Biblical? - a flash fiction story

From a distance, Peter looked biblical, out of place and time, on an urban corner in Connecticut. He wore layers of muted clothing, and his ever-present beige blanket draped around his broad shoulders. Long natural dreadlocks framed his bearded face. He waved to Sarah, the homeless shelter social worker. It wasn’t a frantic “I need something” wave. He just raised his hand, acknowledging her presence before crossing the street at an unhurried pace.

Peter was well-known at the shelter, and although he didn’t hang out with any particular crowd, no one messed with him. Sarah never saw him napping or debating on the park benches. If he used any mood-altering substances, it didn’t show. He didn’t act out or nod off in the Shelter Drop-In Center. His demeanor was consistent: steady, strong, soft-spoken, and observant. Sometimes, he rendered a gentle chuckle or a discreet nod toward brewing trouble. At the end of each day, he helped staff clean up, scooping up the abandoned coffee cups and empty sugar packets and wordlessly holding out his hand to take the broom or trash bag.

One evening, Sarah stayed late to prepare for the yearly visit from the Connecticut Department of Mental Health, which approved the grant funds for the Drop-In Center. Competing with the day-to-day push and pull of acute human needs, her paperwork sometimes fell behind. Sarah hoped that once the clients headed to the soup kitchen and to secure a bed at the shelter before the curfew, and her staff went home, she could finally concentrate uninterrupted to get things in order. While the sun was still up, she moved her car closer to the Drop-In. She didn’t want to walk too far alone in the dark and bitter cold.

Finally finished at 9:00, Sarah surveyed the street and, seeing no one, unlocked the door and stepped outside. However, the second Sarah relocked the Drop-In door, a low voice came up too close behind her.

“Hey, Miss Sarah, you’re working late.” She turned to see the wild eyes and skeletal face of a man nicknamed Squirrel. Squirrel flitted in and out of the Drop-In Center regularly, snatching up a donut or an oversugared coffee and then back out, seemingly unable to settle. She didn’t know if he acquired his nickname before or after developing his dependence on crack cocaine. Crack stimulates an intense pleasure that lasts only 15 minutes and then leaves the user crashing down into a hellish despair. Squirrel always looked on edge and had a history of assaults and robberies to document his desperation to feed the addiction. “You think you could spare a few dollars? I didn’t make it back to the shelter in time.”

She knew this was just his opening line, but before she could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows. It was Peter. He didn’t say anything, but Squirrel took one look and scampered away.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“You shouldn’t be working alone this late.”

“You’re right as always,” Sarah said. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

Peter nodded.

As Sarah drove away, she saw him in her rearview mirror, walking slowly down the street.

Later that night, a realization awoke her from her deep sleep, and she sat up in her warm bed; Peter had also missed the curfew at the shelter. He had stayed behind, waiting in the cold shadows, to protect her. She prayed someone at the shelter bent the rules and let him in. It depended on who was working that night.

To repay him for all his help, Sarah privately gave Peter a present of new, thick flannel shirts, jeans, socks, and boots. He accepted the gifts graciously but continued to wear his same old clothes. In time, the new clothing appeared on other homeless men.

Peter had never asked for anything before, so Sarah did her best when he whispered, “Would you please get me some rubbing alcohol and elderberry juice?” Perhaps it was an old school remedy he remembered from childhood. He eyed the elderberry supplement she found at the drugstore quizzically but shrugged and mixed it with the rubbing alcohol, soaked the corner of his blanket, closed his eyes, and dabbed his chest with the concoction. At that point, Sarah looked past the layers of clothing and hair to see Peter’s thinning frame and protruding collar bones.

When Peter’s health did not improve, Sarah convinced him to come with her to the hospital. She knew they rolled the dice going to the urban Emergency Department in the afternoon. The packed waiting room foretold the impatient care he would encounter. Despite Sarah’s advocacy, Peter received a cursory exam.

“How much has he had to drink today?” The nurse asked, not bothering to address Peter directly nor hide her disdain. The pale young doctor wore a sullen expression and seemed squeamish.

“He hasn’t been drinking at all. He used rubbing alcohol for chest pain.” Sarah looked at Peter in his weakened state and held back her desire to tell off the snotty nurse and doctor team, knowing they held all the cards. Nonetheless, they dismissed him and labeled his reported pain as drug-seeking.

Peter refused to see another doctor, stopped eating, and by the end of the month, he was dead. The shelter called an ambulance in the middle of the night to take him from his thin cot to the same hospital. The official cause of death was organ failure. It might have happened anyway, but Sarah hoped the E.D. staff learned of their mistake.

Peter did not have biological family present, but the Outreach Church was full of people with Peter stories.

At Peter’s service, the pastor also shared her story. Every Wednesday, the Presbyterian church offered an off-site service in an otherwise vacant storefront. The auxiliary church service had been her idea, but despite months of work, attendance remained virtually nonexistent. Feeling discouraged but trying to stay hopeful, the pastor stood at the window on Wednesdays and waved to people passing by. One day she saw Peter outside and she smiled, beckoning him to join her in the empty church. He smiled back, but stood still, and, imitating her gesture, motioned for her to come out and join him on the sidewalk. The pastor renamed the auxiliary the Outreach Church.

With a new outlook, the Outreach Church blossomed. Peter led people to the door, although he never entered himself. But, she remembered him waving each time he passed until he disappeared like “footprints in the sand.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.