Harbor Light Mission--Monday Morning Morning at Harbor Light.  My first thought is a poem I wrote a couple months ago...I've made it a kind of mantra to contemplate, lift my spirits, strengthen my resolve in the face of life:  "The night that falls holds hard fast in its way / (and dawn a dream of brighter things) / An eyelid slips its anchored folds / And flutters in the morning's gold / A day is born that never was before / And how could I ask for more?"  With that thought in mind I sit up, oh, still sore from walking so much and the weight of my shopping bag pulling me to one side--but it feels good too, in the way a grunt to a weightlifter is sweet as a lullaby. Shed some dead weight, son, you'll be springin' up to that top bunk! One of Harbor Light's faithful heralds had come around the bunk-space perimeter at five in the morning thumping what sounded like a book, probably a bible, against the wooden frames and in a loud, commanding voice, not quite a shout, said "Rise and shine men!  It's a beautiful new day, Praise God!"  Looks too young to be giving me advice but no worse than waking up to country western music on the alarm clock.  Since I slept in my clothes (hey, I'm homeless, who gives a shit about a wrinkle or two) I just slipped on my shirt and shoes, slid feets to the ground and pounced on the day (yeah right). Fold up the blanket, one more trip around the four bunkbeds to my right to unhook the fitted sheet on the far side and it's down the hall.  Stop at the pisser then wash my face and on to deliver my blanket and sheet in exchange for my social security card, retrieve my Randall's bag from its cubicle giving the guy my little white card stored carefully in my wallet with the number eighty-one on it and I'm good to go. Breakfast!  The thought gladdens my homeless heart but only for as long as it takes to ride down the freight elevator, whose doors are now stalling every time they open, like an arthritic shutter, and require a good hard shove to get going. Look at the bright side boy!  Mo' exercise mo' better!  Exit to the first floor and head towards the cafeteria in back, visions of coffee cups and steaming black liquid and creamer.... Whoa! Someone's yelling at me.  Do they have a principal's office here and a split-sawn baseball bat with holes drilled in it and lead weights in the end? I'm getting deja vu to yon high school days...shit!  I forgot to go by the bathroom and pad my butt with paper towels! But no, this ain't high school and the guy yelling whoa just wants to know where I think I'm going.  Think?  Is this a trick question?  Hopefully breakfast and a cup of coffee, I tell him.  No, no, no you gotta wait in this room over here until they ready for you.  Where?  See the door by the folding table where you came in last night?  The room with the vending machines?  Gotta wait in there 'til breakfast's served, six-thirty.  Six-thirty?  Damn, that's almost a whole hour away and all ten of the chairs are taken and the perimeter around the wall is almost filled with leaning, lounging bodies, a good fourth of them stretched out on the floor dead asleep. I'm crestfallen, truly, things had been going so much my way.  Slip in between a couple oldtimers barely staying upright and sit on my paper bag of clothes and such. Mantra or no, morning is definitely my slowest time. Seconds stretch like chewed gum into minutes but the minutes seem to stand still.  Pull a book out of my bag's front pocket but man, who can read with a mind like molasses?  So I do the easy thing and fall into a stupor.  A generation later I notice about ten men out of the fifty or so crowded into the room forming a ragged line pointed toward the door by the folding table.  There's something sneaky, subversive in their movements as if they might wake up the human logs on the floor if they move too fast and start a revolution. I'm still groggy but dammit no one ever said I couldn't follow a lead once it hit me over the head.  I slide up from my place, all liquid motion so's not to wake up cheech and chong on either side of me and join the standing band facing the door like it's the promised land.  We are a ragged bunch, eyes heavy and clothes rumpled, but we're ready like freddy to go forth and bum smokes and take a free meal when it's offered and ask for it when it ain't. Suddenly, finally, we get our marching orders...onward christian soldiers into war!  Move your limbs and masticate bravely!  And we're off to eat at last.  Down the hall it's ho! now not whoa, as if our labor in waiting was created to serve this moment.  Right-turn into the cafeteria, right-turn towards the serving side...one old man with gnarly whiskers and beautiful long nosehairs almost stumbles...all this right-turning could make a man dizzy.  Breakfast is pancakes tepid and cold cereal and grits, no sugar...get a glass, there's milk in that one but darn, no coffee.  How can you have a mission without coffee and sugar for god's sake?  I ask the guy next to me. Gotta go down to St. John's for that, the guy behind me says.  Alright, tomorrow I'll be there or I'll be square!  And I was too...there, not square, the very next morning. Most mission meals are fast like the military...eat it all before someone pulls the plug prematurely and ruins your outlook on the day.  A homeless man has to try to keep his chin up, he's too close to the abyss to look down much...unless you're collecting used butts to make up a smoke.  Trays to the dishwasher and each man moves bravely out into a new day, praise god! Randy Guess December 6, 1999 ©1999-2001 [Shaman]    [The Bridge] [Harbor Light Mission: Part One]    [Harbor Light Mission: Part Two] [The Heart of Homelessness] [Home]    [What's New] [Short Stories]    [Philosophy]    [Forums] [Webrings]    [Biographies]    [Site Index]    [Contact] [Extras]    [Links]    [Copyright] <top>