Tenchi
Member
The day was like every other, for Nelson. He’d had a few miserable hours of sleep, buried in as many scraps of clothing, blankets and cardboard as he could assemble around himself. He’d been bitterly cold, anyway, and had half expected – half hoped, actually - to freeze to death in his sleep. But the noise of passing vehicles and the grey light of a new winter’s day had roused him from his fitful, shivering doze, a terrible ache in his feet and legs forcing him to rise and shamble about in a slow circle ‘til feeling and warmth partially returned to them. He’d survived the night to endure another useless day.
With dull eyes, he scanned the railyard across the street, wondering if the other homeless folk he knew who had spent the night in various nooks and crannies all across the yard had survived, too. It didn’t matter to him, really; as far as he was concerned, those who died were the lucky ones. Pulling a couple of dirty, frost-encrusted blankets around him, he loaded the rest of his “insulation” into his stolen grocery cart and began the familiar march to the nearest street mission for breakfast, pushing and pulling the cart awkwardly through the snow.
By the time he was close enough to see the doors of the mission, the big, lighted sign above them glowing with a cross and the name of the mission in neon red, he was exhausted and on the verge of abandoning the cart. A couple dozen homeless men and women were milling around the mission, waiting for the doors to open. Many of them turned to watch his approach, hoping, Nelson knew, that he would give up his struggle with his cart. The moment he walked away from it, they’d swarm all over the cart, taking his much-needed items for themselves and leaving Nelson to forage all day for new protection against the deadly cold of night.
“Excuse me. Sir?”
Nelson continued wrestling his cart toward the mission, oblivious to the voice that had addressed him.
“Sir? Excuse me, please, but are you Nelson Butler?”
“Who wants to know?” Nelson replied, cursing hotly as he gave his cart a tired push. He didn’t look at the person speaking to him. What was the point of looking at anyone? They didn’t care about him and he didn’t care about them.
“Benjamin Saunders. I’m a lawyer with Goldberg, Simmons and Associates, a legal firm. Here’s my card.”
With a sigh, Nelson turned from his cart to face a young man clad in a knee-length, fur-trimmed parka and winter boots, holding out to him a shiny, gold-colored business card. Nelson stared angrily at the young man, his resentment growing as he noticed that the doors of the mission had opened and the waiting crowd of homeless people were filing in to enjoy the warmth and food that he was not. “Gimme some money,” he growled, thrusting out his hand.
“I’m sorry. What?” the lawyer said.
“Gimme twenty bucks,” Nelson repeated, taking a step toward the young man and aggressively thrusting out his hand a second time. Usually, this served to repel unwanted interactions with the “greys” – people who used Nelson to make themselves feel virtuous, caring not one whit about him and showing it by giving him dimes and nickels and then walking rapidly away, never asking his name, never asking him about his story. Nelson hated the greys but restrained himself from punching every one of them in the face because he desperately needed the pittance they gave him.
The lawyer laughed. “Sir, I’ve got a lot more than twenty bucks to give you!”
Uh oh. A Jesus nut, Nelson thought. “I don’t want salvation. I want breakfast.” Gripping the push bar of his cart, Nelson resumed his journey to the mission.
Stepping up beside Nelson as he shoved his way through the snow, the lawyer said, “Not salvation. Money. A very great deal of money. I’m here to tell you that you’ve inherited twenty million dollars!”
Focused entirely on reaching the doors of the mission, the young man’s words didn’t register with Nelson at all. Grunting and puffing, he continued forward with his cart, entirely captured by his immediate need of food and relief from the cold.
“Sir!” the lawyer cried, “Did you hear me? You’re rich! You’re a multi-millionaire!” Excited, the lawyer laid his gloved hand on Nelson’s shoulder, attempting to draw his attention.
Snarling, in a backhanded arc, Nelson swung his arm blindly at the bothersome stranger. “Get lost!” he shouted, adding a string of curses he hoped would drive off the yapping weirdo in the parka.
Violence always worked. Stopping in his tracks, the young man fell silent, watching as Nelson moved away.
As Nelson reached the doors of the mission, the young man called out, “Do you like being homeless, Nelson? Is it a good time, nearly freezing to death every night in a carboard box?”
Nelson stiffened at these words, their derisive tone jabbing painfully at him. Wheeling about, eyes wide with anger, Nelson shouted, “What did you say?” He began walking toward the lawyer, fists balled up, his posture communicating aggression and violence.
“You heard me,” the fellow in the parka replied. “Have I got your attention now?”
“Oh, you got it, all right. Stay right there and I’ll show you how much you got it!”
Lifting his hands in a placating gesture, the lawyer said, “Easy. Easy. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. You weren’t listening. I just wanted you to hear me.”
Nelson halted, not really as eager for a fight as he appeared, and blustered, “Well, I’m listening to you now. Talk!”
Stepping toward Nelson as he spoke, clouds of vapor punctuating his words, the lawyer said, “A distant, very wealthy relative of yours – a bachelor all his life - has died and you are the natural inheritor of his estate. It has taken us many weeks to track you down so we could inform you of your inheritance. Mr. Butler, you are a millionaire! The money sits in an account in your name in a bank only a few blocks away.” The young fellow grinned broadly, clearly pleased to be the bearer of such good news. “Will you accompany me to my office so we can process the paperwork necessary to relinquishing your inheritance to you?”
The kid definitely sounded like a lawyer. Nelson chuckled roughly, looking down at himself and said, “I’m a millionaire? Seriously? Look at me. Do I look like a millionaire to you?”
“Join me at my office and in two hours you can go out and buy the best clothes available in this city.”
“But I smell like an outhouse! I eat garbage out of dumpsters! I almost froze to death last night! I’m not a millionaire!”
A baffled expression settled on the face of the young lawyer. “But you are. I’ve just explained to you that you are really, truly a millionaire.”
Nelson laughed, “Look, if I don’t get into the mission quick, I’ll miss the meal! I gotta’ go.” He started toward the doors of the mission, shaking his head. “A millionaire!” he muttered, “Yeah, right.”
Stunned, Benjamin stood, wordlessly gazing after Nelson. The man’s refusal to accept the truth of his new financial status was irrational! Was the man insane? “Why won’t you believe me?” Benjamin shouted.
Standing now at the double-doors of the mission, his hand resting on the glass panel of one of them, Nelson looked at the young man in the fancy fur-lined parka and boots, and replied, “I only believe what I feel and see. I don’t feel like a millionaire, and I don’t live like a millionaire, and I don’t look like a millionaire. How can I be a millionaire, then?” Nelson shrugged. “Well, I’m not. Everything about me says I’m a homeless guy. That’s what I am. That’s my reality.”
“But I’m telling you the truth! You really are a millionaire!” Benjamin cried in exasperation. “Just come with me and I’ll show you!”
Nelson snorted. “I’m hungry and cold,” he said, pushing open the door. “I gotta eat. Breakfast is real,” he sniffed at the odor of toast and coffee wafting through the air and smiled, “Not your promises of money I can’t touch, of an inheritance that doesn’t feel real to me.” Stepping into the warm, familiar confines of the mission, Nelson disappeared from view.
With dull eyes, he scanned the railyard across the street, wondering if the other homeless folk he knew who had spent the night in various nooks and crannies all across the yard had survived, too. It didn’t matter to him, really; as far as he was concerned, those who died were the lucky ones. Pulling a couple of dirty, frost-encrusted blankets around him, he loaded the rest of his “insulation” into his stolen grocery cart and began the familiar march to the nearest street mission for breakfast, pushing and pulling the cart awkwardly through the snow.
By the time he was close enough to see the doors of the mission, the big, lighted sign above them glowing with a cross and the name of the mission in neon red, he was exhausted and on the verge of abandoning the cart. A couple dozen homeless men and women were milling around the mission, waiting for the doors to open. Many of them turned to watch his approach, hoping, Nelson knew, that he would give up his struggle with his cart. The moment he walked away from it, they’d swarm all over the cart, taking his much-needed items for themselves and leaving Nelson to forage all day for new protection against the deadly cold of night.
“Excuse me. Sir?”
Nelson continued wrestling his cart toward the mission, oblivious to the voice that had addressed him.
“Sir? Excuse me, please, but are you Nelson Butler?”
“Who wants to know?” Nelson replied, cursing hotly as he gave his cart a tired push. He didn’t look at the person speaking to him. What was the point of looking at anyone? They didn’t care about him and he didn’t care about them.
“Benjamin Saunders. I’m a lawyer with Goldberg, Simmons and Associates, a legal firm. Here’s my card.”
With a sigh, Nelson turned from his cart to face a young man clad in a knee-length, fur-trimmed parka and winter boots, holding out to him a shiny, gold-colored business card. Nelson stared angrily at the young man, his resentment growing as he noticed that the doors of the mission had opened and the waiting crowd of homeless people were filing in to enjoy the warmth and food that he was not. “Gimme some money,” he growled, thrusting out his hand.
“I’m sorry. What?” the lawyer said.
“Gimme twenty bucks,” Nelson repeated, taking a step toward the young man and aggressively thrusting out his hand a second time. Usually, this served to repel unwanted interactions with the “greys” – people who used Nelson to make themselves feel virtuous, caring not one whit about him and showing it by giving him dimes and nickels and then walking rapidly away, never asking his name, never asking him about his story. Nelson hated the greys but restrained himself from punching every one of them in the face because he desperately needed the pittance they gave him.
The lawyer laughed. “Sir, I’ve got a lot more than twenty bucks to give you!”
Uh oh. A Jesus nut, Nelson thought. “I don’t want salvation. I want breakfast.” Gripping the push bar of his cart, Nelson resumed his journey to the mission.
Stepping up beside Nelson as he shoved his way through the snow, the lawyer said, “Not salvation. Money. A very great deal of money. I’m here to tell you that you’ve inherited twenty million dollars!”
Focused entirely on reaching the doors of the mission, the young man’s words didn’t register with Nelson at all. Grunting and puffing, he continued forward with his cart, entirely captured by his immediate need of food and relief from the cold.
“Sir!” the lawyer cried, “Did you hear me? You’re rich! You’re a multi-millionaire!” Excited, the lawyer laid his gloved hand on Nelson’s shoulder, attempting to draw his attention.
Snarling, in a backhanded arc, Nelson swung his arm blindly at the bothersome stranger. “Get lost!” he shouted, adding a string of curses he hoped would drive off the yapping weirdo in the parka.
Violence always worked. Stopping in his tracks, the young man fell silent, watching as Nelson moved away.
As Nelson reached the doors of the mission, the young man called out, “Do you like being homeless, Nelson? Is it a good time, nearly freezing to death every night in a carboard box?”
Nelson stiffened at these words, their derisive tone jabbing painfully at him. Wheeling about, eyes wide with anger, Nelson shouted, “What did you say?” He began walking toward the lawyer, fists balled up, his posture communicating aggression and violence.
“You heard me,” the fellow in the parka replied. “Have I got your attention now?”
“Oh, you got it, all right. Stay right there and I’ll show you how much you got it!”
Lifting his hands in a placating gesture, the lawyer said, “Easy. Easy. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. You weren’t listening. I just wanted you to hear me.”
Nelson halted, not really as eager for a fight as he appeared, and blustered, “Well, I’m listening to you now. Talk!”
Stepping toward Nelson as he spoke, clouds of vapor punctuating his words, the lawyer said, “A distant, very wealthy relative of yours – a bachelor all his life - has died and you are the natural inheritor of his estate. It has taken us many weeks to track you down so we could inform you of your inheritance. Mr. Butler, you are a millionaire! The money sits in an account in your name in a bank only a few blocks away.” The young fellow grinned broadly, clearly pleased to be the bearer of such good news. “Will you accompany me to my office so we can process the paperwork necessary to relinquishing your inheritance to you?”
The kid definitely sounded like a lawyer. Nelson chuckled roughly, looking down at himself and said, “I’m a millionaire? Seriously? Look at me. Do I look like a millionaire to you?”
“Join me at my office and in two hours you can go out and buy the best clothes available in this city.”
“But I smell like an outhouse! I eat garbage out of dumpsters! I almost froze to death last night! I’m not a millionaire!”
A baffled expression settled on the face of the young lawyer. “But you are. I’ve just explained to you that you are really, truly a millionaire.”
Nelson laughed, “Look, if I don’t get into the mission quick, I’ll miss the meal! I gotta’ go.” He started toward the doors of the mission, shaking his head. “A millionaire!” he muttered, “Yeah, right.”
Stunned, Benjamin stood, wordlessly gazing after Nelson. The man’s refusal to accept the truth of his new financial status was irrational! Was the man insane? “Why won’t you believe me?” Benjamin shouted.
Standing now at the double-doors of the mission, his hand resting on the glass panel of one of them, Nelson looked at the young man in the fancy fur-lined parka and boots, and replied, “I only believe what I feel and see. I don’t feel like a millionaire, and I don’t live like a millionaire, and I don’t look like a millionaire. How can I be a millionaire, then?” Nelson shrugged. “Well, I’m not. Everything about me says I’m a homeless guy. That’s what I am. That’s my reality.”
“But I’m telling you the truth! You really are a millionaire!” Benjamin cried in exasperation. “Just come with me and I’ll show you!”
Nelson snorted. “I’m hungry and cold,” he said, pushing open the door. “I gotta eat. Breakfast is real,” he sniffed at the odor of toast and coffee wafting through the air and smiled, “Not your promises of money I can’t touch, of an inheritance that doesn’t feel real to me.” Stepping into the warm, familiar confines of the mission, Nelson disappeared from view.
