NO HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

     Morning sunshine had begun to warm the cool air drafting across a damp area where four men lay sleeping on sheets of cardboard.  In the dim light, their outlines blended with the silhouette of their belongings, stacked loosely in boxes and plastic bags.
     The site is a narrow space beneath the arch of a cement bridge and the edge of an erosion-proof steep creek bank, fortified with large stones set in mortar.  Twenty-five feet below, water trickles to a monotonous cadence.  The whir of tires treading pavement can be heard overhead.  This secluded piece of city real estate is known as "threebridge" to those who use it as shelter.  The Third Street bridge is a favored proximity to the Catholic Worker's Charity kitchen and the Mission House Church in the Railroad Square section of town.  Both places attract the homeless or jobless.
     Casey is the youngest of the current squatters.  He is twenty-three, high school graduate, 6', 160 lbs.   His father owns an electrical contracting business and his mother operates two nursing homes.  He has refused offers to work for either one.  Instead, he eats at "the kitchen" and sleeps in a sleeping bag.  Most of his time is free to get high.  His drug of choice is marijuana and if he has none, he's looking.  When he's holding more than he feels safe with, he deals.
     Benny, the newest resident is an Indiana native.  For ten years, he has lived up and down the length of  California, working in retail sales. He had expected each new start would lead to the kind of steady employment which might put him on closer financial footing with his wife.  Her business and legal background usually assured she contributed most to the household earnings.
     Recently, while Benny was visiting friends in Montana, his wife left town with a man whose feet were knee-deep in green.  When Benny returned to the apartment, it was empty and locked.  His stuff was boxed and stacked inside a shed. 
     He wandered across the freeway overpass.  Pausing, he gripped the chain-link and stared down into the six lanes of  traffic.  Closing his eyes, he imagined drifting slowly into the roar below him.  Tilting his head back and opening his eyes, he was briefly thankful for the "squirrel cage" enclosure. Benny shook the fence, cussed and continued on, down the spiral ramp.  A block later, he met Casey who got him high and sympathized.  Casey helped Benny sell or give away possessions too numerous or cumbersome to carry.   For the past two weeks, Benny had been residing under the bridge.
     Preacher claims he once had a church, in Kentucky, as well as a wife and children and friends.  Says God told him to leave it all and seek solitude and suffering to prove his thankfulness for all the blessings he experienced.
     Willie Jump had walked away from a home for wayward boys, in Georgia.  He told of having travelled all over the United States as a freight train hobo.  He could barely read or write, but he could draw a railroad track map to and from any state.  His favorite memories, though, were about childhood pets, a raccoon and deer that ate dry dog food.
     The four men began to stir awake, stretching and crawling from makeshift beds.  Once upright, they shivered, then stiffly took positions along the bumpy slope.  As their directed streams splashed towards the tinkling water, steam foamed, then faded. They shivered, again, then hurried to huddle in a small circle, beneath layers of clothes and blankets, trying to warm up after the brief exposure.
     "Only ten more shopping days 'til Christmas," Casey announced.
     "I hate Christmas,"  Benny responded, "especially this year."
     He immediately thought of all the times he'd heard his mother say the same thing.  It was always a puzzling remark since there were no signs of displeasure, and she never said why.  The family always seemed to have good Christmases.  Presents, even when the number of kids grew to six.  Huge turkey and ham dinners with plenty of pie, cake and Christmas candy.
     "Hey, don't be hatin' Jesus' birthday, man,"  Preacher admonished.  "Besides, he was born homeless, like us.  He was sent to teach us how to love, even our enemies.  So we should love to celebrate his birth.  We should love Christmas."
     Casey rolled a cigarette from a flattened pack of Bugler and lit it, thus ending his coughing, which had increased in intensity until it was a choking gag.  He wheezed and said he was glad for Christmas because the food would be piled high at the kitchen and people would be more generous to panhandlers.  
     "And the cops won't be poking around down here, so much.   I like Christmas, dude, and I got no money to buy gifts with, so I don't have to go shopping, trying to figure out what to buy for people who are never satisfied anyway."
     "I agree with Benny," Willie Jump interjected.  "Yeah, you right, brother, I always have hated Christmas, right from the git-go.  I always got less than my brothers and we always got less than our friends.  Our old boy made us poorer than we already was, drinking up any money mom didn't manage to beg or hide from him.   Maybe I didn't hate Christmas so much when I was living with my real mom, but after she died, I did."
     The four moved close enough together to reach the cigarette they shared.  Benny looked at Preacher and apologized for his comment.
     "It's just that I want to be home for Christmas, instead of  'no home' for Christmas."
     His eyes showed the sparkle of tears and he swiped them away with the heel of each hand.
     "Wish this was a joint,"  he said, holding the puff in his lungs as if it was marijuana smoke.
     "Hey, I'm getting some, later,"  Casey added, excitedly.  "An old dude over on Barnett Street grew some up in Mendocino.  It ain't bud, but it's good shake and he'll front me a bag for only two
dollars a gram.  He's cool, though, probably twist up a couple if we put our change together.  Dig it?"
      Casey took the pooled cash to score the pot and they split up, deciding to return to the spot in an hour.  This lifted their spirits and they were laughing and joking as they moved from beneath the concrete.   They wandered around the immediate two or three blocks, trying to keep in the sun, absorbing warmth for chilled muscles.
     Willie Jump's eyes were sensitive to bright light.  He kept his eyes downcast, but even concrete glare caused the burning feeling of eyelid grit.  It appeared he was crying, and he was, but not from sadness.
     He walked into the mid-town mall, through the Macy's entrance.  The first thing he saw was a display of expensive sunglasses.  Without pause, Willie removed a pair, bit off the plastic price tag, circled the counter, slipped on the glasses, and walked back towards the way he'd come in.
     An off-duty city patrolman was lock step with Willie and arrested him before the outside sunlight could be reflected off the polarized lenses of the aviator-style shades. Willie Jump's home for Christmas would be warm, clean and nourishing.
     Preacher strolled across the railroad tracks which divide the city.  He stood in front of a small church, remembering sermons he'd delivered.  He wondered how long he could keep lying about the real reason he had to give up his pulpit.  He was aware that few people believed his story about being directed by God to become destitute and live on the street.  His downfall was alcohol.  Ruined his marriage, alienated friends and family, weakened his worth and caused the necessary removal from church duties. He stood there daydreaming, and visions of Christmases past flooded back.
    "Good morning, brother."
     Preacher remained entranced, so the greeting was repeated.  He turned to face the man who had spoken to him.
     "I'm sorry, good morning to you.  Guess I spaced out for a minute.  I was thinking about a church in Kentucky.
     "Kentucky, huh?  I come from there, myself."
     It was the pastor of the church.  He shook Preacher's hand and they began talking.  The conversation lasted well past noon, but Preacher didn't need to be concerned about getting to the free kitchen.   Preacher was invited to lunch with the pastor.
     After nearly a full day of discussions about the Bible, Kentucky, church membership, Christmas, the homeless, alcohol, and many other subjects, Preacher was invited to join the congregation and assist with some of the charitable projects.
     When Benny and Casey met at threebridge, the word was already out about Willie Jump's boost bust.  They figured Preacher had gotten some sauce, and may not return until sober enough to navigate. Benny took a deep toke from the small pipe Casey had filled from the bag of pot he'd scored. 
     The pipe was hand-made from threaded brass sections.  Occasionally, in dry times, Casey would disassemble the sections and scrape the residue from inside  Then, he would screw it all back together and smoke the little pile of black tar.
     Within seconds, Benny was high.  Marijuana acted as a speed, for him, and his intensity levels rose.   He couldn't express himself fast enough and his speech was coming in such spurts, it appeared his tongue was loose at both ends.
     "Casey, man, I'm tellin' ya, I've been thinking about going back to Indiana.  Ever since you mentioned there are ten days 'til Christmas...back to my mother's place...I haven't seen her in six years.  I'm broke and broken down...don't know how she might react...might not want me any kinda back...but I've a mind to try to get there by...Christmas.  If I don't make it, at least I'll be closer to a home I know."
     "Yeah, dude, I hear you, dude.  I talked to my brother, this morning, just before I went to see about this dope, and he convinced me I should move back home and start working for my old boy.  He has more business than he has help.  If you want my sleeping bag, it's warmer than yours.  You can use it.  How you gonna go all that way back to Indiana?"
     "Thumb, I guess,"  Benny answered, smiling. "I think I could leave, right now, with the clothes on my back - no baggage, no bucks - and hitchhike it in five days."
     Casey reloaded the bowl, after tapping out the ashes, lit it, hit it and passed it to Benny.
      "Where would you sleep?"
      "I wouldn't.  I'm talking non-stop hitchin', brother.  No sleeping, no eating, just staying on the road 'til it ends.  At mom's.  I know I can do it.  I'm physically able to handle it, Casey lad."
      "Man, you might end up freezing to death along the way, too.   I think you better stick around until the almighty hawk is through screaming icicles out on them plains, buddy."
       Casey's attempt to delay Benny's marijuana induced travel plans, made Benny all the more determined to go for it. He bent over and began pulling articles of clothing from his garbage bag, and began dressing for the trip.   When finished, he straightened to his full height and smiled. 
     He was wearing two pairs of socks inside a pair of insulated boots.  Under his loosest fitting pair of jeans, he wore a pair of stretch nylon, skintight athletic pants.  His upper body was layered with a
t-shirt, turtleneck sweater, hooded sweatshirt and a cotton-lined nylon jacket with a cotton knit cap in the pocket.
     "Three or four joints for the road, and I'd leave, right now.  What do you say, Case?"
     "I'll tell you what, Benny, I think you are too high and I think you are crazy.  But if you have papers, I'll twist up four fat numbers to help you keep a buzz on your way."
      While Casey rolled, he and Benny continued to smoke.  Once finished, he handed over the four joints, after wrapping them in a used sandwich bag.
     "Thank you, Casey, I really appreciate it.  And I'd like to go on record, at this time, by promising you that after these are gone and I'm back home in Indiana, my tetrahydrocannabinolic days are finished.  I won't smoke the herb again."
     "Sure, Benny, come on, I'll walk you down to one-oh-one."
     The entry ramp was only a block from threebridge.  Minutes after the two men arrived and began putting up thumbs, a van pulled over.  They shook hands, embraced briefly, then waved goodbye.  Benny climbed aboard and his first ride took him all the way to the edge of Sacramento.
     He was immediately chased off I-80 by a CHP, and walked the breadth of the city before resuming his hitchhiking.  In Nevada, he was cold and built a fire in a gully, just off the highway, but a state patrolman ordered him to extinguish it.  In Utah, he was stopped and frisked. then ordered off the freeway.  Forced to walk the back streets of  Salt Lake City in the early morning darkness, he was east of the city by daybreak.   He fashioned a sign from cardboard and a discarded roll of electrical tape, slowing an 18-wheeler to stop and take him all the way to Kansas City.
     After a long, cold wait, he hitched a ride to St. Louis.  From there, he was driven to Indianapolis.  After a series of short lifts, he arrived in Jacksonburg.  The sky was as bright as the one he'd left in California, but the temperature was forty-degrees lower.
     Benny's only food had been a sack of sunflower seeds, and four candy bars given to him by two kids in the back seat of one of the rides.  His face and hands were chapped and dingy.  He could smell his own staleness.  His skin were tired and his feet were numb.  He hesitated, for a long moment, before knocking on his mother's door.
     "Benny, what on earth...?"
     "Hi, Mom, may I call this home, for Christmas?"