Homecoming

Homecoming

February’s wind blew harsh and cold off the river, dissecting the old bridge and rattling guy-wires and supports alike. Night wrapped its protective blanket around the great city but gave no warmth to the citizens who braved the elements to reach their destinations.
    Just off the bridge, attached to a pedestrian walk-way that emptied its travelers into the canyons of buildings, was a small ally; dark and trash littered. This was his home. Every evening he painstakingly constructed his flattened, cardboard, boxes into a shape sufficient to cover his body for the night.
    People streamed by on the sidewalks just a few feet from his “home”. Few gave the old man more than a passing glance; that’s not the way it is done in this city, eye contact rarely happens.  If one were to take the time and look closely at the figure as he prepared to climb into his cardboard shelter, they would see an old man. Old,  not bent or worn, but still substantial, his six foot frame still stood tall, his shoulders still unbowed and because of his circumstances, no fat clung to his body, but muscle was still there.  His many layers of unwashed, mismatched clothing, while giving off a strong odor, also protected that same body from the ravishes of winter. His threadbare, black, pea coat he had worn so proudly so many years ago still insulates him from the bitterest of cold.
    If the curious citizen could stand the smell and overcome their own unreasoning fear of strangers which inflict most city dwellers; if they walked closer and stood directly in front of the old man, they would be first struck with by his eyes. Deep brown eyes that could be fierce, proud, and infinitely sad, all in the span of a few seconds. They would see the deep lines that crossed a high forehead and pulled down a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. If the citizen was really observant, they would note that the face, ravaged by time, had once been handsome.
    But of course, no one bothered to look that closely at the man. That was just not done in the city, or even the country, for that matter. No, to those people who passed by him in the human stream on the sidewalk, he was all but invisible. 
    The old man sat cross-legged, on another small piece of cardboard within his shelter that served as protection against the cold concrete of the ally. In his lap rested a worn old cigar box. Inside this box was the sum total of his personal fortune; the wealth he had worked so hard to scrape and save over the past year.  From time to time his head would jerk around and survey the passing pedestrians, looking intently for any sign of threat from them....anyone who might want to steal his hard earned wealth. Finding no such threat, the man would go back to inventorying his money. Sometimes it was good to be forgotten, he mused.
    His hands shook, not from fear, but as a result of the years of abuse he had heaped upon his body in his effort to forget. No, fear played almost no part in the make up of this man and not because he was imbued by any sort of hero-like courage, but because, deep down, he really cared very little whither he lived or died. In fact, to him, living was his punishment and he had determined many years ago to live out his sentence of life, no matter how long it proved to be.
    He was well aware that his fellow members of the great underworld of the homeless would, almost to a man, slit his throat for even a tenth of the money he held now in his lap, but he didn’t care, all he could think of was the fact that, once again he had managed to save enough money for his yearly trip “Home”.
    For the last time, he straightened the dirty, wrinkled, bills of all denominations and tied them together with a rubber band. Two hundred and fifty dollars in an old cigar box which he closed and shoved back into the recesses of his large, dirty, old duffle bag that would serve as his pillow. Just enough money for him to make his yearly pilgrimage home. Then, when he returned, he would start all over....saving for another year. He stretched out and lay his head on the bag. His body slowly relaxed as he let the night sounds of the city that never sleeps wash over him. Slowly, as he let sleep overtake his mind, his last thought was: Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He slept. He dreamed. He cried. This happened almost every night of his life for the last forty years and he accepted it.
    The next day he was up early. Carefully, he took down his makeshift shelter, in accordance to city ordinances which decreed that no permanent shelters could be built in the city by the homeless. He stacked all his cardboard into an old shopping cart along with his duffel bag containing all his worldly treasures and he slowly made his way along the sidewalk toward his first destination;  a dry-cleaning shop that promised same day service.
    He entered the moving stream of people, all headed to and from work or on personal errands, like himself. As he walked the flow of people parted to make way for him. They did this, not out of any respect for a fellow traveler, but more simply to avoid contact with one of his low station. Eye contact was never made....they merely inched over left and right until he had passed, then they once again closed ranks in their self-absorbed, insulated, journey to their destinations.
    The owner of the dry cleaning shop had been expecting the man. After all, he had been cleaning the bum’s package every year for the past ten years. Every year, on this same day, the man would appear at his shop with his package and would refuse to leave until the job was done. At first this caused no end of consternation for the owner. How dare this dirty bum hang about his business and run off customers by his presence. The owner’s attitude changed as soon as he saw the contents of the package for the first time and, of course, once he discovered the bum always had money to pay for his services.
    So this day the owner showed no surprise when the old man pushed open the door to the cleaners and entered carrying his package tucked securely under his left arm. As he walked through the door, his posture straightened, his step became measured as if he were on parade. He marched up to the counter and placed the package on the worn woodwork, his hands resting lightly, lovingly upon the brown wrapping paper tied with twine.

    “How are you today?” the shopkeeper greeted him, not really expecting an answer, knowing the routine. In answer, the old man simply stood at attention and shoved the package across the counter toward the shopkeeper. He then produced  money from one pocket of his coat and laid it next to the package.

    “Yes sir,” the shopkeeper sighed, “But you know I will do this at no charge if you will let me.”

    “Thank you sir,” the old man answered, “but I pay my way.” This short conversation had been played over and over each year, with the same result so that now it was almost a part of a ritual. Both men knew their part and fulfilled them religiously. The old bum then turned on his heel and marched out of the store. He pushed his cart across the street and into an alley out of the way of the other people, out of sight. The storekeeper could see the mouth of the alley from his large front window and he took this as a sign of trust that the old man must have in him, that he would do the job and do it well and the package would be ready in the allotted time.
    For his part, the shopkeeper did what he had done ever since the first time he had opened the package and seen its contents; he put it ahead of all his other cleaning jobs and worked on it diligently until it was completed. A few hours later, he stepped out of his shop, package in hand, and crossed over to where the old bum waited silently. With great care, he placed the freshly wrapped package in the old man’s hands and said simply: “Thank you for the honor of doing business with me.”
    The old bum gave him a short nod as he took the package and he turned and walked away, down the crowded sidewalk full of people intent on ignoring him. The shopkeeper watched him go then shook his head sadly and made his way back to his shop.
    The rest of the day was taken up with preparations as the old bum made his way around the city. The last stop he made, before heading to the bus station for his ride home was to a homeless shelter. Normally this was a place he avoided like the plague but on this day he came, like he did every year, to get one good meal before the trip and to bath and shave.
    That done, he made his way to the bus station where he bought his ticket. If the ticket vendor noticed anything about the man it was his pallid cheeks with fresh nicks from the dull razor he had used to clean his face. If anything the shave had taken years from the man’s appearance.
    Ticket in hand, he took up his duffle bag and left his shopping cart abandoned outside the bus terminal; he would find another upon his return. Without a backward glance, he boarded the bus and it headed out of the city headed South as the sun set.
      Four hours later he arrived....home. He strode off the bus and headed straight to a local cheap hotel for his once yearly extravagance. A soft bed, a warm room, and one fast-food burger later he was deep into the one peaceful night’s sleep he got each year.
    The next morning he was up early and making his way to his final destination. This day also marked another difference, today, people he met on the street as he strode purposefully along actually noticed him. In fact, many stopped and stared, their mouths hanging open.
    You see, that morning, upon awakening, the old bum had carefully, tenderly, opened the package and he had dressed in the faded, worn, olive green battle dress of a Marine of the Vietnam era. Upon the left breast of the uniform top glistened three rows of medals. The Silver Star, with oak leaf cluster denoting having won it twice, the Bronze Star with the same cluster, the Purple Heart, The Distinguished Service Cross, followed by three or four medals from the Republic of Vietnam and one Unit Award. Around his neck he wore the centerpiece of the uniform...hung from a powder blue ribbon adorned with stars, with the medal resting above the second button of his shirt, was the Congressional Medal of Honor. On his feet he wore a pair of well worn but polished combat boots.
    As he walked across the park, his body was ram-rod straight and his stride was parade-ground precise,  his eyes were fixed upon his final destination....a long black wall. As he approached the wall, his step slowed, then faltered. He reached it as people made way for him...this time not out of revulsion, but out of reverence. Most of them could not take their eyes from the row of medals and the one hanging from his neck....they told his story better than words and the people around him listened to that unspoken story, finding the truth of it in his face, in his eyes.

He knelt at the wall and placed his hands lovingly upon its surface, gently caressing the names there. His head bowed, tears falling freely from his face, he began to speak as if talking to the long dead ghosts whose names were on that wall.

“Sgt. William James Anderson reporting as ordered.” His voice cracked and he had to draw a deep breath before continuing. “I am here one more years boys, but I don’t know how long I can do this. Please...when can I come home? I know we always talked about coming home to ‘the World’, but this is not my world any longer. The people of this world didn’t forget us, they never knew us and I am so tired of this world...I want to come home now.”
    People standing close to Anderson heard his words and some had tears freely falling on their cheeks. Some, who had come here to take pictures to tell their friends how they spent their vacation looked embarrassedly about and put their cameras back in bags and purses.
    Anderson seemed to listen for a minute to some unheard voice, then he slowly straightened and stood up. His right hand swept up in a crisp salute to the wall and he smiled.
    “Thank you sir,” he said.  Then he pivoted and marched away from the wall without looking back. People continued to stare as he disappeared over a small hill.

**************************

Sgt. William James Anderson, late of the United States Marine Corps was found early the next morning in a cheap hotel room. He was still dressed in his uniform and laying peacefully in the bed....his heart had simply stopped.

Me? I’m the cop that answered the call from the hotel manager and it was me who found the duffle bag with old spiral notebooks that Anderson had used to tell his story. I did some investigation and pieced together the rest of his story, his yearly pilgrimages to The Wall, I even found and talked to the owner of the dry-cleaners who took such good care of the man’s uniform. The thing is....you need to know this story and you need to know , I mean really KNOW that there are an estimated three million homeless people in this country and more than half of them men. Of that number a large portion are veterans of our wars. We send them out to be killed and damaged beyond repair, the least we can do is find them a place in this world.  Thanks for listening.