Hope lives somewhere else
A short story
It may be a serious party foul to start the New Year by sharing a short story about addiction and the toll it takes on everyone it touches. After all, last night’s confetti is still on the streets.
Well, like it or not, the people on my mind this morning are those who stand to suffer most from a holiday so saturated in soul-stealing substances: addicts and those who love them. I promise you, their new year is not off to a “happy” start.
I believe no amount of frenzied celebration will hide the truth that this way of living is utterly bankrupt. Our investments in Babylon will never yield anything but pain and slavery. All that it promises is a lie, and all our hope that we’ll finally be able to “fix” it is foolish and wasted.
Time to sober up and come out.
God’s way is the only way out. Hope in Him is the only true hope.
Praise the Lord.
Praise the Lord, my soul.
I will praise the Lord all my life;
I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.
Do not put your trust in princes,
in human beings, who cannot save.
When their spirit departs, they return to the ground;
on that very day their plans come to nothing.
Blessed are those whose help is the God of Jacob,
whose hope is in the Lord their God.He is the Maker of heaven and earth,
the sea, and everything in them—
he remains faithful forever.
He upholds the cause of the oppressed
and gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets prisoners free,
the Lord gives sight to the blind,
the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down,
the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the foreigner
and sustains the fatherless and the widow,
but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.The Lord reigns forever,
your God, O Zion, for all generations.Praise the Lord.
Psalm 146
Hope lives somewhere else
by Alan Wartes
“I’ve got a shift, Donnie, you want it?”
I haven’t said no to extra work in months, but Sheila still makes it a question when she calls on my days off. She runs dispatch and I drive delivery for a produce wholesaler in Denver. She doesn’t ask why I’m so eager for hours, and I never volunteer that drug rehab programs cost real money—whether they work or not.
“Sure,” I say. “Who’s out?”
“Greg. Stomach crud, or something.”
I say nothing. Greg drives my old route. Downtown.
“Still there?”
“Yeah. I’ll take it.”
“You sure? I can call—”
“See you in a bit,” I say and hang up.
I pour my coffee back into the pot and go to find a clean uniform.
***
Other drivers would pay for the chance to work downtown, because it means less time in traffic. Once you make the alleys behind 16th Street you can hit a dozen restaurants in a row and barely shift out of first gear. But, as far as I know, those guys aren’t likely to see a ghost on every corner. A glimpse of faded red Converse All-Stars shuffling down the sidewalk would mean nothing to them. Their stomachs don’t clench when an overheard voice has a familiar rhythm, or when the childlike way a person’s hand curls under their chin as they sleep on park grass could mean it’s his hand.
***
I push a loaded dolly through the alley door of an upscale bistro, and two Hispanic prep cooks are the only ones who take notice. Reassured, they go on sorting, washing, and slicing in a tense hurry. The lunch rush has come early today, and the back of the house is on full combat footing.
“You’re late!” the sous chef snaps at me. “Where’s Greg?”
He’s right. I am late, and I know that fact ties a knot in his day. But being downtown again chokes off my willingness to care about things like that.
“Puking,” I answer.
He stares. Maybe he doesn’t have time to put me in my place, or is basically a nice guy who can see I’ve got troubles of my own. Whatever, he lets it go.
“Tomatoes by the sink, everything else over there.”
That done, I hand him the invoice. He signs and shouts, “Hey morons, who’s watching the potatoes?”
Before leaving, I look around at the taut faces laboring over ovens and grills and blue-flame burners. I reflexively touch my shirt pocket where a photograph rides. Chances are, at least one of these people sleeps at the shelter on Park Avenue—or under an overpass on nights when bodies outnumber beds. I can usually discern which ones, tuned as I am to ghost frequencies.
Today, I approach the man with tattoos. It’s hard to peg his age, but he’s a lot closer to young than I am. He’s busy assembling three dozen house salads, now that the tomatoes have arrived.
“Wow,” I say. “New chef’s a piece of work, right?”
He gives no sign he’s noticed I exist; but I’ve come this far. I pull out the photo.
“Say, you ever seen this guy around? That’s him. His daughter’s birthday, last year.”
He glances at the picture, then fixes receding eyes on me. He’s about to speak when—
“You!” It’s the sous chef, looking my way. “Out!”
Tattoos turns his back on me.
***
The truck is empty now, and I know I should make the right on Colfax and drive away. Instead, I remember a spot near the art museum where I can leave the rig undisturbed for a while. From there it’s an easy walk around Civic Center Park between city hall and the capitol.
I go slow and scan every heap of man in every transient encampment for what I hope not to find. This is what you do, I think, when there’s no toll-free hotline for you; no posters anywhere with your kid’s smiling face and a plea for information; no overworked detectives you can burden with another remembered detail that might be useful. What else is left when your grown son abducts himself—and with one impaired choice after another unstitches tomorrow?
“Hey. This ain’t no tourist attraction.”
The woman’s voice startles me. She sits on a nearby bench with a cigarette and a pink smoothie.
“Excuse me?”
“I seen you make the loop, looking hard, like you at the zoo.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, suddenly tired. I sit and take the photo from my pocket.
“Oh,” she says. “You checking the lost and found.”
I look at her more closely. A name tag and apron say she works at the smoothie shop. Her eyes declare she speaks from experience. I hold out the photo.
“My son. His name is Gary.”
She leans in for a look, then shakes her head. “Not down here, it ain’t,” she says. “I promise you that.”
“You know him?”
“Sure. He’s that guy and that guy and—”
“Okay,” I say and rise to leave.
“Want my advice?” she says.
I really don’t.
“Go home. Put a steak on the grill. Have a happy life.” She seems to truly want that for me.
I stare. A happy life?
“See, ‘cause Pretty Boy gonna run till he ready to stop. No such thing as magic rescue powers downtown.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and rise to go. Maybe she can see what it costs me to lift the tough love she has handed me.
“Hold up,” she says, more softly. “I’ll pray for you and for Gary. That’s the only place where hope lives. It’s just no good thinking otherwise, that’s all.”
***
That night I take a photo album off the closet shelf. I lay it on my kitchen table and open it to the page with an empty spot in the middle, surrounded by more pictures of the birthday party: cake, streamers, family. I take the missing photo from my pocket and notice something I hadn’t seen before: My son already wears the hooded eyes and hungry skin of a downtown ghost. I’m there too, already powerless. Hope lives somewhere else.
“God, please…”
I slowly peel back the laminated page cover and—the phone rings.
“Greg’s out again tomorrow,” Sheila says when I answer. “You want it?”