that he had been named after, he had gotten all teary eyed. The social worker had even smiled as she handed over the envelope. One like Bill never got mail. The fact that it had found him was a mini miracle.
That night, in almost holy reverence, Bill had sat on an old cot and slowly opened the letter. He felt a warmth in his heart that had been cold for so long. Inside the envelope he found one sheet of paper. It had been the most beautiful piece of paper he had ever seen. There was a picture of what appeared to be two lions standing on either side of a shield at the top. It was there in brilliant red. It was almost as if intricate red metal had been formed into a picture and then woven into the paper itself.
At the bottom was an intricate pattern that stretched from the left side of the page to to the right. In between top and bottom was line after line of flowing words. The person who had sent the letter hadn’t typed it out, but had written it by hand with a pen. Right there on a cot surrounded by other homeless people, Bill had wept and wept. That one of his family had taken the time to send him a handwritten letter had touched something deep inside of him. Without even realizing it in that moment, the letter became deeply important to him. While other belongings came and went, he would protect this symbol of love.
Bill awoke with a start. The warm sun and the pleasant memories had lulled him back to sleep right there in the park. A glance at the sky told him that he was behind schedule. He folded the letter as quick as he could and placed it back in the envelope and then placed it all deep into his bag. He had to hurry. Being late meant that someone else might get all the good food. Being late sometimes meant you didn’t get any food. But far worse, it meant risking having a run in with one of the families without having other people there to protect you. The thought alone made Bill pick up his pace. The families were a blight on otherwise well meaning homeless like himself. Nothing better than gangs in his opinion.
He had once heard another man share that they had started as group of young homeless people looking out for each other. At some point they realized that they had power over the other homeless by the sheer fact that they had numbers. Suddenly it became much easier for them to take food away from others than to look for it themselves. At some point they turned ruthless. Violence was no longer just a possibility, it was the norm.
A days work of scrounging for food could become pointless if you ran into a family. Keep your head down. Don’t look any of them in the eye. Never resist. Follow the simple rules and you might just make it out alive. Follow the simple rules and you might just pay a price anyway. The Pete that had lived on Third Ave. resisted once. He had exchanged a cold street for a cold morgue. A few questions and no arrests later the cops had closed the case. Just another homeless death. Bill shuddered and again quickened his pace. While most of the people he knew kept to themselves, there was at least a mutual agreement to scavenge the best dumpsters together for protection. He was already worried that he had missed that opportunity.
He slowed and glanced around the corner of the alley between Miller St. and Pleasantview Rd. Empty. He definitely was late, but he was also hungry. Cautiously, he slid down the alley and lifted the dumpster lid. It had clearly been picked over a little, but down on the very bottom was almost three quarters of a sandwich. Almost impossible to believe that it had been missed, but there it was. Bill stretched his arm as far as he could but it was no use. The sandwich was out of reach. He’d have to jump in.
Carefully he checked his letter and then set the bag next to the dumpster. He climbed in, sat down, and picked up the sandwich. It was some kind of fancy bread with a whole egg and bacon on it. He lifted the top and sighed when he saw melted cheese. This was going to be the best breakfast he had eaten in weeks. The food overcame any caution he had and he slowly took a bite and chewed. For a brief moment the world faded away. He took another bite, and then another. How on earth had this sandwich been missed? It didn’t make any sense.
Revelation hit him at the same time he heard them. A family. Sometimes he was so stupid. For a sandwich like that to be left meant the other scroungers had left quicker than they wanted too. They had left because a family was working the area and here he was sitting in the the very dumpster they were sure to be looking in. He heard the footsteps and a barking laugh as a joke was told and responded to. And then Bill heard nothing. He tried not to breathe.
Dazed, Bill found himself laying on his back staring at the sky and a crowd of sneering faces. His mind tried to focus. It had happened so fast. Hands had grabbed him pulling him up and out of the dumpster and slamming him onto the ground. The back of his head burned with pain. Through tear filled eyes
Bill saw a knife. He tried to whisper “why?” The word never made it into to the air as the knife found its mark.
Bill died with barely a sound. Just a reminder to all the other homeless who really controlled the streets. Nothing more than a warning to others.
Nine blocks and seven hours later, Bill’s body lay in a city morgue. His bag that had been rifled through and then discarded next to his corpse was with him.
Two detectives assigned little more than a quick process sorted his belongings. The only interesting piece was a letter on ornate stationary that by it’s date was over seven years old.
It read:
Dear Billy,
I hope this letter finds you. I have searched for you over these many years with no avail.
Let me be blunt. My health is failing, I fear I don’t have long on this earth. Yet I promised your parent’s before they died that I would do everything I could to find you. This is probably my last attempt. I’m am writing this letter to you and mailing it to every homeless shelter that I can track down. I pray that perchance you and one of the letters will come across each other.
We know things didn’t work out how you had planned, but that shouldn’t have kept you from coming home. You didn’t have to head to the streets. We were here and we were ready to welcome you back. Sadly, it appears that will never happen.
Please read this next part carefully. Your parent’s upon their death left everything they owned to you. It is small fortune. I have watched over it and grown it even more. Now as I approach my death and with no children of my own, I too am leaving everything I own to you. All you have to is come and claim it. This stationary is from my lawyer. Call the number printed at the bottom of the page and he will take care of everything.
There is so much waiting for you if you want it.
With love,
Your Uncle Will
Detective John Marten shook his head. He thought over the various run ins he had had with Bill over the course of the years. Bill had been a fixture in this area back when John was still a cop walking the beat. Once or twice he had jailed him for vagrancy. Countless times he had told him he wasn’t allowed to beg for money outside of various stores. And now tragically in light of the letter, he thought about that one day years ago when he had ordered Bill off a newly planted area of grass in the park. Pointing to a sign that had clearly read “Keep of the Grass”, Detective Marten had sarcastically asked, “Can’t you read the sign Bill?” To which Bill had shamefaced replied, “No, I can’t read.”
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