Jagged ice crystals, embedded in pavement, scraped at the derelict's
unshaven cheek. In a chilling way, it felt good. It meant he was still
alive; still breathing; spared to endure yet another day of hunger and
despair. With a low moan, he pulled his legs up tighter to his body. The
homeless man lay on his side, covered in newspapers and rags. The sleet
that slashed between the city's buildings, like a jackhammer splitting
concrete, clung to brick and mortar, metal and steel, and the tip of
Jack Moser's nose.
"Get up, Jack. You can't stay here."
The husky voice trickled from his ears into his mind. Or, perhaps there
was no voice at all--only a feeling--or a half-remembered echo from
yesterday. Or was it the day before?
"Move it, Jack. Get out of here."
Get out of where? Where's "here"?
"Jack . . . ." The voice had changed. Now it was female; soft;
provocative, but no less demanding. "Jack? Can you hear me? You've got
to go."
It was Sarah's voice . . . but Sarah had died five years ago . . . ten
years ago . . . twenty years ago, but then, what did it matter? She
was
dead, and the pain burned in Jack's brain like the tip of a cigarette, a
red hot inner glow shadowed by a bitter dawn. He wanted to quit. Give
up. Cash in, check out, and end it all.
But they wouldn't let him.
God damn do-gooders, he thought. They get what they want. Everybody gets
what they want, even if they have to hustle an old man to do it. But
what do I get? Cast off clothes. A buck here or there. Cheap booze. A
hot meal now and then, and for what? So they can get their good
Samaritan "fix"?
As he pushed himself up from the pavement, he stuffed his rags and
papers into a nearby window well, brushed his forehead with the back of
his hand, and struggled to remember who "they" were.
The folks at the city mission?
With his back to a fire escape, he relieved himself against a garbage
dumpster. Nah, it ain't them. Those preachy old hags smell good, but all
they talk about is Jesus. Jack zipped his fly and hiked up his
threadbare trousers.
Maybe it's them fellas from the city's homeless task force? Hell, no.
Not them! They ain't shovin' Jesus in my face, but they're sayin' 'bout
the same thing: Get off the booze and get a job.
As he staggered out of the alley into the arbitrary light of day, it
came to him: It's aliens! That's it . . . it's them aliens. He flinched
as he looked up at the sky.
Good. Snow's thick enough, they can't see me. And probably can't hear
me, neither.
Jack pulled his stocking cap down over his ears, belched, and staggered,
left to right, forward and back, the two blocks down to Commerce and
Main streets. With a groan, he lowered his bony frame to the concrete
slab below a grocer's corner window. He reached into one capacious
pocket, withdrew a ragged cigar box, and placed it in front of him, lid
open.
The grocer stepped out through his front door with a broom in one hand
and a bucket of rock salt in the other. As he brushed the night's
snowfall from the sidewalk, he nodded to the beggar beneath his
window.
Jack nodded back. In more than four years the grocer had never spoken to
Jack; never waved; never smiled; but neither had he ever chased Jack
away. And, while the homeless man sat beneath the grocer's window, no
one else had ever asked him to move along, either.
Strange. Damned strange. Especially since it was a good spot. Numerous
well dressed commuters passed by all day long: to work, to lunch, from
work, from shopping. Jack saw them all, and even knew a few by name. And
the cops who walked by never said a word.
Act like they don't even see a bum like me. Guess no one does. I may
'swell be invisible. Another thought crowded into Jack's numb mind:
Shit! Maybe I am!
His mind spun in a slow spiral as he folded his long legs under him for
warmth. He reflected that some folks, when they tossed a coin into his
cigar box, said "God bless you", even if they refused to look him in the
eye.
Nah, that proves it. They can see me. It's themselves they can't
see--all dressed up, warm, rich and handsome on the outside, but hollow,
like a garbage can after the truck's been by. Yeah--that's a good
word--hollow. They don't know what it's really like.
Three hours later, Jack leaned forward and stared into his box. One
paper dollar and enough coins to equal another buck or two . . . maybe.
He tilted his head back and spoke to the lowering winter sky: "Whatd'ya
think? Not bad for a morning. Is it enough?"
Car horns honked and the wind chased snow in puffs and gusts around the
edge of the building, but Jack heard no other sound.
Well, answer me! Think I want to sit out here all day?
Another pedestrian, someone he'd never seen before, stopped in front of
him. The man, dressed in a suit topped by a cashmere coat, reached into
his vest pocket, extracted a soft leather wallet, and withdrew a five
dollar bill. With eyes lowered, he tossed the currency into the cigar
box and strode away, his December good deed checked off his list.
Neither concern nor compassion showed in his eyes.
Jack again looked into the heavens. How about now? Is it enough now?
A skinny dog, dodging through traffic, growled at its counterpart across
the street, and two young boys, sliding into a bright, prosperous future
atop inline skates, rolled by. Jack had never known the aliens to appear
as either dogs or kids. In fact, they'd never appeared--exactly--at
all.
God damn aliens, Jack thought. Speak up! I got six or seven bucks. Is it
enough, or not? Whatd'ya want from me, anyway?
As he waited for an answer, he watched a short, bowlegged woman, who
looked older than the turn-of-the-century coat she wore, approach him.
In one hand she held a ticket of some sort, and in the other a small
white card.
"Good morning, sir. May I ask your name"
Jack looked to the left, and then to the right. As he glanced behind him
he said, "You talkin' to me, lady?"
The woman, with a slender face and sparrow brown eyes, nodded. "Why, who
else but you?"
"Yeah. Sure. Whatd'ya want?"
The woman crossed her arms across the front of her coat. "Well, I guess
I'll start first, then. My name's Annabelle Parish, and I'm pleased to
meet you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?"
The Commerce Street bum squinted and frowned. "Moser. My name's Jack
Moser. And I ain't goin' noplace with you. Got it?" He was sure that the
woman before him was just another do-gooder--some kind of new, colorful
variety, like that BrocciFlower stuff he saw in the grocer's window
sometimes. Ain't hardly nothin's the same as it used to be any more,
he
thought. These days I'm doin' good to get six or eight bucks by dark.
"See, Mr. Moser. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Jack shook his head but withheld words and opinion together as one.
"I'm not here to change your life, Mr. Moser. I just want to help."
Annabelle held out the ticket. "This is a voucher for ninety days
lodging at Harvest House, a half mile south of here on Market Street.
They'll help you get cleaned up, and they've got a good kitchen."
"I ain't givin' up the booze, so I guess you can just forget it." Jack
coughed, spat on the slushy pavement, and turned his head away from the
Parish woman.
"I didn't ask you to give it up, did I?" When the derelict in front of
her didn't answer, she said, "Well, did I, Mr. Moser?"
"Nope, you didn't, but there's gotta' be a catch. What do I have to
do--pray eight hours a day? Why are you doin' this?" Jack coughed again,
a thick, raspy sound, before returning his gaze to Annabelle's face.
"I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do. And please, take
this." She handed him a crisp, professional business card.
"Who's this--some charity pooh-bah I have to suck up to? Sorry, Miz
Parish. Old Jack Moser don't suck up to nobody." He narrowed his eyes
and tried to read the small lettering. It looked like it said
"institute" or something, and contained another address, also on Market
Street.
"No, Mr. Moser. It's a health clinic. They can help you with that cough
of yours, and whatever other problems you may be having. You're not a
young man any more, you know."
Jack reached out with one long arm, balanced himself on his fingers, and
lifted his lean frame so that he stood on his feet. "I ain't givin' up
the booze. You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Moser. I understand completely."
Jack saw no sign of judgment, deceit, or condescension on his
benefactress' face. The homeless man stood for several seconds and
stared at Annabelle Parish with the peculiar, focused look that
pedestrians Direct toward a walk/don't walk sign.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Moser?" Annabelle reached into her pocket
and withdrew another ticket and white card. She would hand out several
before the afternoon was over. "I said, is there anything else, Mr.
Moser?"
Jack had been thinking about the aliens. He wondered if they had some
way of seeing through the drab, December sky. What'll they think about
this?
"Uh, no, Mrs. Parish. And, uh . . . well, thanks. Ain't nobody done
nothin' for me in so long, other than toss a few coins into my box, I
don't really know what to say." "You're welcome, Mr. Moser. Oh--and
they're expecting you over on Market Street before dark."
***
The sacred span of twenty-one days, measured by the number of
revolutions the earth made around the sun, had passed.
"Take him out, D'sicnor. It's time."
D'sicnor, who sat at a green-shaded instrument panel, sighed, or what
would have been called a sigh, except the air exited from a spot about
two inches behind the ear-like appendages on each side of his head.
"Can't we send him out again, D'ragnor? I mean, now that he's at Harvest
House, he's making a good recovery, and--"
"And we've got a thousand more just like him, DNA checked and proven,
ready to deploy. Cute, pathetic, heart-tugging little devils whose hands
and tins will fill up before lunch."
"But Jack was--"
"Oh, great. Now you're naming them." D'ragnor wished that his
subordinate would quick treating the inventory like they mattered.
D'sicnor finished with, " . . . the best. Jack, or, rather 7174982^_>,
was the best we've ever produced. Doesn't he deserve something?"
With a high pitched, trilling sound that indicated his frustration,
D'ragnor explained, "Yes. He's had twenty-one earth days of rest,
warmth, and food, along with his alcoholic liquid. At the moment, he's a
happy bum. Now--take him out."
Before he pushed the button that would terminate Jack Moser's existence,
D'sicnor flipped open the beggar's electronic records one more time. The
earth coins and paper money that Jack had garnered meant nothing--they
had been his to keep. It was the compassion, the warmth, the aching pity
of Jack's benefactors, that D'sicnor's race had sought. After centuries
of violence and conflict, his people had lost the capacity to feel
anything but hatred, pride or anger.
Love, D'sicnor thought. Now there's a word, even if it's hard to
pronounce. Other words flowed through his mind: kindness; patience,
forbearance; concern; self-sacrifice; help . . . all things that existed
for D'sicnor in what humans called a library. By collecting these
feelings from a generous human every time someone dropped a coin into a
tin or outstretched hand, D'sicnor's race managed to live another day
without destroying each other.
It's an old trick, D'sicnor reflected. But no one does it better:
Millions of homeless, hungry beggars, each with an extended hand,
scattered across every softhearted, humanistic planet in the southern
galaxy.
"Sorry, Jack Moser," D'sicnor said softly. With one tentacle, he pressed
a button and watched a circle of light on his monitor screen brighten,
expand, and fade to less than a shadow.
***
The rain probed every nook and crevice of Mahesh Chatterjee's body,
coating him in the putrid odor of decaying garbage from a dump less than
a kilometer away. It was monsoon season in Calcutta. Mahesh pulled his
thin blanket up to his ears and rolled over; the pavement, awash in
water, offered little comfort to Mahesh and the friends with whom he
slept. The five boys lay clumped together, each drawing warmth from the
other, outside a shoemaker's shop. Mahesh reached into his shirt pocket
and felt two rupees. He hoped the rain would stop so he could begin to
work the crowds that gathered daily in the open-air market. He always
did better than his friends--there was something about a one-armed
beggar that few could resist.
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