CHRISTMAS IN CLEVELAND
By Jim Perkins
December eleventh, nineteen hundred
and ninety-one
at St. Augustine’s Holy Catholic
and Apostolic Church,
we stood the line
for hours.
We had no presents
for six kids,
and we had heard
that for a few dollars
we could buy Christmas
at a discount.
So, we stood
the bone chilling line
as dawn broke,
down the line word spread,
“The door’s open.”
Mothers in tight torreadores
dragged dirty children
by tattered sleeves,
into the musty warmth
of the sixty year old school.
The lile stretched up
and staggered down
four flights of steps
and out the double doors.
Halfway down the block
we stood waiting
and watching
as an open-coated man,
fueled hot with poverty
and cheap wine,
tried to sell coats & sweaters,
freshly picked
from the parish rummage pile.
Then he sang Happy Birthday
to himself, loudly
off key,
and invited the entire line
to his party that night.
“Plenty of food, good looking men,
free babysitting, cocaine, and a live band,”
The line women turned raucous
as they cat-called comments
and begged for directions
which the man never gave.
The laughing moment passed
as the faceless man faded
into the line chatter
lowered to a hum,
as waiter spoke to waiter,
swapping lies
and trading information
on food stamps, bread lines,
give-aways, and giving up.
A heavyset line guard,
wearing a faded stars & bars
T shirt, ran along the line
barking, “No smoking, no pushing,
no spitting on the stairs.
Bathrooms on the second floor,
single file, single file,
don’t block the door,”
Nine o’clock, A.M., on the dot
the doors of the fourth floor
gymnasium, opened and accepted
the hopeful throng.
“only ten at a time
for ten minutes.”,
a voice echoed
down the stairs.
Up a step, stop. Up three steps, stop.
Step, pause. Step step, landing.
Step, pause. Step step, wait.
The line moved slowly up.
Four hours, twenty minutes
and fifty-two steps later
the battered oak doors
admitted us to the ‘Hobo’s Higbees”.
“Take a garbage bag, step to the right.
Make a choice, quickly now,
Move along, move along.”
From one rickety table to the next
spread plastic doll carriages,
wooden cars, used books, purple
striped sweaters (only in size large),
and thin Cannon towels
in blue, green, and brown.
We shuffled our Christmas
Into black Hefty bags
and around the room;
Making do . . . making do.
“Do you have correct change?
Step up, step up.
No Checks, no credit,
no tabs or on-the-cuff.
and pay the man . . .
pay the man. You’re shoppings
done, you’re time is up.
Forty-two dollars & thirty-five cents,
please exit to the left.”
With our Christmas
bump-sliding behind us,
we descended the 52 steps.
Bump, slide. Bump bump, slide.
We bottomed out
the door, and walked
the four gray blocks
to the bus stop.
My wife and I stood,
silently removed from each other
and from the half-filled
garbage bags
at our feet.
Yet, still somehow connected
by our feelings
of kinship and cause,
and by the thick crust
of dirty snow
that would cling to our shoes
for many days to come.
“Focus on Poverty”
Copyright Homeless Grapevine #