Mystery of The Giver

The streets of Philadelphia are cold in January. The holidays are long over and on certain days like today, the morning after a heavy snow, they are empty. I used to think this was beautiful. Fresh snow, a quiet city. But these days I’m sick of the streets. I can’t believe I’ve been living on them for almost 7 years. It was only supposed to be temporary. I’d get back on my feet in no time.

On this day seven long years ago I was probably just rolling out of bed, my wife already awake getting the coffee ready. I can see my bare feet touching the cold wooden floors for a moment before putting on my slippers. The radiator below the window giving off its warmth, a wonderful warmth that I bitterly miss in this moment.

I’m looking down at my feet now, at shoes full of holes, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in reverie, with no one around to bug me about it. Often I think about how I’d love to put on a pair of slippers and go downstairs for coffee.

When I was a boy, my mother used to take me on periodic trips to the shoe store. Not a Walmart or Pay Less but a real shoe store. The one I remember was cozy with soft lighting, full of the smell of real leather and the aftershave of the sweet and wizened old man who ran it. He would bend down on one knee to slip different shoes onto my feet then look up and softly say, “Take a walk around, see how those feel”. It’s the little things in life.

I can see the American Flag that hangs above the shelter entrance several blocks away. I could go there later on, but I won’t. Robbed and beaten in the middle of the night more times than I’d care to admit. I’d rather lose my feet to frost bite than go to the shelter again.

Luckily awhile back I found myself a little gem of a “rats hole” in between some buildings, near a steam vent, hidden on all sides. My nest. An odd little space that I think just happened to come into existence, as the city was built and rebuilt over the past two centuries. I took a refrigerator box out of dumpster behind an appliance store one day, so I lined my little hole with thick corrugated cardboard. I have a sleeping bag the church gave me one year and I manage to survive the long cold nights.

Halfway up the block from where I stand frozen to the sidewalk, is a playground with a jungle gym. At least that’s what we called them growing up. This one here is bigger, and better constructed than most homes in the world and one part is like a castle turret. I go there often to get a break from the nest. I free myself from the sidewalk and start walking.

I look for other people that might be out. I will occasionally beg but it seems everyone stayed home today, so there’s no one to ask. I hate begging anyway. Even though some people are nice and helpful, some are not. I hate feeling rejected and despised right to my face. Honestly, it feels so terrible and causes such feelings of loneliness I sometimes would rather go hungry. I can deal with being hungry.

I get to the playground and walk towards the “castle”. When I get to the base of the ladder at the turret, I notice a set of footprints leading away. I don’t know why I noticed. I guess it just seemed odd that one another adult had already been in the turret that morning. So early on a Sunday morning, weird. I climb up the ladder to the enclosed turret and sit with my back to the wall facing the little entrance, as I always do. Ready to settle in for some long hours of daydreaming and sulking. Then something catches my eye.

To the right of the doorway, just in the shadows sits a little cardboard box. A shoebox of all things. Funny, considering my reminiscing just now. With any luck, there are shoes inside; good, warm shoes that fit. Better yet a wad of cash, or a meatball sub? Now that would be ideal.

I hear the gate open on the other side of the playground. I guess the fun is already over. I want more time for my fantasy damn it, but then again maybe I can score some change. Quickly I grab the shoe-box and peek outside.

Of course, it has to be Charlie Bucket. That isn’t his real name it’s just what I call him. The guy always carries around two five-gallon buckets with him wherever he goes and he’s a bully. Whatever you have that he wants is going in one of those buckets. My worst enemy in this tiny frozen world. If ever there was a troll under a bridge, it would be Charlie Bucket. I can see him stop to pick something up off the ground, and without hesitation, I make my escape. I don’t care what’s in this box, I’d sooner die before I let him walk off with it.

As I’m leaving the park it suddenly registers that the box isn’t empty. I have the box tucked under my arm and I can feel the weight of something inside. Call me crazy, but I believe that something good is inside this box. I can’t explain it, so don’t ask me to. This stupid little shoe-box is giving me a sudden and unexpected hope. My willingness to believe something good is happening, with absolutely no evidence is telling of my desperation in life and yes, I can see my own foolishness. It could easily be a box of trash. In all honesty, in this town, it could be filled with shit. I don’t care. I can’t get back to my nest fast enough, so I run.

I settle down on top of my warm sleeping bag in my nest, out of breath and eyes alight. They must really be cranking the heat inside. With the vent pouring out such heat, I’m reminded again of my little radiator. The nest is warmer than usual.

I have the box on top of my lap and I’m happy. I haven’t found anything in years. Something unexpected has not happened in years. Whatever it is, I’m remembering what having fun feels like. Just getting away with a potential hidden treasure right under Buckets’ nose itself feels great.

Oh but I don’t want the fun to end. I so badly don’t want to be disappointed, again. I want to believe! I want to keep the faith! I think I said I’d be okay with anything but that’s quickly become untrue. Damn it, my hopes are already sky high. I want to believe that it’s still possible for someone to stumble into something good and that this crappy little world has room for one more hidden treasure. Could today really be my day, or will this dreary existence, highlighted only by the pain of remembering better days continue endlessly?

I open the lid. It’s a little black note book. “Oh yes, yes, yes,” I say quietly, “you are a treasure”. It’s a small and beautiful journal. New, fresh, clean and with a fine point pen hooked on the cover. I take the pen off and look it over in wonder. I literally catch my breath as I open the cover. By God, there is a message on the first page!

Write something Francis.

This is astonishing. That’s me, that’s my name!

I bring the notebook closer to my face to make sure the words are really there. This is a miracle. A flat-out miracle. There must be a God! I look up into the sliver of sky above my head, half-expecting to see God waving back.

Besides an omnipotent being, who do I know could have pulled this off? Who knew I was a failed novelist and that I would appreciate above all treasures some quality paper and a good pen? After all these years, they would have had to track me down. Know my habits and my haunts. They would have had to arrange for the circumstances and precise timing to put this little treasure in a public park, on the right day, at the right time. Somehow knowing I would be the one to find it. Amazing.

Without a doubt, this is a wonderful grace. Finding this makes me feel as though I’m being stirred up inside with the world’s largest spoon. For me in this very moment, at probably the lowest point in my life - no matter who left it for me - it was simply and absolutely divine.

I cherish the fact that there is at least one person out there who hasn’t forgotten about me. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. I’m crushed by the thought. I haven’t been forgotten. I clutch at my heart, trying to stop the wave that’s rising within me, but I can’t hold on any longer and weep uncontrollably. I’m crying every tear that’s been storing up inside me these past seven years. Over my heartbreak and failures, my loneliness; over everything that’s been lost and over the hope of everything still to come, over the miracle of this little black book and what it means to have it. I’ve never felt so grateful.

*******************

A strong and bitterly cold wind whips through the nest and cold reality snaps back into place. In an instant I realize how crushingly hungry I am, although the cold air doesn’t feel as grim and bleak as it normally does. I even raise my feeble hand up into the air. It feels refreshing.

I have to put the mystery of the giver aside for the moment. I look down at the words on the page with cold tears in my eyes,

Write something Francis.

I’m filled with conviction and courage as I read it. The bold letters burning into my mind: Write something Francis!

Yes! I am going to write something! I am going to use my little black book and my little black pen and I am going to write my ass off! I am going to get my life back! My days on the streets are numbered. I am going to eat a delicious meatball sub every day. I don’t deserve a second chance, but thanks to one person, I’ve got one. I won’t forget all the poor souls who are out here with me – even Charlie Bucket - when I sleep in my warm bed or when I wake up, put on my slippers and go downstairs for coffee. By God my turning point has finally come!

1 year later.

“And finally Mr. Paul, here is the advance check for your novel in the amount of $20,000. Congratulations”

“Thank you”, I said, as I take the check from my new publisher. Every day I think about that cold and quiet January morning one year ago and I’m still so grateful. I smile and shake my head as I look down and read the cover of my book, a copy on my lap.

Mystery of The Giver

By

F. Paul