Smoke Street Crossing

"Smoke Street Crossing"
A short story by Ed Dobbins

         "I ain't goin'," said Maurice.

         Lucas shook his head, half-smirking, half-grimacing at the old man's stubbornness.

         "Whattaya gonna eat, then?"

         "I'll find me somethin'."

         "Serious, Mo? You gonna let one man keep ya from eatin' tonight?"

         "No, I'll eat alright."

         "Out of the trash bin? When you can get a real meal?"

         Lucas could see the old man's mind -- what was left of it these days -- churning behind cataracted eyeballs.

         "I tell ya. He's bad news," said Maurice.

         "Aw, he's harmless. Why ya let him get to ya, Mo?"

         "He's always spoutin' his nonsense. Ruins my appetite."

         "Well, whattaya expect, Mo? He's a priest. 'Course he's gonna try to talk religion to ya."

         "Well, I don't need no religion," said Maurice. "Look where it's got me. See these clothes of mine? See this home?" He gestured to the filthy, ratted trench coat he wore, at the trash-strewn, grease-splattered sidewalk upon which he slept. A dirty sign over his head read Smoke Street.

         Lucas chuckled. "I'm thinkin' maybe if ya had religion, ya wouldn't be here."

         "Aww, listen to Mr. Preacher Man Lucas, spouting all his high holiness," said Maurice, gesturing regally to his friend. "Don't ya go thinking I forgot why you're here with me."

         Lucas's mouth formed an uneasy line. "That was years ago, Mo. Surely God's forgiven now."

         "Forgiven, huh? Then why you still here, living under a railroad bridge with the likes of me?"

         "I dunno, Mo. The Lord works in mysterious ways."

         "You're soundin' just like that fool priest now."

         "I dunno. I guess he talks sense."

         "Sense? More like nonsense. 'Let the Lord be your guide,' he says.

         "Maybe it's easier that way, Mo."

         The old man snorted. "Easier, Lucas? Let the Lord by your Guide? You listen here, young fella. If the Lord been my guide, he sure as hell got one lousy sense of direction!"

         Lucas gave a wicked grin. "I ain't all that young, old timer, just compared to you. You're gonna burn, Mo, you know that, right?"

         Maurice sneered. "Oh, I been burnin' a long time, Lucas. A right long time," the old man said, taking a swig from the bottom of something that did indeed burn, way down deep in his gut.

         He let out a loud belch, the fumes tickling his eroded nostrils. He held out the bottle to his friend. "Want some?" he asked.

         Lucas shook his head. "Naw. I'm staying off the stuff. Gotta keep my head straight."

         "Your funeral," said Maurice, finishing the bottle.

* * *

         "I can't believe you talked me into this," said Maurice, glancing around as he stood in line. "Why, if that priest tries to talk to me again, don't blame me for what I'll do."

         Lucas smiled back. "Just get somethin' to eat, Mo. Quit your yappin'."

         They approached a plastic table now, behind which a boy and a girl, each likely college-aged, spooned out dried macaroni in uneven clumps.

         "Thank you," said Lucus, holding out his plate to the youths, taking his share.

         Maurice held out his plate too, weakly grunting when the pasta touched down.

         The duo returned to their seats, sitting beside a relatively clean-looking man with a long Sunni beard. He bowed his head and whispered a mantra, then nodded and began to eat.

         Lucas followed suit. Maurice had already almost finished.

* * *

         The acidic smell of twice-baked pasta mingling with the pungent scent of overwhelming body odor made the lack of ventilation in the church basement even more apparent to the two college students standing behind the table. They tried to take short shallow breaths as they spooned out dried macaroni to the hungry people who approached.

         "Thank you," said one homeless man. "Errm," grunted another.

         The students watched Maurice and Lucas take a seat at the other end of the hall. More people followed, more pasta to be spooned out.

         Eventually, all the homeless people had been fed, at least for tonight. The priest came over to the students as they began to clean.

         "Thanks for all your help," he said, his expression hardened but grateful.

         The college kids nodded. "No problem. It was... fun." It was clear that all three knew neither student would be back again.

         "I'll make sure I sign whatever papers you need," the priest said.

         "Thanks," the kids stammered in unison.

         They resumed their cleaning.

* * *

         "Ha! We made it!" Maurice said. "We got out of there without that priest sayin' one word to us!"

         "Congratulations, Mo," said Lucas, sighing. They began the long slow walk back to the Smoke Street railroad bridge. There was no hurry at all.

         Twenty feet ahead of them, the two students from the shelter exited a different door and walked in the same direction Maurice and Lucas were going. The girl might have been in a hurry, but the boy was in none at all, thus explaining the slow pace. It was clear to Maurice and Lucas why this was so. The boy was in the midst of trying to impress her. Judging from the girl's body language, the feeling wasn't mutual, but she apparently was too polite to quicken their stride, so they walked just as slowly as the two homeless men. Of course, had either student, interested or otherwise, been aware of the men's proximity, they'd have been walking much, much faster.

         The two men decided to eavesdrop, trying to understand a world that to them had become as foreign as, say, Neptune or Pluto might have been.

         "So, my latest story idea is that a guy from now gets into a time machine and goes back a hundred years into the past," said the boy. He was loud and excited, so it was easy to hear what he spoke.

         The girl was quiet and much less enthused. Because of this, Maurice and Lucas couldn't hear everything she said, other than something along the lines of "been done" and "H.G. Wells", whatever that might have meant.

         "True," the boy said, "but not like this. The idea I have is that a time machine has actually existed for years, since the 1950's. See, World War Two carried on for another ten years. Japan just wouldn't give up. Germany discovered the atom bomb before we did, so while they were outnumbered now in men and artillery, their nuclear arsenal kept the Allies from tipping the balance of power."

         The girl yawned.

         "So, the Americans end up building a time machine. They go back in time and steal the German technology for the atom bomb. So the Germans never get it in the first place and the Americans are able to use it on Japan and win the war."

         "The way that actually happened," said the girl, blandly.

         "Exactly!" said the boy.

         "I'm not a big fan of sci-fi," said the girl.

         "But it's not really sci-fi," said the boy. "See, I end up having the time traveler go back to Salinas, California, a hundred years in the past. He's leaving today, so it would be set in 1909."

         "Um."

         "Salinas, California. Steinbeck," he said.

         "I figured as much."

         "I have the time traveler become a preacher, and he can predict the future. Jet planes, nuclear weapons, space flight, the computer, television, the internet. He prophecizes all this and becomes a cult figure. The catch is that he makes the people of 1909 want to stay where they are, because the future is not a good place. In effect, he's making the argument against technology."

         "And against time travel."

         "Exactly! That's the catch!"

         At that point, both the girl and Maurice let out a loud yawn, Maurice's much louder. Hearing it, the college kids turned around and quickly began to speed away.

         "Aw, you had to go and ruin it, Mo," said Lucas. "I was really gettin' interested in that story. It's not often I get to hear college kids talkin' like that."

         "Well, you're only in your forties, Lucas. What's stoppin ya from goin' to college yourself? I hear they got financial aid. Te he he."

         "You're a mean fella, Mo. Mean like an old pit bull."

         "Woof, woof," said Maurice.

         Lucas shook his head, glancing down at the ground.

         "Ya know, I went to some college myself, Mo. I know ya don't believe it."

         Maurice turned to his friend with interest. "You, Lucas?"

         "Yeah. I got through a whole year, and then... things kinda fell apart."

         Maurice nodded and let out a long sigh.

         "They always do, Lucas. They always do."

         The duo continued walking, eventually returning to sleep under the Smoke Street railroad bridge. Soon the wind picked up and the air grew damp. A heavy rain began to fall. The two men snored, not noticing.

* * *

         The girl returned to her dorm room.

         "Oh my God, that was so gross!" she said to her roommate.

         "Yeah, but you got your community service requirement now."

         "Well, yeah -- that, too. No, I was talking about the guy who walked home with me from there."

         "Who? Mr. English major?"

         "Right," said the girl. "First he started telling me about some weird sci-fi story he was working on. It was boring, but harmless enough. But then he started talking about all this funky erotica stuff. I mean, even if I was interested in him, it would've been a total turn-off. You should've heard some of the stuff he was saying. Eww!"

         "I've never known you to be a prude."

         "I'm not. But this wasn't just your run-of-the-mill erotica."

         "No?" The girl's roommate looked interested. "Fill me in."

         "You really don't want to know. And I really don't want to relive it."

         Her roommate looked disappointed. It had been months since she'd had a boyfriend, she realized. Maybe it was time to get one.

         The roommate shrugged her shoulders and went to the pint-sized fridge they shared. "Hey, did you finish my strawberry yogurt?" she asked, angry.

         "Your strawberry yogurt? You mean, my strawberry yogurt!"

         A heated argument ensued. Flip-flops were thrown, doors slammed, even a few tears shed. Granted, neither had a boyfriend and both were feeling somewhat hormonal, but these kinds of things happened when college girls roomed together. It would blow over soon enough.

         Meanwhile, outside their dormroom window, the wind and rain continued to blow over, as well. In the distance, a train crossed the Smoke Street bridge. It flung pebbles and rocks at the ground below. One of the larger ones hit a homeless man sleeping below, injuring him badly. Blood gushed from the man's head. He cried out in pain.

         "Lucas? What is it? Lucas?" said Maurice, sitting up, groggy. He watched his friend bleed profusely from his skull.

         "Oh man, that ain't good," said Maurice. "That ain't good at all." Maurice was no doctor, no mortician either, but he could tell the difference clear enough between the two, especially whose services would be most needed for the given situation. This situation, unfortunately, was crystal clear.

* * *

         Later that evening, a priest walked by the scene. He ran the homeless shelter just up the road. He had seen Maurice and Lucas only hours before.

         "Oh dear Lord," he said softly, seeing the dead bloodied man on the pavement.

         The priest bent down and administered last rites.

         Maurice watched him. Somewhere in the midst of the prayer, he heard that phrase again, "Let the Lord be your guide."

         Maurice snickered. Hearing this, the priest turned around, noticing him for the first time. He nodded in the old man's direction.

         "Friend of yours?" the priest asked.

         Maurice paused to stare at him, returning the nod at last.

         "I'm sorry," said the priest. "He's with the Lord now."

         Maurice chuckled.

         "Well, he best have a good map, then," he said.

         Then, adjusting himself comfortably beneath his dirty wet blanket, Maurice fell quickly into a deep, unfeeling sleep.

         Sighing, the priest glanced up at another train crossing overhead.

THE END