He paused in the sunset, his red hair
stirring in the breeze. Something
excited him about the setting; he could feel it in the air. As the sun set over the buildings, one last
flash of brilliance greeted his tired eyes.
Without a moonlit sky, night fell suddenly over Skid Row, deepening
quickly into progressive shades of gray, purple, and then black. As lamplight cast his shadow onto the
pavement, a special warmth seemed to surround his soul, fortifying him against
the unknown.
Against the darkness, which had
gobbled up the street, an inner peace and abiding faith swelled inside
him. It was the worst time on Skid
Row—no place for shoppers, tourists, or anyone else on foot. But for Elijah Gray, it was a special time:
a period in which was tested his spiritual strength. With bible in hand, he was ready for the worst part of his
twenty-four hour service to God.
In every corner and pocket he could
hear them: the misbegotten and castaway—the dregs of his congregation, settling
for the evening or lurking singly or in small groups in alleys and in the
park. Many of them, after pandering uptown
awhile were now returning, withdrawing with bottle-in-hand, into the bowels of
the city. Collectively, whenever
possible, this—the worst of the street people—huddled for a smoke, a swig of
wine, or just to talk a spell. Today,
during normal working hours, he had preached to pedestrians and anyone else who
happened to look his way. Earlier, in
the late morning, he had preached to the homeless, especially the growing
number of families huddled in the park, by the river, or camped in vacant lots. To them, the victims of social and economic
woes, he conducted sermons wherever they happened to be. But at night, as they bedded down, he
visited them only long enough to gather their prayer requests before striking
out for the heartland of Skid Row.
For the heartland bums, as he called
them, it was time to find a nook and, in many cases, enjoy, their hard won
booze. A few lingered on the sidewalk
or by the curb to share a joke or beg a light.
Some hovered as moths around a streetlight or set trashcans ablaze to
warm their hands. Tonight, at the end
of his preaching schedule, he turned onto an unlit stretch of alley. His only outward illumination was his
flashlight, which he used sparingly, and the glow of cigarettes down the line.
As airport runway lights guiding his
approach, he used these beacons to prevent himself from tripping over legs and
knees in the dark. With his Bible in
hand, he sought out familiar faces or just derelicts that were still
awake. Occasionally, while probing the
darkness with his flashlight, a voice would threaten and he would quickly turn
it off. But most of the time they
stared like zombies as the bottle passed.
Heads would drop, bodies would crumple, until one by one they fell
asleep.
Tonight, at what seemed to be a likely
spot, Elijah stopped, turned off his light, and stood there peering into the
dark.
“Listen,” he suddenly cried, “don’t go
to sleep! It’s me again: Elijah
Gray. I’ve got something to tell
you. So hold on a minute; your lives
may depend on it. Just watch my light
and listen to my voice. The last thing
I want you to hear before you fall asleep is this: it’s not too late! That’s
right my friends, Jesus wants you just like you are. Why, I don’t know. I’ve
had several talks with Him about you. I
keep telling him that you’re not listening.
I’d love to stay with my homeless congregation where at least they’re
sober. I’d also like to stay in the
mission where its warm and I can get a good night’s sleep. But He wants me to spend my evenings here in
the hollow—a dark, cold, living hell, where I can get beaten up, maybe killed.”
“I use to be like you guys.” his voice
softened. “Before I hit the skids, I had a family, a big house, and a good
job. Then I lost them all one by
one. First my wife died and then my
daughter ran off to Lord knows where.
And suddenly I was hitting the bottle.
It was so easy to stay lit after work.
But then I began drinking during lunch and sometimes even for breakfast,
until finally I lost my job, too. I
never planned my end, but that’s what it was: a death wish. I was so unhappy I wanted to drink myself to
death. But I’m not asking you to give
up the booze now, this very moment. I’m
only asking that you listen to me. This
is the easy part. The Lord will help
you through the hard part later. Right
now, just say to yourself ‘Jesus, I’m
listening. I’m a sinner, but my eyes
aren’t shut and my heart is open. So
give me a chance like you did for Elijah.
I don’t want to burn in Satan’s fires.
I don’t want to die of sclerosis of the liver or brain rot either. I want to live a happy life and someday be
where you are Lord: paradise.’ ”
“I’m praying Lord!” he cried “I’m
repenting before it’s too late, before I get sick, die, and wake up in
hell! Hear my prayer Lord. Hallelujah!
I’m waiting, watching, my eyes uplifted, my spirits afire. I hear you at the gates of my heart, the
mouth of my soul, knowing you’re there but heeding you not, feeling your love
but blinded by sin. Pull me up Lord. Stand me on my feet. I want to walk out of here whole, believing,
trusting, and the man you want me to be!”
At this point, after his lofty
introduction, he walked down the dark corridor, praying under his breath. Out of politeness he tried keeping his beam
low to avoid their eyes. Derelicts, who
had been in the darkness too long, were sensitive to light. He had learned to be patient with such
people, not merely out of compassion but out of fear of the unknown. Right now, of course, he was in the most
unknowable portion of Skid Row: an alley.
Normally, he would preach to anyone
that would listen: in the park, on the street, in front of stores, or anywhere
else they could be found. Seldom would
he venture into a place like this, especially at night, unless he knew who the
occupants were. Drug addicts, lunatics,
and occasional gang members frequented Skid Row’s alleys in search of mischief,
drug money, initiation rites, or just to raise hell. Late at night like this, however, even street punks and the
normal criminal element avoided this part of town.
To enter an alley down here at this
hour, as he was doing, would have struck most gang members as stupid if not
brave. It would have been considered
insane to anyone else watching him go in.
But for Elijah Gray, it was not a test of manhood that brought him into
harm’s way. He would, if the Lord
permitted, avoid this sector entirely, and concentrate on the homeless families
and pedestrians up town. They at least
listened to him and would not threaten him as did the derelicts in Skid Row. While in the business district, his main
headquarters, shoppers and workers had become his greatest beneficiaries, often
giving him enough money to buy food and occasionally rent a room.
Skid Row, on the other hand, was
filled with danger. It was the most
depressing place a preacher could be.
It was, of course, where he had found God, but it was also where he hit
the skids—the lowest and weakest point in his life. To a reformed drunk, who had been an alcoholic and dropout,
himself, the temptation to drink like everyone else down here was therefore
strong. Far from uplifting his spirit
or making him feel good, it was a constant reminder of what he was and what
could not do. The derelicts on Skid
Row, including old friends, simply would not listen. There would be few success stories like his own down here. Most men and women who wound up on the
street remained there for life. A
growing number of them seemed beyond God’s reach. With liquor or drugs as soul mates, many of them would reach the
point of no return when, with ruined minds, it was too late to accept
Christ. It was for these wretches that
his gospel remained on the street. But
it was for old friends, that pitiful few he wanted to save, that he braved the
dark, enduring the abuse of other derelicts in what seemed the blackest hole on
earth.
******
Already he had detected several
familiar faces. Unfortunately, they
were hostile, apathetic, or too drunk to hear.
Only few of these men had shown him interest in the past, while most of
them viewed Elijah with irritation: a constant reminder that they lived dreary,
unproductive lives. Caught in his
flashlight’s glow were Skunk Larson, the deaf-mute Little Tom, and Smokin’ Al
Breen. He could hear Old Judd talking
to himself somewhere in the dark.
Although there were others he now recognized, he had a limit on how far
he would go. After hearing cursing
ahead, he stopped abruptly, shut off his light, and stood there pensively in
the dark.
“I’ve been there brothers.” he spoke
nervously now. “After hitting the skids, I would sit in the alley like this
with my bottle, staring at the dark.
Sometimes I was afraid. Most of
the time I was too drunk to care. But
there’s a greater darkness than this.
It lies inside you, and only the Lord can reach it after you let him
in.” “Let Jesus be your lamp!” his
voice rose again. “Let Jesus be your
friend!”
As he quoted from the Bible, he heard
movement in the darkness: a great onrush of bodies seemed headed his way. He could hear frightened voices and the
shuffle of feet as they approached. For
one awful moment, he could smell their unwashed bodies coming closer and
closer. The normal mixture of body
odors, garbage, and cheap wine, grew stronger in the air. Backing up quickly onto the sidewalk, he
watched in horror as several of them followed him out. He found himself bumping into men who had
already exited and felt relief as they continued running down the street. Something had obviously spooked them. Judging by the glow of their cigarettes, the
first group, which included his friends, remained seated while this latter
group fled. As fireflies in blackest
night, the remaining derelicts, exhibited the delayed reaction of drunks,
rising gradually as points of light, until they, too, emerged on the street.
For several moments, derelicts, drug
addicts, and schizophrenics mulled in the front of the alley in separate
groups. Within each group, there was a
further breakdown on the basis of personalities, gender, or age. Most people on Skid Row, he had found,
clumped sooner or later into such cliques, staking out territories in alleys,
underpasses, or parks. Such cliques
ranged in size from two or three people to a dozen or more individuals,
rallying around one dominant bum.
Due to their larger numbers, alley
bums, such as these, had greater influence in Skid Row. Not only did they push drug addicts and
schizophrenics into the deepest recesses in town, but they kept other derelicts
from other alleys out. Fortunately for
Elijah, Smokin’ Al was the alley boss of this group. Otherwise, this detour on his agenda would be foolhardy, if not
downright insane.
Moved by their collective helplessness
now, he prayed for these lost souls, especially for the friends he had known so
long. These, the flotsam of modern
society in the most despised sector of town, were acting like children who were
afraid of the dark. Although Elijah had
become a nuisance for many of them, for others, like Smokin’ Al, he had given
encouragement and hope. Ironically, Al
Bream didn’t drink and, contrary to his name, did not even smoke. Bronco Stevens, Al’s best friend, however,
had been an alcoholic most of his adult life.
He had, over the years, developed liver damage, and grew progressively
ill. All the signs of sclerosis of the
liver had been there, but Bronco would not listen until it was too late. Nevertheless, after much praying and
preaching, Al’s friend, at the end of his life, had accepted Christ. Elijah had stayed with him in the hospital,
giving him spiritual comfort throughout his long agonizing death. When it was over, Smokin’ Al Breen, Old
Judd, and Little Tom were waiting for him on the street below. He knew that he had finally made headway in
Al’s group, though it was at the expense of Bronco Steven’s life.
Countless others, he was sure, were
terminally ill, and many of them who had been released from mental institutions
prematurely were still insane. But the
most pitiful wrecks he had ever encountered were the drug addicts, many of
which were afflicted with AIDS. These
jittering, perspiring, and pathetic wretches were at the lowest level on Skid
Row. They were feared and despised by
even the winos, because of the threat they posed. Elijah, who had difficulty fighting his own prejudices, felt
intimidated, himself, by this group. He
did not mind the vile moods of drunks nearly as much as he did the
unpredictability of addicts. One day,
in a drug-induced state, they would pretend to be listening to everything he
said. On the following day, however,
they would be scheming for more drugs.
To provide themselves drug money, in fact, many addicts would waylay
their best friends. There was nothing
sacred in Skid Row, except friendship between drunks, and yet many of the same
addicts, who claimed to have been saved, would commit murder for a fix.
******
While many of them continued running,
other addicts, too weak or disoriented to go much further, lingered on the
sidewalks, blinking dumbly in the light.
Most of them were still high on drugs, but a few, who had not provided
for their habit, were going through various stages of withdrawal. The schizophrenics, who included several
Afghanistan, Iraq, and even older Viet Nam veterans, were the most nomadic
people on Skid Row. Like many of the
drug addicts before them, they continued wandering down the street. Whatever had driven all these people out of
the alley, Elijah realized, still lurked in the shadows. He could not even imagine what it might be,
but various theories were presented to him as he decided what to do.
On his way toward the alley, he was greeted
by Skunk—the most malodorous man on Skid Row.
Skunk, as were all the other drunks in Al’s group except Al, himself,
was inebriated. It was almost
impossible to understand what he said.
It sounded like “Don’t go into the alley, there’s crazed addicts in
there!” Several other unintelligible
theories were given by members of Smokin’ Al’s group as they stood there on the
street. Old Judd thought that crazed
veterans were running amuck. Finally,
as Elijah had hoped, Smokin’ Al, the only sober man in this group, gave his
opinion of what had happened tonight.
“Jive—that’s what they givin’ you
rev!” He stuck out his chin. “It was those cars comin’ in tonight. Lord know what dey doin’ in dere now!”
“Cars?” Elijah frowned. “What
cars? “I’ve never seen cars around
here, except police cars. Was it those hoodlums again?”
“Wuddn’t no cops this time rev.” he
said firmly. “Wuddn’t no hoodlums neither.
Twas three cars filled with people: weirdoes wearin’ black robes. Leastways das what the druggies was saying. Only hoods
I saw wuz on dim people’s heads!”
“Hoods?” Elijah frowned. “What kind of
hoods?”
“Kind dat hide yo head,” Al explained
“like dem folks in da movies.” “You know.” He tried demonstrating with his
coat. “Sneaky-like, like dey should be holdin’ candles and sayin’ something
spooky and strange.”
“Devil-worshippers?” Elijah frowned.
“Is that what you’re saying, Al? Devil worshippers chased these folks
out?”
“No,” Al shook his head “I din’t sayin nuttin. Das what dem druggies said. Usually dem
folks see’n bats or snakes—stuff dat is abstract, you know, hard to
explain. But dis talk sound solid ‘n
real, like dey not makin’ it up. I
heered it from three dif’rent addicts, at three dif’rent times!”
As he listened to Al talk, Elijah
looked passed him at the alley, slowly digesting what he said. In a court of law Al, who often saw things
that weren’t there, wouldn’t be a reliable witness. But he spoke clearly and reasonably now, and he had never
willingly lied about anything in the past.
It seemed possible, for that matter, that what old Judd claimed might
also be true, since a group of vets did, in fact, inhabit the bowels of Skid
Row.
“Well, it’s the end of October, isn’t
it?” Elijah mumbled aloud. “…. It’s Halloween.
Sometimes I loose track of time, but I do remember seeing partygoers on
Eighth. They were heading north though,
not south. What on earth would
partygoers be doing down here?”
“Maybe dey slummin’ it.” Al shrugged.
“Fact is rev’rend, dey’s here in our
alley, not on eighth. You got no business in dere tonight!”
Probing the darkness a moment, Elijah
uttered a nervous laugh as Al followed behind.
He was almost convinced that Al’s devil-worshippers were nothing more
than young people having fun. But the
fact remained that something had, in fact, spooked these people…. And that
something was still inside and had not yet come out.
“Hol’ on rev!” Al grabbed the back of
his coat. “I said you can’t be goin’ in dat alley. Dem folks, what go in dis alley, up to no good! You
gonna get yo’self kilt!”
“You really think so?” Elijah stopped
walking. “What makes you so sure, Al.
You didn’t see them yourself.
How can you be so sure?”
“I dunno. Call it gut reaction.
Mebbe da Lawd speakin’ to me now,” Al replied, holding firmly onto his
coat. “But you ain’t goin’ in dere rev’rend!
Dey gonna put you in one of dose voodoo trances and cut off yo’ head!”
A familiar feeling of resolve came
over Elijah now, as he listened to the details of what devil worshippers did to
preachers like him. It was hearsay
evidence, taken from people who lived in a dream world, spoken by a man who had
trouble with reality, himself, and yet it was getting to him. At the very least, he sensed that a threat
waited for him in the darkness beyond.
“Please.” He reached around to
disengage his hand. “I know what I’m doing, Al. As long as they weren’t speeding, what’s the harm? Maybe they drove out the other side. It could be silly kids, playing Halloween
games. The scare, itself, could still
have been caused by another addict or lunatic’s hallucination. Skunk or Old Judd could be right.” “Come on, Al” He pulled away gently. “The
Lord’s with me. He’ll guide my way!”“
“He will?” Al looked at him
quizzically “What he say to you rev’?
Why would da Lawd want you to get yo’self kilt? They ain’t no one left in dat alley cept dem
weirdoes; and dey ain’t gonna listen to you tonight rev. Dey gonna cut you up real fine! You gonna come out of dat alley a soprano
and mebbe even lose yo’ head!”
******
Of all the derelicts in Skid Row,
Smokin’ Al Breen was his favorite. He
had always, in spite of his surroundings, remained cheerful. Even now his sense of humor broke through
the darkness, putting a smile on Elijah’s face. But he, like all the other men and women, was agitated
tonight. Except occasional gang
members’ cars racing through here during the day, nothing that Elijah could
remember had ever affected them like this…. Something evil had come this way. He was sure of this now.
Although mentally ill, himself, Smokin’
Al was not a wino and had never used drugs.
An incident, which Al had never explained, had left him emotionally
disturbed, but not disoriented as were many derelicts on Skid Row. Unlike Skunk, Old Judd, and Little Tom,
whose dementia had begun with wine, Al could be cured. Elijah was certain of this. As the only sober man in this group, he was
the most levelheaded. He was also the
closest to God. Elijah trusted this
enigmatic man, whose theory, of all the ones he had heard so far, somehow carried
the ring of truth.
“Al,” he called over his shoulder,
“how long ago did they arrive?”
“Just befo’ you came,” replied
Al. “Dat’s what Blinky and her friends
said. Dis is as far I go, rev!”
Skunk, Old Judd, and Little Tom,
Elijah noted, had already turned back.
“I wished I’d gotten a look at them.”
He swallowed heavily now. “This doesn’t
make sense…. It doesn’t make sense at
all!”
“No suh, it don’t…. I wouldn’t go no
futhah rev. Damn it man, thems
devil-worshipers up dere!” Smokin’ Al’s voice trailed off in the background as
he followed the others into the dark.
******
A foreboding filled him as he watched
them depart. Left by himself to face it
alone, he gripped his flashlight as he would a weapon. His left hand pressed his Bible to his chest. What waited for him this time in the alley:
drug addicts, lunatics, or was it Halloween revelers about to pull a
prank? In spite of his abiding faith,
he felt foolish and vulnerable now, as if, for the first time in his career, he
had gone too far.
Alert to sounds and movement all
around, Elijah laughed hysterically to himself before uttering the Twenty-third
Psalm, “Yeah though I walk through the Valley of Death, I fear no evil, because
God is with me. His rod and staff, they
comfort me. He preparest a table for me
in the presence of my enemies. He
anointest my head with oil. My cup
runneth over…”
As he tried to go on, his throat
constricted with fear. There was no
noise now except the sound of his footsteps and a faint rustling ahead. And yet he could smell something far more
ominous than body odor, urine, or alcohol in the air: candles and incense. He was almost sure of it: odors often
associated with religious ceremonies, such as a Black Mass.
Attempting to recite the Lord’s Prayer
now, he found that he was too petrified with fear. The prayer remained muddled in his head. In its place a repetitious “Save me
Lord! Give me strength!” poured out of
his trembling lips. He was going much
further than he had planned, into the worst pocket of Skid Row. Could Skunk be right? Would he be attacked by one of the alley’s
numerous addicts? Or, as Old Judd,
warned, would one of the resident psychos waylay him in the dark? Right now, most of all, he feared Al’s
warning the most. His friend had heard
someone give a stereotype description of Satan worshipers. Up ahead, on the other side of the alley, he
would soon find out if he was right.
******
Playing off bricks, trashcans,
cardboard boxes, and garbage strewn on the ground, Elijah’s flashlight searched
for movement in the shadows and signs of life.
After several moments of searching, he realized that he had the
remaining alley to himself. Al had been
right. The homeless, drunks, drug
addicts, and even the schizophrenics had been cleaned out. Normally, this far in, there should be a few
addicts or schizophrenics or at least a drunk or two passed out against a
wall. But this time there was not so
much as a black cat roaming in the dark.
As his light focused straight ahead
into the blackness, it seemed to reach into the very depths of hell. In spite of his misgivings, Elijah felt that
he was doing the right thing. It was,
he was convinced, God’s will that he check this out. And yet, viewed logically and intelligently, it seemed quite
insane…. Al had asked the right question: “Why would the Lord want him to get
himself killed? He was breaking the
cardinal rules for street preachers: never go into an alley late at night and
always keep an exit directly at your back.
Although he could not see or hear them
yet, he knew they were there. Unseen
and unheard yet, they could not camouflage their presence. Not only was there a foul odor emitted by
this group, but there was an utter silence that that made him think they were
up to no good.
Finally, quite by accident, one of
them bumped a trashcan to his left and was caught scrambling away in his
light. Skirting the darkness far ahead,
he disappeared into the shadows whence he had come. Except for the sound of Elijah’s footsteps then, the quiet returned
to the alley, until he came closer with his beam.
Several bodies skirted the light this
time before disappearing mysteriously into the dark. They were, he realized now, veterans, still affected by the
horrors of that war. Raising his
flashlight higher in the direction of each noise, he found them retreating from
the radiance as would wild animals confronted with light. Marveling at this reaction, Elijah found
himself following them further and further in.
He had no experience preaching to this
group. They were the most illusive
derelicts in Skid Row. Nevertheless,
his worst scenario included being attacked by these men. He didn’t expect to find them running from him.
In the dark, they had been ready to attack, until he showed them
light. This appeared to be symbolic of
what they were: night creatures--afraid of God, fleeing from the word as much
from the light. The truth was, of
course, these poor men were insane. Unlike
many derelicts who still had a chance, they were not responsible for what they
had become. For them it seemed to be
too late.
“Come back,” he called. “don’t be
afraid! Come out of the darkness! Please, join us on the street. You’re lives aren’t over because of what you
endured!”
Lowering his flashlight to his side,
he listened expectantly as they hovered in the darkness.
“My name’s Elijah.” he cried hoarsely.
“I am a voice crying in the wilderness.
My mission is to bring you the word—the Word of God. I’ve never met you before. You’re like ghosts around here; no one has
ever seen you up close. How do you find
food? Where do you sleep?” “Please,” he said softly “come out of the
darkness, into the light!”
As wild animals on the fringe of a
campsite, afraid of the fire but not of the camper nearby, they remained hidden
in the blackness, as if waiting for their chance.
“Listen,” Elijah tried another tactic.
“I was never in Viet Nam, Iraq or Afghanistan.
I admit it, I dodged service to my county, and I regret it now. But I had a brother who fought in Iraq. He’s had problems, too, just like you. Fortunately, for Ethan, he got help before
it was too late. He found the
Lord. You can too!”
As he rambled on a moment, he could
hear one of them whispering warnings to his squad “Watch out men, he’s got a
flame-thrower! He’s trying to flush us out!”.
As long as he pointed his beam
downward and kept talking, they crept continuously up to him, mumbling
feverishly to themselves. But if he
even moved it an inch, he could hear them retreating again. While his beam rose perceptibly higher, his
throat constricted once more with fear as the radiance played upon the
dark. As soon as he dropped his beam,
they were drawn in, no longer threatened by the beam. Occasionally, as the light jerked upwards, he would catch
glimpses of them. They seemed to be
darting to and fro in the shadows.
Unlike the derelicts, which had been frightened in the night, these men
seemed to relish it. They appeared to
be drawn into it. Hiding in the alleys
at all hours, they were rarely seen in the day. Instead of the deadpan stares of drunks or the desperate look of
the homeless, he detected several shabbily clad creatures looking back
wild-eyed and fearful at him and to the light in his hands.
As would drunks and addicts during a
binge, they found it difficult to distinguish the real world from fantasy. Ironically, in spite of his message, they
considered him the enemy. For some
reason, they saw a flame-thrower in his hand.
More likely, however, something else had frightened them first to push
them this way. While he walked toward them, scanning with his light, they
continued to retreat, until he could no longer catch them in his beam. The shock had evidently been too great. He could hear the sound of their footsteps
echoing somewhere to his left, as if another corridor intersected this alley
not far ahead. When he raised his
flashlight into the space occupied by those men, it seemed to burn endlessly
through the darkness, as if there was no end to this alley and it would
eventually reach into the depths of hell.
******
Elijah had now passed most of the way
through the alley, and yet so far he had caught no devil-worshippers or
Halloween pranksters in his light. From
out of the shadows now, as if on cue, appeared more drug addicts--the group he
trusted the least. He had not heard
their footsteps, until they were at the boundary of his light. Now, from the own dark corridor, they seemed
to appear out of nowhere, several men and women, drawn as moths toward his
light.
Voices, ranging from whispers to
shouts, broke the eerie quiet. At first
glance, they all appeared drugged, shuffling trance-like up to him, with
smiles, zombie-like expressions, and popeyed looks of awe. He could hear all manner of nonsense pouring
from their mouths, from obscene greetings to outright heckling. Some of them, however, those afflicted with
disease or malnutrition, were not so lucky, trailing miserably after the first
onrush. They reminded him of starving
animals searching for food. These
desperate addicts, in spite of their afflictions, could be the most dangerous
souls on Skid Row.
Almost lost in their catcalls and
guffaws, was another sound he had to strain to hear. It sounded like someone groaning in the shadows, but he could not
be sure.
Ignoring the addicts as best he could,
he searched for the source of the groan.
After walking only a short distance, he saw something he had missed
before with his light: a derelict crumpled against the wall.
“What is wrong with this man?” he
looked back suspiciously at them now.
“They hit him.” an emaciated young man
stepped forward from the group. “Dumb asshole just stood as they approached,
like a cat does when it sees the headlights of a car.”
“Let’s have a look.” Elijah sighed,
reaching down to the man. “When did this happen? How long has he been lying here like this?”
“He ain’t moved for hours.” the young
man wiped his nose. “He sort of hit the wall and bounced onto the ground.”
Rolling him gently over onto his back,
Elijah turned the light directly onto his face. By now the entire crowd had encircled him. The man had bruises on his face, which could
mean many things for a drunk. He could,
in fact, have been hit by a car. He
could also, as he staggered to find his nest, have walked into the wall
accidentally and knocked himself out.
Knowing the reputation of these people, however, Elijah considered one
more possibility. Seeing all the signs
of a mugging here, he again held his flashlight as a weapon in his hand as he
inspected the man.
The young man who had chosen to be a
spokesman for the others had spoken with remarkable clarity for someone under
the influence of drugs, and yet it was he that Elijah feared the most. A slight caste in one of his eyes made him
appear sinister. He seemed to enjoy the
misfortune of this man.
Focusing his attention now upon to the
man, he said a short prayer for him and then asked God to deliver him from this
group. As if Elijah’s words had given
him life, the man’s face suddenly twitched and he emitted a groan. Smiling faintly at him, Elijah kept a wary
eye on the addicts as the man came to.
“Far out man!” the young man cried. “He’s back from the dead!”
“Wha-a-a-a happenned?” he heard him
mumble.
“You’re injured.” Elijah tried to
explain. “I don’t know how bad yet. They
said you were hit by a car.”
“I-I’m-mm ho-o-kay,” the man’s tongue
rolled thickly around in his mouth.
“Don’t try to move.” Elijah shook his
head “You probably need a doctor. Sit
here against the wall until I get help!”
******
During the silence that followed, he
saw a flashlight beam, and discovered, with mixed emotions, that a fourth group
of derelicts was emerging from the dark.
Realizing that another corridor crossed this alley, he stood there in
wonderment, as the last group approached.
As his flashlight beam played upon bricks, concrete, cardboard boxes,
and mounds of trash, it finally caught the dark entrances on each side of the
alley. It seemed, in his befuddled
state of mind, as if he had stumbled into a great cavern: an underworld city of
bums. When he heard voices again and
looked around shakily, the terrible illusion faded, as would a dream within a
dream. It seemed to Elijah at such
times that life here on Skid Row was divided into various levels of torment--a
nightmare, as in Dante’s Inferno, in which he was preaching the Gospel among
the damned.
When the drunk looked up and saw his
friends, he suddenly came alive.
Against Elijah’s advice, he struggled to his feet, shirking off his
efforts to give him a helping hand. His
friends were allowed to steady him a moment, then allowed him to go it alone
when he was finally standing up.
“We’ll take care of him,” said the man
holding the light. “
“Suit yourselves,” Elijah snorted,
rising to his feet. “He’s a very lucky man.
He sure is drunk!”
“I’mm-mm not injurrred,” the man said,
wobbling around in the dark.
Turning back to the drug addicts,
Elijah wondered when they would leave.
They just stood there in overwhelming numbers, as the fourth group
departed, blocking his passage to the end of the alley. He could hear them talking in murmurs
amongst themselves.
Suddenly, as if the Lord himself had
given him a prod, he began gently edging his way through this group. Silently, without explaining his actions he
continued onward, listening to their murmurs of surprise, more afraid, at this
point, of what was behind him than what lie ahead.
He knew that something waited up ahead
but he was not sure what it was. At
least it would not be drug addicts or drunks.
They were now safely behind him as were other derelicts as well as the
vets. Nor was it gang members or other
criminal elements roaming this netherland of Skid Row? Only God’s fool would enter such a zone,
traveling further than any sober or sane person would ever go.
******
As he pressed deeper and deeper into
the unknown, he found his legs going where his mind no longer wanted to
go. Pure faith drove him now. For several more moments into a corridor
darker than anything he had ever known where even the lunatics and addicts didn’t
go, he walked quietly, his flashlight trained directly ahead. When he thought he might have escaped danger
and that there was nothing more menacing left to find, he stopped and pondered
the dark. He had thought he close to
the exit now, but suddenly the alley seemed to deepen… Had Al’s devil-worshippers gone out the
other side? Or was there actually miles
of alley ahead? This question, which he
tried shrugging off, seemed absurd, and yet the illusion, if that’s what it
was, was stark and menacing. Where
there more denizens lurking ahead. Not
wanting to believe this was the case, he was tempted to pivot, at this point,
and report back to his friends. He
would like to say, with a clear conscious, that he had found nothing up
here. He was a preacher, after all, and
an ex-street person, himself. He felt
ill equipped emotionally to confront devil-worshippers, if that is what they
were. This kind of stuff was in novels
and movies. He had always considered
these types of people to be phonies; harmless fools who had taken a wrong
turn. He had preached a simple and
fundamentalist message, which was devoid of supernaturalism and belief in the
occult. He did not believe in ghosts,
witches, or sorcerers, as did many of the Jamaican and Haitian people on the
street. And yet here he was plunging
into the unknown, half convinced that Satanists had invaded Skid Rows…. Now,
however, as he looked back into the darkness, it seemed too late to retreat. He had traveled too far down the alley,
which never seemed to end.
It was at the very moment that he saw
the end. There it was, he thought,
sighing with relief: the alley exit. He
could see a street lamp ahead. But then
suddenly, at that point, several meters ahead, he saw a second light from the
alley wall. It was a mere crack of
radiance below a door—probably the side entrance to a building on the next
street. Almost immediately, in spite of
the terror he felt, he found himself pressing forward but stopping just short
of the door. Coming from inside the building,
he heard voices and resounding echoes that originated deep within the
room. Again, as he approached the door,
he recited the Twenty-third Psalm. This
time he followed it with a hurried recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. While scanning the brick wall beyond the
first door, he discovered a second door: a large corrugated entrance that
looked like a shipment door. This small
door was merely an exit, perhaps an emergency exit, while an aged sign over the
corrugated door read “Receiving.”
Though he saw light around the edges of the door it was locked. After trying to raise the shipping door, he
found it locked too. Tiptoeing onto the
street, as if he was crossing a minefield, he emerged onto the sidewalk. Looking up he saw a third sign, obviously the
marquee of the building that read in faded letters, Faber and Sons, he
approached the main entrance with the greatest trepidation. There were cars parked on the street, which
should have been another warning sign for Elijah, and yet he reached for the doorknob,
turned it, and found it unlocked.
Uttering a plea to God for forgiveness for his foolishness, he muttered
Christ’s words to his disciples, “Thou shall not tempt to Lord.”
Entering a shadowy room, which might have been the
receptionist room but was now barren of furniture or décor, he kept his light
trained on the floor and listened to voices deep in the bowels of the
building. He expected to hear the
conventional mumbo jumbo heard during satanic rites, but instead he heard
laughter and merriment. The current
room, upon close inspection, seemed to be a receptionist’s room at one
time. There was a counter in front of
the fourth door. Behind the counter was
an ancient pull-away desk, a rusty filing cabinet, barren shelves along the
walls, and an empty trash can nearby, all of which indicated to him that it had
not been used in this capacity for a long time. How vandals or thieves had missed writing graffiti or stealing
remaining chair behind the desk, he couldn’t imagine. Why the third door was unlocked was also a mystery to him
now. In spite of his suspicions and
fear, however, he pressed his ear to the fourth door and listened to noise on
the other side. The muffled sounds
seemed to indicate that a party was in progress. Turning the doorknob, he opened the door. A faint creaking—the sound of an inner
sanctum, caused him to jump and utter a startled gasp. After shining his light down a short
passageway, he discovered yet another door.
Without pausing, he found himself
turning its knob, opening the fifth door, and, in slow, measured increments,
climbing up a rickety timeworn staircase.
Each step creaked and moaned—bringing to mind again the proverbial inner
sanctum. By now Elijah was certain that
they must have heard him. At the top of
the stairs, he discovered a darkened balcony, which allowed him to overlook
what seemed to be warehouse below.
Quickly, he turned off his flashlight.
Several dozen men and women were
socializing in Halloween costumes, ranging from hooded monks to caped
vampires. Because of the large volume
of participants, he assumed that many of them had entered the warehouse from
the street, just as he had. Clearly,
his mind rejoiced, this was not a Black Mass or Satanic orgy. One of his original suspicions proved to be
true. These were simply young adults
(college or high school students) in the midst of Halloween revelry. The hooded monk was probably one of the
devil-worshippers Al had seen…. Is this what had frightened the derelicts out
of the alley? He wondered. It didn’t seem likely to him. Could it have been something else he hadn’t
seen? Or had Skunk or Old Judd been
right? Had one of the addicts gone
berserk earlier or had it been the vets all along?… What had caused the panic
and stampede out the other end of the alley?
Quietly retracing his steps, Elijah
walked down the noisy staircase, thankful that there was so much noise down
below. When he emerged in the street
below, he looked around, wondering which way to go. There was no alley left to search. Should he circle around and return to his friends or call it a
night and return to his apartment downtown.
Deciding to return and report “all clear” to his friends waiting on the
next street, he began putting distance between himself and the building. Or should he head back and report “all
clear” to his friends waiting at the other end?
It was at that very moment that
something flew passed the corner of his eye.
Directly ahead now he saw the headlights of a swiftly moving car. With less than a moment to get out its way,
he cursed himself for testing God and placing his life at risk. Would he suffer the same fate of poor Harold
Longland, a bygone friend targets by a drunken motorist? What if he swerved, ran up on the curb, and
tried to run him down, as the motorist had done to Harold? Where could he hide? What recess could he find? Looking around for entryways and more
alleys, he found an endless row of boarded up buildings with shallow entrances
but no place to hide.
As the car slowed down a few meters
down the boulevard, as if to toy with him before plunging ahead, he uttered a
portion of the Lord’s prayer and then began whimpering miserably to
himself: “Please Lord, let him pass me
by. I have much more work to do for
you. Don’t let them run me down!” Convinced that this was exactly what he was
going to do, he pressed himself as flat as he could against a nearby wall, held
his breath, and waited for it to approach.
As he stood there holding onto an ancient drainpipe, he found his memory
traveling back over time in which he had fallen from society and wound up a
derelict on the street. It had been a
long and heart-rending odyssey and it seemed to be ending now. But as he opened his eyes and looked
straight ahead, the car remained stopped, engine rumbling and lights piercing
the dark. It just sat there a moment,
until he heard the doors open and shut.
Shadows emerged, halting momentarily, as they caught sight of
Elijah. Soon he heard the faint sound
of footsteps coming from that direction, its occupants—dark robed figures with
flashlights in their hands were walking his way.
In the glow of their lights now, he
felt trapped, not knowing whether he should flee or stay. If he fled, they could easily run him
down. If he stayed, there was no
telling what they would do. So far they
had said nothing intimidating to him.
They had even stopped to avoid running him over. They walked ever so slowly in a nonchalant
way, politely training their beams to the ground. And yet they symbolized in his confused and disoriented mind all
that was evil in life. Were they, as Al
surmised, devil-worshippers and evil purveyors of the black arts?
When they were a few meters from where
he stood, he spiritually took the offensive.
He began quoting scripture to them as if they were just ordinary
bums. While he sermonized, he heard one
of them talking but ignored him, fearing to break his concentration at such a
time. Caught in the glow of a street
lamp across the street now, were outsiders, not denizens of Skid Row, and yet
the most terrifying specters he had seen.
With shaven heads and tattooed necks and arms, six gang-bangers
approached Elijah, mischief in their dark eyes.
“Hey,” the tallest and meanest looking
Hispanic called out, “you’re that preacher bum I saw up in Pershing Square!”
“That’s him all right,” a squat,
bowlegged youth nodded. “My Uncle Diego told me about him. His name’s Elijah, like that dude in the
Bible.”
For a moment, their banter almost
sounded friendly. Perhaps, he thought
hopefully, they were just being whimsical and wanted to make fun of him for a
while. But then, the third, fourth,
fifth, and sixth Hispanic youth stepped forth.
As they began mocking him, Elijah’s mind reeled with images of his own
destruction.
“Hey, preacher let’s hear a prayer,” a
third youth taunted.
“Yeah, padre,” a fourth sneered,
“perform a miracle for us. Turn my piss
into wine.”
While waving a shiny knife, a fifth
Hispanic merely sneered, while a sixth, recalling another famous passage,
suggested he raise himself from the dead.
Lord, Elijah whispered to himself, is this how you want me to end? I’ve been faithful and have fought to good
fight. Long ago, after changing my
life, I’ve tried to live a righteous life.
I’ve dedicated my life in service to you. I have so much to do for the downtrodden and misbegotten. Please save me now. Don’t let these thugs harm your servant. If I die, who will minister on Skid Row?
Suddenly, as he prayed with his eyes
shut, he was surrounded by the six youths.
It had happened in the past. To
prove their machismo and callous disregard for law and order, another
beating—perhaps murder—at the hands of gang-bangers was about to commence. Opening his eyes, he looked around at their
shadowy forms, expecting to feel fists pummeling him, perhaps knives, until he
heard a deep voice in his mind say, “Fear not, Elijah. I’ve heard your
prayer. Warn them once. Then, if necessary, in my name, strike them
down!”
“I speak for the Lord,” Elijah shouted
in a shaky voice. “Back off. Don’t
tempt God’s anger. Hurry, while there’s
still time. Flee this place and never
come back!”
“Ho-ho.” The chief gang member
snickered. “He’s threatening us. He
wants us to runaway. This guy’s got
balls. He speaks for God! He parades around as preacher, but he’s just
another stinking bum!”
A
pipe materialized in the squat gang member’s hand, and the fifth Hispanic who
brandished the knife, brought back his blade.
As the other youths pulled out brass knuckles and more knives, voices
sounded from the door Elijah had exited, “What’s going on over there? What are those guys doing?… Hey, we’re
calling the police!” While the
Halloween merrymakers stood helplessly by and watched Elijah’s apparent demise,
the ground shook below the preacher.
After this, as the Spirit of the Lord filled Elijah, there was thunder
and then the crackle of lighting out of the clear, cloudless, night sky. A flash of light around their silhouettes,
accompanied by a collective gasp, was followed by an eerie sight. For a moment, Elijah looked around the group
in wonder: he could see their bone structure against the light and smell
burning flesh. The evil rampage of this
gang against helpless vagrants had ended.
Rising up onto his legs after cowering on the sidewalk, Elijah watched
his tormentors crumple and break apart into ashes that were blown away in a
sudden gust of wind.
At that point, a young man in a Buzz
Lightyear costume edged forward. “Whoa,” he hooted, “did you see that?”
“Yeah,” a female voice sounded, “what a way to end
Halloween night!”
A third
young man dressed as a cowboy outfit slapped his knee. “That was awesome,
mister! How’d you do it? That was
trick, right? Where’s those guys
go? They seemed to vanish in thin air!”
At least two dozen more costumed
figures—cartoon characters, goblins, vampires, and ghosts muttered in awe,
until a tall, muscular girl masquerading as a zombie stepped forth.
“No,” she exclaimed, frowning at the
others. “As one of the designated drivers, I’m not drunk. Didn’t you feel that shaker and hear
thunder? Lighting struck those
gang-bangers, turning them into carbon fragments.” “This wasn’t an illusion or parlor trick.” She shuddered visibly.
“…. When the police arrive, this is going to be hard to explain.”
“Don’t worry,” a masked vampire
reassured her. “I was told about this place.
The police avoid it like the plague.
This is Skid Row. It’ll take
them an hour to answer this call.”
“Well, we were trespassing,” the
zombie reminded them. “That building might be abandoned, but it belongs to
someone. Half of you are under
age. We reported a gang-banger attack
in front of Faber and Sons Warehouse.
The police can’t ignore that.
Let’s get-the-hell out of here before they arrive!”
Moving hastily to their cars parked on the street, they barely gave him
any notice. Fear of being caught
outweighed Elijah’s miracle, which was just as well, he thought. How could he ever explain what happened to
patrolmen when the asked him what happened.
Light-headedly, as he began sprinting down the block, he imagined a play
script in his mind.
Policeman: “Did you call in a potential homicide?”
one of them might ask.
“No, officer,” Elijah could see himself replying,
“Halloween merrymakers made the call.”
“Where are they?” a second police would challenge.
“I don’t see any merrymakers. Are you
drunk sir?”
“No, officer,” Elijah would insist. “It’s true. Because they were afraid of getting into
trouble, they went home. Many of them
were underage.”
“All right sport.” The officer
would snarl after a cursory inspection. “You tell me yourself, what happened
here tonight.”
“It’s like this officer,” Elijah would try
explaining, “a gang of Hispanics attacked me, and the Lord struck them dead…”
The remainder of the story he would tell them
(unless he lied) was too fantastic—just the sort of thing a burnt out drunk
might tell. Although police force paid
little attention to Skid Row bums, he avoided such encounters. No one was going to believe his story,
especially the police.
“No,” he told himself, as he pivoted sharply right
at the corner and headed for his small apartment downtown, “I know what
happened…. So did those kids. It’s not
an illusion as some of them thought or a hallucination. I witnessed a miracle. The Lord saved me. My faith has paid off!”
Feeling stronger in his belief than ever before in
his checkered life, Elijah Gray called it a night and, after visiting the all
night diner near his apartment, turned in for a well-earned rest.