Lost December Page 11
Looking back, what was most disturbing about the assault was the quiet, settled nature of it—two predators surrounding their prey. Their eyes held no remorse, no guilt, no mercy, just a quiet understanding that that’s just the way it is in nature, red in tooth and claw. Being homeless is dehumanizing, but I think it was only then that I realized just how much of an animal I was.
Both of the men had knives. I had a knife too, but my instincts told me that to use it was certain death. I might die anyway, but maybe not. Frankly, it didn’t matter a whole lot to me.
The entire incident was like an out-of-body experience—flashing about me like images in a strobe light; splatters of sweat or blood, a fist or shoe followed by a flash of pain. Yet, even in my desperation and fear, my mind continued to process. I wondered what my father would think when he learned that his only son had died homeless. Would it make the papers? The Wall Street Journal? It might. It was good copy—son of multimillionaire found homeless and murdered. Crisp’s stock prices might even drop.
The press would likely blame my father—the public is always looking for a scapegoat—but I knew better. I had brought this on myself. I could blame Sean, the system, fate or even God, but in the end, I had been on this path from the moment I turned from my father. It was my choice. I may not have liked my destination, but I had chosen the path.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Six
I have learned that real angels don’t have
gossamer white robes and cherubic skin.
They have calloused hands and smell of the day’s sweat.
Luke Crisp’s Diary
I was beaten unconscious. Everything was taken from me except my boxer shorts and my life, which I now regarded with equal value. I woke in a puddle of water, but not blood. My nose was bleeding, but that was it. They hadn’t cut me. They hadn’t killed me. My backpack was gone. The last of my money was gone. The streets had beaten me.
As I lay there, aching and gathering my senses, headlights appeared. I was exposed, curled in a fetal ball. The vehicle pulled close. My body shook from the trauma. I saw a man getting out of his van and more terror filled me. What did he want from me? What was he going to do to me?
The man knelt down at my side. “You okay, brother?”
I looked up at him. Through the haze of my pain and fear, I saw a Hispanic man, short and broad, probably in his mid-to-late fifties. His eyes were dark as coal, and he had a large, thick scar on his right cheek, wide, like a burn. “I’m hurt,” I said.
“Do you think you can get up?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll help you.”
I groaned as I forced myself to my knees. He took my arm and helped me to my feet. As I stood, a sharp pain flashed across my abdomen. “My ribs,” I said. “I must have broken some ribs.”
“C’mon,” the man said. “Let’s get out of here in case whoever did this decides to come back.”
Still holding my arm, he helped me to the passenger side of the van. The van was long and white, with windows running down its length. There was printing on the outside of the van, but I didn’t read it. The man opened the door for me. “Can you get in?”
“I’ll try,” I said.
Climbing into the van was intensely painful, but I managed to get in and sit back, my hands crossed at my chest. He shut my door, then walked around the front and climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the doors and started the van. He quickly backed up, then pulled out onto the boulevard. “You’re still bleeding,” he said. “From your nose.”
I wiped my nose with my forearm. “Sorry.”
He reached down on the floor next to him and lifted a rag that was between the seats. “It’s a little dirty, but you can wipe the blood off with it.”
“Thanks.” I wiped my face with the cloth, which turned dark with blood and dirt. When we’d gone a block, the man said, “I’m Carlos Sanchez.”
“Carlos,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. What’s your name?”
“Luke.”
“Should I take you to the hospital? There’s one a half mile from here.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be all right.” The idea of sitting in the waiting room in my underwear was more than I could handle. Also, I didn’t have any money. I doubted that they could legally turn me away, but the composite humiliation of the experience seemed nearly as bad as my beating. I doubted that they could do anything anyway.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. They can’t fix ribs.”
“You may be hurt worse than you know. You could have internal bleeding.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
Carlos didn’t know how to respond to that. After a moment he said, “Where should I take you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
“You’re homeless?”
“Yes.” I breathed out heavily. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare set of clothes in here would you?” I asked flippantly.
“Just what I got on.” After a moment he said, “There’s a shelter over off Bonanza. They probably have some clothes and stuff.”
“They won’t help tonight. You have to be there early to get in.”
He looked vexed again. I figured he was trying to decide what to do with me.
“Do you have anything to eat?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But we can stop and get something.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said.
“No problem.” He reached down and turned on the radio. Classic rock. A Guess Who song was playing, “Bus Rider.” My father used to listen to them ad nauseum. “Real rock,” he called it.
After we’d gone a bit farther, I asked, “Why did you stop?”
He turned and looked at me as if I’d asked a dumb question. “You needed help.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
“There’s an In-N-Out Burger up ahead,” Carlos said. “That okay?”
“I’m not picky.”
“I was going to stop for a burger anyway.” A moment later he pulled into the driveway of the restaurant, stopping at its posted menu. “What do you want?”
“I’ll eat anything.”
“I’ll get you what I’m getting.” He turned down the radio and drove up to the restaurant’s speaker box. A nasal voice came over the intercom. “Welcome to In-N-Out Burger. What may we get for you?”
“Two large cheeseburgers with fries and Coke …” He looked at me: “Coke?”
I nodded.
“… And two strawberry shakes,” he said.
My mouth watered.
“Pull ahead to the first window,” the voice squawked.
Carlos drove his van forward. The woman inside said, “That’ll be ten seventy-three.” Carlos thumbed through his wallet, handing the woman a couple bills.
“Sorry, I don’t have any money,” I said.
“Brother, you don’t even have a pocket to put money in.” He looked at me and smiled. I grinned. I thought he was the coolest man in the world.
The woman inside the drive-thru window gave Carlos his change and then looked over at me. I’m sure she was wondering what I was doing in my boxers. Then again, maybe not. We were in Vegas. Anything goes in Vegas.
We got our food, and Carlos pulled ahead into a parking space and killed the van. I hadn’t had anything to eat for almost twenty-four hours and I wolfed down the food.
He watched me eat with amusement. “Good, huh?”
“Manna,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I finished the burger, then started in on my shake. “What do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m the administrator of the Golden Age Senior Care Center.”
“Is that like a convalescent center?”
“Yes. But the industry doesn’t use that term anymore.” He glanced over. “Conjures up images of old people waiting to die.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Care Center s
ounds better.”
We both kept eating. “Where are you from?” Carlos asked.
“Phoenix.”
“I like Phoenix,” he said. “I was there for an elderly care conference a couple months ago. Stayed at this ritzy place—the Camelback Inn.” He took another bite of his burger. “It was really nice.”
“In Scottsdale,” I said.
“Right. We played some golf there.”
“The Padre or the Indian Bend course?”
“Indian Bend.” He looked at me with a peculiar expression. “You’ve golfed there?”
“I was a member of the resort’s golf club.”
Carlos took a few more bites of his food then said, “You’re not the typical homeless guy. At least not like any I’ve ever met.”
“What do you mean?”
“You had a golf club membership. You’re well spoken. Did you go to college?”
“Yeah. I got my undergraduate at ASU. My M.B.A. at Wharton.”
“You went to Wharton? That’s an Ivy League school,” he said. “I was right, you’re not like everyone else.”
I could tell that the incongruency of my situation bothered him. He took a few more bites. “Wharton, huh? Bet that cost a pretty one.”
“Fortune,” I said. “I’m a riches-to-rags story in the flesh.”
He nodded as if he suddenly understood. “Gambling?”
“No. I just got in with the wrong crowd.”
“That happens too,” he said. He took a long drink of his Coke, then asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Mostly my face and my ribs hurt.”
“Broken ribs hurt,” Carlos said, nodding. “When I was twenty, I was body surfing in Baja and got caught by a wave. They call it maytagging down there—getting thrown around in the washing machine. Broke five ribs. Hurt like the devil. Just don’t cough or laugh.”
“I won’t be laughing much,” I said. “But I can’t guarantee the former.”
Carlos finished his burger, then started on his fries as I noisily finished my shake. He smiled at the sound of my slurping. “Are you still hungry?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” He climbed out of the van. I noticed he left the keys in the ignition. He was gone a while, nearly ten minutes. He returned with another sack and a cup with a straw protruding. He opened the door and handed me the drink, then climbed in himself. “Sorry that took so long. You wouldn’t expect that long of a wait this late.”
“No problem,” I said.
“I got you another cheeseburger and another shake. You looked like you were really enjoying that shake.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I was.”
Talk about the theory of relativity—I was enjoying this food every bit as much as any of our gourmet meals in New York or France. Probably more so.
“You know you left the keys in the ignition,” I said.
“I don’t figure a man who went to Wharton and had a golf membership at the Camelback Inn would steal an ugly van.”
I grinned. “Guess not.”
He looked at me for a moment and then said, “When was the last time you worked?”
“Not since I left for business school. But before that I worked since I was twelve. My father taught me to work. To him hard work was the eleventh commandment.”
“Maybe we can help each other out,” Carlos said. “We had four employees leave without notice last week, actually, two of them were deported, so we’re busier than a one-handed blackjack dealer. Then today one of my CNAs threatened to quit if she doesn’t get some help pronto.” He looked at me. “See where I’m going with this?”
“What’s the deal?”
“We’ve got nine empty rooms at the center. You can sleep there, eat there, just work the swing shift until we can get some help in.”
The offer of food and shelter filled me with relief. “I don’t have any experience with that kind of work,” I said, “but I’m willing to do whatever you need. I’m a quick study.”
“It’s not rocket science,” Carlos said. “You’ll be helping the CNAs feed the residents.”
“Feed them?” I asked. “Like spoon-feed them?”
“Some of them require that. But most of them you’ll just be wheeling down to the dining room.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” I said, even though it was kind of obvious.
“I’ll get you some CNA scrubs. You’ll fit right in.”
“Scrubs,” I said. “Like doctors wear.”
“Exactly. Clothes, clean bed, three hot meals, a hot shower, soap, shampoo, even razors.”
In my previous life the offer would have sounded ridiculous. But this wasn’t my previous life, it was my new reality, and it was a whole lot better than living in a concrete tunnel scavenging for food. “Sounds like a deal,” I said.
“You didn’t ask what the pay was.”
“I thought that was the pay,” I said.
“No, you’ll get paid. But not much. Minimum wage.”
“Minimum wage,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Seven
I got a job today for $8.25 an hour.
I did the math.
Even if no taxes were taken out,
I’d still have to work 58,104 hours to make as
much as I’d blown through in my forty-one-day spree.
Luke Crisp’s Diary
The Golden Age retirement center was a small, run-down care facility. My immediate impression was that it was a place for those who couldn’t afford better. Carlos pulled the van into the back parking lot and turned off the ignition. “I’m going to go inside and get you a CNA uniform. What size do you wear in pants?”
“Thirty-three waist.”
“Okay.” He looked me over. “And an XL top. I’ll be right back.”
He returned fifteen minutes later carrying a bundle of clothing with a pair of white slippers on top. He opened the van’s door. “Sorry that took so long. I didn’t forget about you. We had a problem with one of our residents.”
“No worries,” I said. “I don’t have any pressing engagements.”
He put the clothes on the driver’s seat next to me. “Try these on.”
I was still aching from my beating so it hurt a little as I pulled on the purple cotton scrubs. The pants were baggy on me. I had lost more weight than I realized. I was glad to be clothed again.
“Try the slippers,” he said.
I put on the shoes. They were a little wide but otherwise fit. “They’re fine,” I said.
“I’ve got other sizes,” he said. “Come inside.”
Inside, the center was decorated for Christmas with a fake tree in the lobby strung with tinsel and foil garlands and Christmas lights. I thought it a shame that the tree wasn’t real, as the place was pungent with geriatric smells and a little pine would have done some good.
We walked past the nurses’ station to the end of the hall near the back exit. Carlos pushed open the door to the last room. There was a small bed with a nightstand and a glowing lamp next to it. “You can take this room,” he said. “There’s a hygiene kit in the bathroom you can use. It has razors, shaving cream, shampoo, a comb, and deodorant.”
“Thank you.”
“The morning shift manager comes in around seven-thirty, so I’ll leave her a note so she doesn’t call security on you. The kitchen starts serving at seven, so you can go down to the cafeteria and get a hot breakfast. The dining room is this way.” He led me down the hall to an open room with a bright linoleum floor and small, round tables. “There you go. Any questions?” he asked.
“No. Pretty straightforward.”
Carlos led me back to my room. When we got there, he said, “If you need anything, just call. Everyone here has my number. I’ll be in before your shift, so I’ll introduce you to Sylvia. She’s the CNA on this wing. You’ll be assisting her.”
“Sylvia,” I said. “What’s a CNA?”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Then I’m out of here.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just do a good job for the people here.”
I shut the door after him, then took off my clothes and took an hour-long shower. I sat on the floor of the shower and let the warm water just run over me, washing the city off of me. I shaved, which took two razors and about twenty minutes. When I was done, I got up and washed my briefs in the shower and hung them up to dry, then put my scrubs back on. I lay down in the soft clean bed and felt human again.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Eight
I have learned that if you have something to eat,
a roof overhead and clean water,
you should be most grateful—
you number among the world’s most blessed.
Luke Crisp’s Diary
Light was coming in through the window blinds when I woke to the sound of yelling. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and leaned forward, momentarily forgetting that I’d been injured. The pain in my ribs quickly reminded me, taking my breath away. I waited for the pain to subside and then slid my feet over the side of the bed and put on my slippers. I stood and walked to the door and peeked out. An old man was standing in the middle of the hallway about thirty feet from me. He was brandishing a fork at the nurse, periodically thrusting it at her. “You stay away from me, you demon.”
“Mr. Brown, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’m going to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t touch me.” He took a step toward her.
“Marsha!” she shouted down the hall. I couldn’t see anyone around except an old woman pushing herself toward them with a walker. “Mr. Brown, put down the fork before you hurt someone.”
“Who are you?” he said. “What do you want with me?”
“Mr. Brown, I’m Tammy. You know me. I take care of you.”
“I don’t know you. Keep away from me or I’ll hurt you,” he said. He took another step toward her. In spite of my pain, I quickly snuck up behind the man and locked my arms around him, firmly pinning his arms to his side. He dropped the fork as he yelled out, “Aaaagh! Police! Call the police! Call a priest! Call a priest!”