He Who Is Without Sin Among You

Of course, there is the filth. It was the first thing Charlie adjusted to. The stench of urine wafts up from the pavement and dark alleys where rats and cockroaches forage in rotting tents and abandoned cardboard structures.

This is where hope goes to die.

Sex offenders and ex-convicts abound. Addicts slump in prolonged stupors amidst discarded syringes, feces, and empty bottles. Strewn garbage, animated by gusts of traffic, skips down the street and contorts around Charlie’s hiking boots. He picks at the frayed duct tape holding together his left boot sole and surveys the neighborhood.

Skid row is his home now, among the lost and broken souls.

The name “skid row” originates from the construction of railroads in the mid-19th century, beginning in the Pacific Northwest. Harvested logs were sent to construction sites along greased tracks known as “skid roads.” Mostly transient and immigrant men worked these sites, often spending their meager wages on alcohol and prostitutes. When employment evaporated, out-of-work men camped and slept on the seedy streets, which became known as “skid rows.”

Charlie knew all this because he was once a history professor. But that was before his little girl succumbed to brain cancer, and a year later his despondent wife took her life. His world collapsed, and alcohol became a refuge. Until the refuge became a prison of sickness and anguish.

Friends tried to rescue him.

There were earnest rehab stints. But grief, loss, and hopelessness are potent adversaries, and Charlie’s will collapsed. He lost his career, his home, and his aspirations. Nothing mattered anymore. Life deteriorated, and soon he joined the denizens of despair along the makeshift tents and filthy sidewalks of skid row.

Charlie knew where it would end, and he made peace with it. Because death meant crossing the veil between this world and the next. Taking flight to wherever his wife and daughter awaited him.

But not this day, and probably not the next. So he did what he could to subsist.

James C. Thomas hated going downtown, but that’s where a few of his business warehouses were located. He inherited his father’s vast company holdings, which made him a wealthy man. He drove expensive cars and wore fine Italian suits.

James spent a lot of time with a personal trainer in his home gym. Looking good was important to him. He loathed the lazy employees in his businesses who complained about their weight and health problems but stuffed their faces with donuts and calorie-dense coffee drinks. “Losers,” he often thought to himself. “No wonder this country has an obesity and diabetes epidemic.”

On this day, James was still hungover from last night’s house party. The usual friends and sycophants were there, but at least someone brought along an attractive real estate professional named Annie. She had been up for a good time, and he tried not to wake her when he dressed and left the house that morning.

It was early. The downtown streets, in their slumber, were devoid of the usual traffic snarl. James navigated his Mercedes past a large street sweeper, scrubbing away the residue of food, drink, debris, and human waste.

James surveyed the rows of tents and garbage. “Damn derelicts,” he said to himself. “They’re destroying the city, turning it into a cesspool.”

He grabbed the garage remote control, clicked it, and enjoyed the purr of his Mercedes engine as the parking gate opened. He clicked the gate closed behind him. No sense in leaving an opening for the predators and criminals outside.

Charlie found a discarded fast food bag with a half-eaten burger and leftover fries. The burger was cold and the fries solidified, but deep hunger is seldom capricious. As he wolfed down the food, he noticed the closing gate where the rich dude with the Mercedes always parked.

The rich dude with the Mercedes.

Unlike many of his neighbors, Charlie had no issues with the success of others. Yes, there are spoiled family scions who have wealth handed to them. But it’s a free country, and there are lucky, fortunate people in almost all governments. Enough opportunities exist for anyone who wants to achieve. Even with the racism, sexism, xenophobia, and homophobia that exists in society, Charlie believed anyone with enough ambition could navigate around these obstacles and get ahead.

Charlie knew of immigrant families who came here with nothing, only speaking their native tongue. Yet they worked hard, building unsexy, utilitarian businesses like laundry mats, dry cleaners, and liquor stores. They saved their money. And soon, one store became two. Down the line, small empires were made, along with generational wealth.

But the rich dude with the Mercedes annoyed Charlie. Not because he was rich, but because he was cruel. Sometimes dark hearts are disguised in fine clothing.

Many times, the rich dude told Charlie to get a job or clean himself up. Once the rich dude pulled cash out of his wallet, waved it in front of him, and said, “You want this? Do you want this? Then get off your soggy ass and find a job.”

Sometimes the rich dude brought friends to his warehouse. They’d stand out front and talk, pointing at Charlie, laughing. They were ugly and heartless. But then, there were plenty of ugly and heartless skid row residents, too.

Maybe the whole world is hurtling down the road to perdition.

Charlie belched and slid into a recessed doorway, to shelter from the morning chill. Across the street from the warehouse stood a dilapidated gas mart. Whenever Charlie and others scrounged money, they’d get liquor at the gas mart.

Across the street, Charlie noticed Father Murray, from Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Church. Father Murray often ministered to the forgotten souls of skid row.

Charlie felt sad for Father Murray. Church sex scandals and declining mass attendance often make the news, unlike saintly outreach to the poor. “But then, Father Murray is one of the good ones. He’s not doing this for the news or popularity,” Charlie thought to himself.

An hour passed and just as Charlie began to nod off, a metal warehouse door swung open and clanged against the building. The rich dude ambled out, talking loudly on his smartphone.

It was hard not to eavesdrop.

“Look, Annie, all I’m saying is that I have things to do. Last night was great. Maybe we’ll do dinner sometime. No, no, I’m not blowing you off. I’m just not commitment material, you know? Now don’t be like that. You knew the arrangement. No strings, right? Hello? Hello?”

The rich dude screamed several expletives. They echoed down the street, and a few heads popped out of tents to see what the commotion was.

The rich dude crossed the street, entering the gas mart, where he often got coffee. Charlie was glad to be hidden in the shadows of the doorway, where the rich dude wouldn’t see and harass him.

Someone was unzipping a tent. Looking to his left, Charlie saw Big Joe emerge from his tattered, sagging shelter. He must have heard the rich dude swearing.

This wasn’t good.

Big Joe, despite his meth habit, was still a bear of a man and known to be violent, opportunistic, and unpredictable. Charlie tried to sink further into the darkened doorway entrance.

Big Joe mumbled to himself incoherently, scratched the dirty, matted hair on his scalp, and kicked empty beer bottles away from his tent.

Then he crossed the street.

“Dude, that’s a nice watch. Rolex?” the gas mart attendant asked James.

“Breitling Chronomat 44,” James said.

“I never heard of that one. Is it expensive?”

“Very.”

“Wow, yeah, my Dad once had a Rolex, but I think it was a knockoff. He…”

“I’m sorry, but can you move this along? I’ve got work to do.”

“Uh, yeah, whatever…sorry dude. Here’s your coffee.” The attendant remembered this guy…he was always a jerk.

The gas mart door chimed as it swung open. Cold morning air whooshed in. James and the attendant smelled the stench of the big man filling the doorway.

“Hey Big Joe, what’s up?” the attendant said. Big Joe said nothing. He was staring at James, looking him up and down.

“What are you looking at?” James said.

“The jerk that woke me up,” Big Joe said with a menacing scowl. He walked over to James and violently shoved him with both hands. James stumbled back into the candy rack, knocking several Hershey bars to the floor.

James was a formidable man, and never backed down from a fight. He steadied himself and charged into Big Joe, knocking him to the floor. Big Joe leaned forward to get up, but James threw a powerful haymaker, connecting with a loud snap into Big Joe’s left ear.

Big Joe went down. A trickle of warm blood threaded past his earlobe, down his neck, and vanished into Big Joe’s stained brown T-shirt.

“Why don’t you lie there and bleed awhile,” James said with a smirk. James turned around, pointed to the ceiling security cameras, and asked the attendant if they worked.

“No, man, the owner won’t get them fixed.”

“Figures. Well, write down your name and phone number in case this loser tries to sue me or something. I need a witness. You saw he came at me first.” James noticed the attendant’s eyes got large.

There was a loud click.

James spun around to face Big Joe, standing now, waving a razor-sharp switchblade. “I’m going to fillet your ass,” Big Joe said in a demonic voice.

James stepped back, consumed by fear, as Big Joe advanced. The attendant’s shaking hands fumbled with the phone, trying to punch 9–1–1.

The front door chimed, but no one heard it.

James knocked over a display of sunglasses. Big Joe continued to advance, the switchblade raised, glinting off the fluorescent ceiling lights. Big Joe lunged, but someone crashed into him, like a determined linebacker. They both crashed to the floor.

Big Joe scrambled to his feet. He spun around, and facing him was Charlie, clearly out of breath. Big Joe tried to shove Charlie out of the way and attack James, but Charlie grabbed his knife hand and struggled to control the blade. They became a tangle of thrashing limbs and crashed again to the floor, this time with Big Joe on top of Charlie.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Big Joe sat up, straddling Charlie. And then the most anguished sounds poured out of Big Joe. His large shoulders heaved up and down to the rhythm of gut-wrenching sobs.

“Why, Charlie? Why did you make me do that? Oh God, Charlie…why?”

“Because we’re not animals, Big Joe,” Charlie wheezed in a raspy voice.

Only the handle of the switchblade was visible above Charlie’s chest. The rest was plunged deep inside him. The handle trembled as Charlie struggled to breathe.

Big Joe collapsed into a fetal position, bawling uncontrollably, repeating over and over, “I’m sorry Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

James surprised himself and kneeled beside Charlie. He reached out, held Charlie’s hand, and looked into his eyes. “Hang in there, buddy. Help is on the way.”

James felt funny. A wave of emotions filled him, and his eyes grew moist. He squeezed Charlie’s hand. “I’ve been so awful to you. So terrible. I’m…so sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re all broken,” Charlie whispered.

“Hold on, buddy. I’m gonna make this right. I’m gonna help you. Don’t go anywhere.”

“But…I…have…to…go,” Charlie said softly.

The front door burst open. It was Father Murray, and a few locals pointing and yelling, “Over there, Father, on the floor.”

Father Murray knelt beside James and Charlie.

“Oh Charlie, what have you gotten yourself into?” Father Murray said.

“My…escape…plan. Time, Father… it’s…time.”

“Time for what, Charlie?”

“See..them. Be…with…them…again.” Charlie’s pupils lost their twinkle. A dull sheen covered them.

Father Murray motioned the sign of the cross and put his hand gently on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Then you go to them, my son. You go to them.”

Lives are fragile on skid row. Death is never far away.

Addiction, crime, mental illness, and living in the harsh outdoors conspire against street people. And there are individuals like James, whose dark hearts are immune to the plight of the less fortunate.

But sometimes a flicker of light happens. An unexpected experience penetrates the darkness. A touch of grace rekindles hope and changes lives.

Two years after Charlie’s death, the parish secretary of Our Lady of Fatima came to Father Murray’s office.

“Father, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Father Murray set aside the sermon he was crafting. “Thank you, Darlene, please lead him back.”

Moments later Darlene returned with James C. Thomas. His hair was a bit more gray, and he looked thinner than Father Murray remembered.

“Ah, Mr. Thomas, please come in. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“Thank you for seeing me, Father. And please, call me James. I think the last time I saw you was at Big Joe’s trial.”

“Yes. I visit Big Joe in prison. He’s doing better now with treatment. But something inside of him broke after that terrible day. I keep praying for him.”

“That terrible day, yes. Well, that’s why I’m here to see you,” James said, his voice drifting off.

“I’m always happy to help, James.”

“It’s just that, I can’t stop thinking about Charlie. About what he did for me. And especially what he said to me.”

“What did he say to you, James?”

“I apologized to him. For being such a jerk. I told him how sorry I was. And he looked at me. You know? Like, right into my eyes. And he said, ‘It’s okay, we’re all broken.’ When he said that, I felt strange.”

And James began to cry.

Father Murray rose from his desk, grabbed a tissue box, and sat beside James. “Charlie was right, you know. We’re all broken. That’s why I minister to folks on skid row. I think of the adulterous woman about to be stoned in John 8:7: ‘He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.’ We must let go of judgment, see the humanity in others, and learn to forgive. I think Charlie knew that.”

James wiped his eyes with the tissue. “I’m sorry Father, I didn’t come here to fall apart. It’s just that after Charlie forgave me and said that we’re all broken…something inside me shifted. I can’t explain it.”

“We priests are fond of saying that the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Well, I’ve never been a religious man, Father. All I know is that Charlie changed my life. I started treating people better. I even got married. My wife, Annie, helped me sell my huge house. I downsized. I let go of all the narcissistic crap.” James managed a smile.

“Good for you, James. Success is fine, but there’s a lot more to life than things.”

“I agree, Father. That’s why I’m here. I saw one of your church fliers the other day. The one advertising for soup kitchen volunteers. When I saw that flier I could see Charlie’s face. The forgiveness in his eyes. It made me realize, I want to be like him. I want to be a better man.”

“Charlie may have been a broken man, but sometimes grace is camouflaged in human imperfection,” Father Murray said.

“Well, Father, any grace I have was buried most of my life, beneath layers of selfishness. I was the guy willing to throw stones. And I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I owe that to Charlie and myself.”

“What are you doing tomorrow morning around six?” Father Murray asked.

“Sleeping in?” James said with a smirk.

“No, that was the old James. The new James is going to meet our soup kitchen staff, and serve some of Charlie’s old friends.”

“What if they recognize me, Father? I wasn’t a very nice fellow back then.”

“You shed your camouflage,” Father Murray said, adding, “All they’re going to see is your shining grace. And I can’t think of a better way to honor Charlie’s life and sacrifice.”

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life, shoot black & white photography, and draw cartoons. Visit The Saturday Letters.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.

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