For What He Could Become Page 14

  “You ever been to the Salvation Army Post?” Bill asked George when they were on break the next day.

  “Yeah. Good food. The guy that runs it is crazy, but it’s good chow.” George blew smoke and looked at him. “Why? You go there?”

  “I was walking by yesterday and he dragged me in.”

  “He’s good at that. Give you a hot roll and ask you to help out?”

  Bill nodded.

  “That’s Captain Russell, saver of souls, provider of food for the hungry and a warm place in winter. He don’t get many, though. It’s part of the trap line.”

  “Trap line?”

  “Yeah. Place to eat, sleep, keep warm. You gotta get to know the trap line if you want to be up with things.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “Oh, I got a shack down on Fish Creek behind Lowry’s house. I get it for keeping his place up and agreeing to go to his church. Ain’t much, but it’s home. Got a toilet and sink but no tub. Just a big room, really. You’ll have to come over some time.”

  “You go to church?”

  “Most of the time. ‘Cept when I’m in the hospital or on the street somewheres and ol’ man Lowry can’t find me.”

  “You a Christian?”

  George looked at him. “Hell no. Going to church is part of the bargain for the shack, that’s all.” He completed the slow exhale of smoke between his lips up through his mustache and inhaled through his nose, then crushed the cigarette and got up.

  “Let’s go to work.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bill and George were sitting in what passed as a lounge at the Salvation Army post. It was late, and Bill’s stomach was making noises he was sure other people could hear. He looked at George, who was staring out the window.

  “I don’t have any money,” he said. “I’m gonna get kicked out of my room, and I’m sore all over—I don’t know if I can work tomorrow.”

  George turned back to the window. “You can work when you’re hurt. You don’t need money, neither. You go on that trap line I told you about.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You eat here, you sleep in the mission, you piss in the bus station and the library. There’s a hundred ways to survive in this town, and I know ‘em all. You can stay at my place until ol’ man Lowry finds out, then he might kick us both out—who knows?”

  Captain Russell came through the back door and saw George and Bill.

  “Hello, Bill. Hello, George—good to see you here again. We have a very good moose stew coming off the stove in a bit, and the rolls will be done in about fifteen minutes. Hot, steamy, sourdough rolls with lots of butter and honey. Will you stay?”

  “Not if I have to listen to the sermon,” George said.

  “Oh, come on, George.” He put his hand on George’s shoulder. “It isn’t that bad. You might be standing in need of salvation this very moment and don’t know it. You should take some time to review your life. Are you living the life you think Christ wants you to live?”

  George tried to ease out from under his grip but the captain held him tightly enough that he’d have to make a concerted effort to get loose. He clearly did not want to twist his way out of the free food.

  “I guess not,” he said.

  “Stay for the dinner and vespers,” Russell said, finally releasing his grip on George’s shoulder. “Bill, you don’t look any better than you did on Sunday. What happened to you?”

  “I got beat up pretty bad,” Bill said.

  “Where were you?”

  “In the alley behind the Cheechako.”

  The captain shook his head. “Had you been drinking?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Bill. This is a slippery path—it only goes down. When you were baptized the Lord had a right to expect you to live His life, to be with Him in thought and

  body. You see, your body is a temple, and you need to treat it with respect. It looks like your temple has been battered within and without.”

  “Kind of like at the Battle of the Bulge,” Bill said.

  “You were there?”

  “I was.” He sighed. “And I survived, which is more than I seem to be doing here.”

  “Is that something you would care to talk about to those who gather here? It’s a good thing when someone shares his experiences with them, especially someone whose very life was in danger. How you got out of it, what you learned from it, and how the Lord kept you safe.”

  “Wayne Turner and me kept each other safe,” Bill said.

  The captain’s eyes lit up “You know Wayne Turner?” He clapped his hands. “He was over here last week. Big Shoshone Indian lad from Wyoming?”

  “That’d be him. Him and me were at the Bulge. We mustered out together.”

  “What a wonderful reunion coming up! Now, come on, let’s go into the chapel for vespers and then we can partake of that great moose stew and rolls the Lord has provided. And Bill, could I talk you into staying after supper tonight? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  After evening vespers, Captain Russell guided Bill into his office.

  “Bill,” Captain Russell began. “God seeks people for his service all through their lives, but there is generally a special time to make himself known to you. I believe he brought you through the war and up here and to this Post. And….”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Let me finish, please. He has seen you exposed to danger with possible loss of your life. Did you ever pray to Him then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, He heard you and now is guiding you to shed this life of weekend drinking and those friends and live the life He has wished for you. You’ve got to respond to this, Bill. Take control of your life. Wrest it from the devil. You have so much to offer….”

  “I don’t have anything to offer,” Bill said.

  “But you do. Every human has that potential. Make the Post your home and work with me with these lost people. You are found if you just look up. Promise me you’ll think hard about this.”

  Bill twisted in the chair, and crossed his’ legs.

  Think hard about this? This what? Every day’s hard. Hard for me—hard for them. What kind of a life is it to come in here everyday and face drunks and people with no homes, no family, no future. He’s asking me to help here? If that’s what he wants, I could give it a try. I could work at it.

  Bill looked him in the eye. “I’ll think about that. I’ll try.”

  Captain Russell put his arm on Bill’s shoulder. “Good man. Good man.”

  After work the next day, Bill found George in the Salvation Army post lounge, asleep in one of the big soft chairs.

  He shook him. “George?”

  George opened one eye and looked at Bill, then settled his eye on the duffel slung over his shoulder.

  “Kicked ya out, huh?”

  Bill nodded. “I need to learn about the trap line.” “Tonight you can stay at my place, ol’ man Lowry be damned. But tomorrow, you’re gonna get initiated so you know how to take care of yourself.”

  The next day was Saturday, and they were off from work. George and Bill walked to the Loussac Library, where the librarian looked at them as if they were pond scum. George paid no attention to her. He led Bill away from her desk, back into the stacks of books. It was as quiet as being inside a closet full of clothes with the door closed. There was a table near the back wall with four chairs next to a baseboard heater.

  “Sit down here,” George said.

  Bill sat.

  “Now, scooch up by that heater.”

  Bill slid the chair over by the wall.

  “See how nice and warm that is?” George walked over to the bookshelves, chose a book, and brought it back. “You get yourself a book you like the looks of and open it, then you fold you arms like this, see, and put your head on it and go to sleep. Ain’t nobody ever bothers a man sleeping here except that lady up front, and most of the time she doesn’t come back here anyhow.

&nb
sp; “Now, you gotta be up and out of here by closing time. If you come in here drunk or sick, she’ll call the cops on you. Patrolman Fowler, most likely, and that ain’t good news. But when it’s cold and it ain’t eating time or sleeping time, you can come in here and get warm. It’s quiet, peaceful, and you almost can feel the thoughts of all these books floating around in the air. Do you notice that?”

  “Yeah.”

  George pushed back his chair. “Come on, we got some other places to look at. Oh—almost forgot, bathroom’s down that hall. It’s okay to use it, but leave it clean. If you puke make sure you clean it up.”

  Once they were outside, George headed towards Eighth Avenue. They stopped outside a building that looked like a church.

  “This is the Anchorage Rescue Mission,” George said. “They’ll take anyone, but you ain’t supposed to be drunk. The accommodations ain’t so swell, but it’s warm and dry and it don’t cost nothin’. No sense going in now, but that outside door off the parking lot goes down some stairs, then you turn left and right there’s a big room with easy chairs and stuff in it. If you can get an easy chair you can sleep good. Sometimes you have to fight somebody to get it, but after that it’s okay.

  “Now you’re on your way to being an educated man. I got some money—let’s go get a drink.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Bill said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He found the bottle where he had stashed some of his own before. Some things never changed. The cheap vodka was a particularly good street drink, the glass pint bottle being shaped like a flask made it easy to carry and conceal. He looked at it wondering who had drunk from it last. For a moment, he held it, looking at the liquid sloshing around in the bottle; clear, cool, inviting. He put it in his coat pocket and continued the search.

  The door opened and Captain Russell stuck his head in.

  “How’s it coming, Bill?”

  “It’s ok.”

  “You don’t sound too happy.”

  “I’ve been here. I know their hiding places. Feels like I’m stealing.”

  “Bill—we can’t have drinking going on in the Post. This is their first step towards sobriety and a new life. Removing temptation isn’t stealing. Have you found any?”

  Bill shook his head and the door closed.

  At the end of the hall he turned the knob and walked into the alley. Halfway down the block just past the telephone pole on the right was a parking space between two garages. It was a favorite hangout if the car wasn’t there because you couldn’t see inside the space unless you walked up to it. He stepped in. The car was there but he moved beside it up to the fence and slid down on the front bumper. He unscrewed the lid and lifted the bottle to his lips.

  Somewhere in his life something had to have been this good. Not in the village. George had started him on it; made him see that drinking made everything all right and as the contents moved from the bottle to his stomach it became easier to see what a good day this was going to be. At first he was going to drink it all but decided to leave some for the person who would find it. Carefully he squeezed the bottle between the fence slats and the garage, another familiar hiding spot. He stood up. It took a few seconds for him to feel comfortable, then he walked out.

  Ha! He could walk a straight line. He followed the grass hump down the middle of the alley, swinging his arms. When he reached the sidewalk he reversed and gaining confidence now, he strode purposefully toward the end of the block. Drinking was ok for those who could handle it. George couldn’t handle it—he went too far. When he drank with the others it always ended in problems. This was the way to do it. Vodka didn’t leave a tell-tale breath either. Captain Russell wouldn’t be able to smell it on him and once he got his apron on in the kitchen the cooking smells would cover everything.

  There was a line at the kitchen door so he used the back entry. The cook gave him a quick glance before setting the beans down on the steam table. Bill put on an apron and was fumbling with tying the strings when he felt someone else’s hands take control and tie them for him. He turned around and looked into the face of Captain Russell.

  “Where’d you go?” Captain Russell said.

  Bill took half a step back. “Took a quick breather.”

  The Captain was not smiling. “I see. Well—looks like we have a crowd today.”

  Bill nodded.

  That wasn’t so hard. A person can do responsible drinking and enjoy it. It’s when it gets out of hand that others don’t like it. He went to work.

  At first Bill didn’t know where he was, but he knew he needed a drink. He looked around. There was nobody in the corner where he was sitting. It took him a few minutes to orient himself—he was propped up on a bench in a bus station.

  How the hell did I get here? I was drunk, but I’ve been drunk plenty of times before. This is something new.

  He shook his legs. He stood up and patted his pockets, and dug into each of them. Nothing. He looked around, then shuffled out the door.

  What day is this? I gotta get to work.

  In twenty minutes he was at the work site, the morning air having partially revived him. The foreman stared at him from across the project as he buckled on his tool belt, but Bill kept his face down.

  At noon, he checked in at the job shack.

  “Missed you this morning,” the construction clerk said.

  “I was late,” Bill said. “Sorry,”

  “You talk to the foreman?”

  “No.”

  “Better do it. Be in deeper if you don’t.”

  Bill looked at the day sheet. It was Monday. He hadn’t missed a whole day, anyway.

  George came back to the job site at quitting time.

  “Where you been?” Bill said.

  “Had us out on another job all day. When did you get here?”

  “I was late….”

  George squinted his eyes. “I know that. I asked when you got here?”

  “About 10:30.”

  “Humph.”

  “I gotta cut down on my drinking. I woke up in the bus station this morning.”

  “I heard that a hundred times. So what?” George said.

  “Don’t remember going there—that’s what.”

  Walking toward the bar, Bill vowed he’d have just one beer. Just one, then he’d walk out. And go where? Where did he want to go? Who did he want to be with? It had been hard to decide those things lately. George is all right but he’s starting to push me. I’m not going to be a carpenter’s helper the rest of my life. Gotta get enough money to get things back together again. Maybe cut down my expenses, work the trap line until I get enough to rent another room.

  He drank half the bottle on the first drink and let out a belch. The others laughed. There it was—the change over. He was truly an interesting and funny guy to these people. He needed to have a talk with the foreman tomorrow, tell him his plans and ask for a better job.

  George passed him another one. “A good drinker could of finished it,” he said. “Now get it down in one tip.”

  Bill arrived two hours late Tuesday morning. The foreman was waiting for him with his paycheck.

  “Time for you to find another nursemaid,” he said. “You were a good worker when you got here but I’ve got to be able to depend on someone.”

  At noon, George showed up at the bar.

  “They let you go?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Well—by damn, don’t be so hangdog about it. There’s plenty of jobs. You just need to wake up and get to work of a morning. Keep your job and your fun separated.” He turned to the waitress, “Give us a beer here.”

  Wednesday afternoon Bill was painting a wood fence for the school district. Didn’t pay much, but it gave him enough to live on. He rented a room near Merrill Field and within two weeks the sound of the airplanes didn’t bother him anymore. He was able to drink in his room.

  Damn funny. He put down the bottle and went to the door. He only opened it a crack and looked on the
walkway. The sound was constant and he partially opened his mouth to hear better. It was a noise he couldn’t place. Finally, he stepped out and looked toward the airstrip and rotating on the flight apron was the first helicopter he had ever seen or heard, the long blades cutting the air with a dull whap, whap, whap. It pulled up and disappeared to the south and the quiet returned. He went back to his room and sat on the bed. His mind whirled as he looked at the bottle on the table. With shaky hands he screwed the cap on the bottle and slid it under his bed. He had gone too far. Airplanes were now rising straight up and he had seen it. They couldn’t do that—his eyes lied to him. He needed some food.

  The fence-painting job ended, but when winter struck they offered him a job as janitor. Construction had stopped for the winter, so he took it. He’d be ready for a good job in the spring.

  For several days after being delivered to the Salvation Army Post, Bill was sober. Captain Russell had called the school district and explained that Bill was sick and couldn’t come to work but would be well in a few days. He helped out around the post then moved back to his room.

  ANCHORAGE POLICE DEPARTMENT REPORT

  Case No. 60-2541

  Date 6/5/68

  Name Bill Williams

  Location 4th and alley at C St.

  Date of Birth 10/10/25

  Arresting Officer Corporal J. Striker

  Officer’s Narrative of Event:

  Suspect was reported passed out in alley by bar patron who refused to identify himself. I responded at 1728 hrs. When I approached the suspect, he was unconscious with his mouth open and drooling from nose and mouth. I was unable to awaken him and called the Fire Dept. to check his vital signs. He awoke during inspection and was taken to the Salvation Army Corp at 8th and C St. He is well known to Major Russell who is in charge of the Corp. He appeared to be suffering from overindulgence in alcohol.

  Officer’s Signature: J. Striker