We Three

By Poul Anderson

When a party animal awakens in a strange place after a particularly heavy night of partying, he meets and is invited to join an unusual pair of homeless men who are spending their lives trying to make the world a better place. He swiftly finds sobriety and excitement in their purpose as they bounce from one wild state of affairs into another, assisting a cavalcade of characters along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635251210

Poul Anderson

Poul Anderson (1926–2001) grew up bilingual in a Danish American family. After discovering science fiction fandom and earning a physics degree at the University of Minnesota, he found writing science fiction more satisfactory. Admired for his “hard” science fiction, mysteries, historical novels, and “fantasy with rivets,” he also excelled in humor. He was the guest of honor at the 1959 World Science Fiction Convention and at many similar events, including the 1998 Contact Japan 3 and the 1999 Strannik Conference in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Besides winning the Hugo and Nebula Awards, he has received the Gandalf, Seiun, and Strannik, or “Wanderer,” Awards. A founder of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, he became a Grand Master, and was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame. In 1952 he met Karen Kruse; they married in Berkeley, California, where their daughter, Astrid, was born, and they later lived in Orinda, California. Astrid and her husband, science fiction author Greg Bear, now live with their family outside Seattle.

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We Three

Paul Anderson

ISBN 978-1-63525-122-7 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-63525-121-0 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Paul Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Into AZ

Ah yes, that old familiar feeling was back.

That thought ran through my foggy and very painful brain. It had been around a year, and I’d pretty much been on a drunk. My job at the bird-packing factory wasn’t a very precious one, but I’d been getting by showing up for work late and drunk for what seemed like an eternity only because the job was such a dirty one that no one else would do it. Of course, the wage only being the minimum had a little to do with that too.

The grunt I mustered to clear a tickle in my throat demanded recognition of an ache in my side that I didn’t remember being there before I fell asleep, or maybe I didn’t just fall asleep. I wrinkled my brow in an effort to think a little harder and vaguely remembered sitting on a raggedy, smelly couch in a beat-up old RV, a square bottle of Jack Daniels with a couple of fingers remaining setting on a grimy glass-topped coffee table in front of me.

It was slowly starting to come back to me. It was a Friday night, and I’d just been paid and, as usual, was at the nearest watering hole to the bird factory when I met a couple of fellow employees. Both started working at the factory the week before and were what most folks would call shady characters, something not at all uncommon for employees of a poultry-packaging company with notoriously low pay and dreadful working conditions. I couldn’t recall their names, but through the company grapevine, I heard they arrived at the plant in a dented and dirty old RV the size of a boxcar and were immediately put to work hanging chickens by the feet onto the production line chain that slowly marched along an unloading platform outside next to trucks, which arrived loaded with chickens, and through the production line of the plant.

My job of pulling heavy carts of packed birds into the freezer afforded me plenty of time to wander around the plant. During one of my wanderings, I’d seen those particular new guys at work. They didn’t seem to be bothered by the fluttering wings and flying feces that accompanied the protesting fowls as they were pulled from their cages on the truck and sent off to their doom. But then, when I thought about it, I hadn’t been bothered by that job either when I worked it just like all the other jobs in the plant because I’d done them all at one time or another. Ever since I got kicked out of the orphanage where I’d been raised, I worked at the bird plant. It had been about twelve years off and on. Every once in a while, I would get a bug up my butt and quit to go to work somewhere else, but I’d always get fired for attendance or alcohol-related problems of some kind and be back to work at the bird factory the next day.

Another grunt for a new tickle in my throat, and I realized my idle thinking was just a way of putting off dealing with getting up and finding out where the heck I was and whom to start apologizing to for my actions the night before. It was a drill I’d marched to so many times that I no longer felt any embarrassment about it.

The next sensation of reality was major discomfort with the coarse, hard earth beneath me; the next was an uncomfortable bright redness boring into my eyes as the sun drilled through my eyelids even when squeezed shut. I realized accepting the condition of my present situation should be postponed no longer and forced my eyes open to observe the sun just above the horizon, silhouetting some low-lying, distant mountains with a bluish haze. I started to bring myself to a sitting position, and the movement instantly brought stifled shrieks from deep inside me as each muscle gave the sensation of tearing steel as it first moved. Obviously, my physical condition had been altered by more than just some beer and the square bottle on the table. Then I remembered lifting the Jack Daniels to my lips and gulping it empty. Then while my eyes and throat burned with the comforting bite of the bourbon, one of the shady characters from the RV stood in front of me and cursed. I saw his fist raise; then a crimson curtain lowered across my field of vision as I felt myself tip slowly sideways and crash onto some unremembered and flimsy piece of furniture, which crumbled, accompanied by a sound like the breaking of branches.

Well, I guess that explains a lot, I thought then took a glance around, which revealed I was lying on the ground on the edge of an asphalt parking lot. A strange feeling told me I was far removed from my last remembered location in Lodi, California. Lifting my head to turn it in a partial circle, I observed a dirty-white two-story stucco motel that the parking lot I was lying in belonged to. There were several large interstate-type fuel stations about an eighth mile down a road that lay between me and the rising sun. Further observations revealed a pool of dried blood on my arms and the asphalt under where my head was lying. Upon this discovery, I immediately began to explore my face with my hands. I found it vaguely unfamiliar, being covered with what I assumed to be dried blood and swollen from above the eyes to below the chin, as well as from ear to ear. Although my eyes were swollen, they were not bad enough to restrict my vision. When I explored my mouth with tongue and fingers, both inside lips were painful and ragged as far back as I could reach without making myself gag. And although the injuries prevented me from exploring in too much depth without causing more than tolerable pain, a little wave of relief swept over me as I found some teeth loose but all of them were present and intact. I raised myself to hands and knees then fought to maintain consciousness as wave after wave of a throbbing blackness began to envelope me. The realization that I had been badly beaten finally dawned on me when a battered feeling shouted at me from several very tender ribs and my groin area. After several moments, the throbbing in my head abated, and I was able to rise to standing and fight off the second wave of the attacking blackness while staggering to remain standing. When I stood, as clearheaded as I was going to get under the circumstances, I made a clumsy grope of my pockets, and found only an almost-empty tube of lip balm, a comb with a quarter of its teeth missing, and a single penny.

Just then, a small boy of about five or six dashed, laughing gleefully, around the back of a big motor home parked in the lot several spaces away from where I stood waving like a drunk. When he saw me, he stopped instantly in his tracks with his little blue child’s eyes growing large as fried eggs as he stared at me. His tiny body struggled to make the motions required to turn it around and head back the way he had come. Finally, with all the rush he could muster, he tore off back to the motel, limbs flayed in all directions as he ran. The Vermont plates on the motor home told me the poor little dude probably didn’t have much exposure to drunken bums with bloody faces hanging around the parking lots back home, but then where would it be commonplace, I pondered? At any rate, his actions dictated that it had become the highest priority that I find a way to make myself presentable or at least a little more acceptable to society than standing there staggering and bloody.

A quick visual search of the surrounding area revealed a water faucet in a cactus bed on the side of the motel. I started toward the faucet, trying to walk in as dignified and straight a manner as I could in case anyone might be watching. The beating and hangover spoiled the success of the effort, and I was afraid the end result looked something like an old Frankenstein movie as I lurched and jerked my way past the corner of the building and away from the front where I had first come back to life. Once I passed the corner and was out of sight of the entrance to the motel, I felt a little relieved as only one door exited along that side of the building and the possibility of someone chasing me off slimmed down a lot.

I turned on the spigot and washed my hands and arms then gently patted water to my face, hoping any injuries I had weren’t too serious.

I stepped out of the cactus bed and checked the parking lot over again. When confident I was alone, I went over to a new white Ford pickup parked close to where I stood. The Ford had a large camper in the bed and sported a huge rearview mirror on each door. Turning one of the mirrors to see my reflection, I was shocked at what was cast back at me. Familiar, yet not, were the green eyes and darkly tanned skin, the messy curly brown hair I was used to, but there was also a comically ugly dude mixed in there, brought on by swelling and discoloring. I had no doubt.

A sudden thought of my mother brought a different sickness to my stomach. I wondered how she would feel if she saw me now in this degenerate condition. Surely, she couldn’t be shocked; after all, she did abandon me as a six-month-old on the steps of a church very early one Sunday morning.

Yeah, this would show her, I thought out loud. Show her what? I asked myself as I concentrated on the comical reflection. Maybe the priest at the orphanage was right when he counseled me in my teens. It’s best to push the thoughts of her from your mind and go on with your life, he’d said. I knew dwelling on thoughts of my family and the way Mom had abandoned me only depressed me deeply and brought me back through an all-too-familiar drunken cycle that I just happened to be at the bottom of right now, and had been at so frequently during the last thirty years since she dropped me off on the church steps.

Well, anyhow, I thought out loud, back to the task at hand. By picking, poking, and brushing at my face and making several trips back to the faucet for a splash off, I concluded my injuries were really more to pride (if I ever actually had any) than anything else. A little swelling, some discoloring, one small split on the upper lip, and several tiny elongated holes in my forehead that looked as though someone had pushed my face into a gravel road were the only injuries visible on my face. The palms of both hands were torn up some, with bits of gravel pushed into the skin along their heels. I knew from experience there was nothing that wouldn’t heal within a few days. That was one superblessing bestowed on me, that I healed very fast, almost freaky fast. It was like I could tip over on my face and, a day later, be completely healed up. Rather good for a dude who often got himself into a fight or worked in a blind drunk around knives in the bird factory.

Having washed as much as possible without soap or a washcloth, I brushed my clothes to remove the dust and was attempting to straighten them when I noticed a tear in the crotch of my stonewashed Levis, big enough to be self-conscious about and absolutely large enough to prevent sitting without some sort of frontal cover if I hoped to avoid embarrassment or possibly arrest, especially since I was wearing no underwear. I concluded that it took quite a distortion of my body to tear those hardy pants. They were only a few days old and up until now had been in perfect condition. Knowing I had been in the pants when the tears were made somewhat explained the feeling that knots were tied in the tendons of both inner thighs and the excruciating sensation of golf balls moving up and down under my skin as I walked.

I washed out my hair at the faucet and gave my head a shake. I immediately knew the shake was a mistake when blackness began to consume me. I had to drop to one knee and steady myself with hands to the ground for several moments until full consciousness returned. I rose slowly, moving in the manner of a man with a glass of water balanced on his head in hopes of preventing a repeat of the head-shaking fiasco. I pulled what remained of the comb from my pocket and began running it through my hair. About every other pass, it would jamb painfully into one of several unfamiliar knobs on my head. I actually even managed to attain an almost acceptable reflection from the mirror.

As I straightened my shirt and tucked it into beltless Levis, I was further disappointed by a three-inch tear that ran parallel with the shirt’s button line. I found that by crossing the front tails inside the Levis, I could hide the tear quite well, as well as cover the area behind the tear in the jeans.

I walked to the rear of the Ford and sat on the bumper, pulled off one deck shoe to reveal a filthy foot, then the other, as I emptied out pebbles and sand. Once my feet were dusted off, shoes replaced and tied, I felt almost ready to face the world, but definitely ready to do something about the rumbling that was starting deep in the back of my stomach.

I stood up behind the Ford and stretched to standing on tiptoes; then I quickly returned to a flat-footed stance and braced myself for the impending opening door to unconsciousness I knew would follow. Just when all of the blackness disappeared, I heard the side door on the motel open and shut. Quick, heavy footsteps ground sand into the concrete walk as someone approached. A very large man with a huge bush of red hair and beard appeared around the side of the Ford. He stopped short, apparently startled by me standing next to the Ford’s bumper, and boomed at me in a loud voice.

What the hell ya do’n to my truck, dickhead? he demanded.

I fought back an urge to kick him in the groin, knowing he could worsen my present condition severely, and politely as possible replied, Nothing, sir, with a cracking voice. Then I scurried off down the parking lot, exaggerating a limp, hoping it would provide sympathy and avoid him causing me further pain.

Harsh words came bouncing after me one syllable at a time. And stay the hell away.

I snuck a quick look back to make sure he wasn’t following me and saw him looking his truck over to see if I had been tampering with it. I hurried on until I turned the next corner of the motel and left the good old boy behind, mumbling to himself some nonsense about Them damn homeless, just do’n whatever they damn well please.

I took a deep breath to celebrate escape from the good old boy without further injury and looked up at the sky. It was a clear, vivid blue, without a hint of a cloud. The heat was already surprisingly evident, judging it to be only about 6:30 a.m. and already eighty plus degrees.

For several moments, I studied a very tall, thick, and spiny armed cactus that stood beyond a chain-link fence at the edge of the parking lot that ringed the motel. It resparked my curiosity as to where I was, so I scanned the license plates on several cars parked near what I assumed to be the back door of the motel’s restaurant by the stomach-tantalizing breakfast odors drifting from it and concluded—this must be Arizona.

I walked toward a pair of trash Dumpsters located several steps away from the kitchen’s door, and after looking back and forth to ensure I was alone, I lifted the lid of the nearest one. Inside I found a more than adequate food supply to satisfy my hunger. That it had been discarded by others didn’t bother me in the least. I selected two clumps of scrambled eggs, a half-eaten slice of ham, and two three cornered pieces of toast. I’d just assembled my breakfast into a sandwich when a middle-aged woman of Hispanic heritage bumped clumsily out the back door to the kitchen with a bulging green garbage bag in each hand.

Go back to where you came from, mister! she ordered in very precise English. She tossed the bags into the Dumpster and wiped her hands on a greasy apron that stretched across a bulging stomach; then she shook a finger at me and warned in exact, deliberate speech, If you are not out of here by the time I count to ten, I am going to call the police!

I didn’t give her a chance to start counting. Experience taught me that when you’re eating out of a garbage can, you leave the area as soon as anyone asks you to. I walked several yards away, holding my meal high in the air and eating with deliberate, swooping gestures of my arm, giving an accompaniment of loud smacking noises and an exaggerated swagger of my buttocks.

When I turned back and looked at the woman, she was such a silly sight—standing there with arms folded across her little table of a bulging belly and deliberately tapping a well-worn green leather dress shoe on the parking lot pavement—that I couldn’t resist giving her my infamous hyena laugh. As I bawled it out, I read the stenciled sign on the side of the Dumpster,

"sanitation

:

arizona city, arizona

."

Well, at least now I know the name of where I’m at, I said aloud to myself as I headed for a large fuel station that loomed across an access road in front of the motel. A few steps farther on, I could see that the road connected a small group of businesses that serviced an interstate, which I could now hear the roar of and see just beyond the fuel station.

A Petro station was the largest of the several located around the off-ramps of the interstate, and because of its size, I chose to investigate it first. At the entrance, there was a large convenience store and souvenir shop located beyond the fuel station’s cashiers. Just beyond the shops was a large hall area containing vending machines along one wall. Against the opposing wall stood two brown tall-backed chairs on a platform with a shoeshine man standing in front of each. One was busy polishing the boots of what was obviously a truck driver; the other was idly folding and creasing a soft brown-stained white cloth over his forearm. The fold-and-creaser guy eyed me up and down with a quick look and then, judging me not to be worthy of soliciting business from, lazily moved his gaze to judge the fellow walking behind me.

At the far end of the hall were two doors marked as restrooms; each had a smaller sign under the first, informing Showers. Halfway down the hall, I turned and looked back at the door to the souvenir shop from which I had entered the hall. There I saw still another door with a sign above, reading, "

iron skillet restaurant

." Judging by the heavy traffic passing through the complex, I knew it would be quite safe to kill some time there. Anything this large very seldom would have the owner working in his own establishment, and most of the employees I could see working around the complex appeared younger than myself and probably wouldn’t say anything to me if I stayed out of their way as I loitered the day away.

I eased down the hallway and checked out the restaurant through the door. It was quite evident that the restaurant was the real center of activity within the complex. The booths and stools lining the counters and walls were crammed to capacity with Western-attired truck drivers and leisurely clad families who obviously were traveling cross-country. Having just had the meal I’d liberated from the trash Dumpster before entering the service center, the priority now seemed to be finding a way back to Lodi and the bird factory or, surprising myself with the thought, maybe even seeing what this community had to offer. I picked out a comfortable spot along the wall between two vending machines, checked the arrangement of my Levis to make sure I wasn’t exposing myself, and settled back to watch people as the day passed and started to figure out what to do.

You know, as I sat there and thought about it, Lodi had never really done right by me. Sure, I’d been able to party most of the time, and the job at the bird factory always seemed to provide enough for beer and room at the hotel I called home, but I never had a real place of my own, like an apartment or house in the twelve years since I’d been asked to leave the orphanage.

The thought of the orphanage brought back some unpleasant memories—why couldn’t those people understand that I had my own special set of priorities? They all seemed to feel the only problem I had was the abuse of alcohol or any other drug I could lay my hands on. I, on the other hand, felt the only problem I had was that I kept getting sober when all I really wanted to do was to party. I reckoned life had been pretty good to me because I very seldom ever got a hangover. I just floated out of one drunk and into another, looking for the good times only.

I do have to admit that being raised in the orphanage had provided me with some wonderful ammunition to face the world with though. I took the nuns serious when they said education was important and the key to whatever one wanted. They also said the time I would apply toward education as a youth would be magnified many times in value for my future, and I hungrily milked all the knowledge that I could from them. I didn’t extend my education beyond high school, even though I was encouraged almost daily. I just had other priorities.

Because of my great love of party, I had been asked to leave the orphanage on the day of my eighteenth birthday. I mused at remembering the day. It had been twelve years ago, and I was standing in the hallway that led to the street in front of the orphanage. Three of the nuns had followed me to the entrance, pleading tearfully with me to make the commitments the priest had asked of me.

Please put aside those things that are destroying you, your life, and your mind, they begged with watery eyes. If you do, the world will be completely yours, they promised.

But even then, my mind was clouded by alcohol. I’d been going through my footlocker in the dorm, packing my things, when I found a half-quart of Thunderbird wine left over from some unremembered drunk. It was lying there half hidden in the corner of the locker with a crusty T-shirt almost covering it up. It lay there for only a moment, though, winking at me, seeming to say, Drink me, drink me. I quickly obliged and consumed its contents in several large gulps.

The remainder of that morning was simply amusing for me. It remains in my mind as a swirl of half memories, slurred words, and brazen statements. I vaguely recall how I tolerated the nuns pleading for only minutes; then I stood in the hall laughing till tears streamed down my face as the nuns, whom I had feared for the seventeen plus years I’d lived in the orphanage, scurried away with little shrieks of terror as I stomped my feet on the Spanish tile floor in mock pursuit, threatening to jerk their robes off and push them out into the street. Yeah, the shoe had been on the other foot that day.

I pulled myself out of the daydream, wanting to forget the incident. I felt very embarrassed about what I’d done the moment I awakened the following day, and I still feel shame every time I recall it.

I concluded I’d probably better not put any effort into partying until I have some arrangements made to avoid waking up on the ground again.

After midmorning passed, I left the service complex through a side door in the fuel cashier’s area. My breath was absolutely snatched away by overwhelming heat. The temperature must have climbed to well over 110 degrees, and it was only about eleven o’clock.

The heat brought to me the stark reality of my situation, and I realized in a slight panic that I needed a plan to start to get my life in order. I immediately felt a strong twinge of excitement well up inside as I suddenly, defiantly, and surprisingly concluded that I had no intention of returning to Lodi at this point. After all, I really had no reason to return. I was wearing all that I owned in the form of cloths, torn and dirty as they were. I normally wore cloths for a week then bought replacements at the secondhand store because that was cheaper in my mind than washing. The shaving kit that contained the personal-hygiene items that I’d carried from my hotel room to the bath down the hall and back was probably lying buried like an empty beer bottle somewhere in the RV, and I had no idea where that might be. I know I had my wallet with me when I started drinking, so the dudes in the RV probably relieved me of it before they dumped me in the parking lot of the motel.

Thinking I had just made the first worthwhile decision of my life, I turned and headed back into the coolness of the air-conditioned service station.

Nature was calling, so I headed toward the restrooms. The odors drifting down the hall from the Iron Skillet stirred a grumbling in my stomach. I reached unconsciously into my pocket, having temporarily forgotten my financial position, intending to count change to plan for a meal. Just as my fingers reached the depths of the pocket, I felt the lone penny slip through a hole in the bottom and slide down my leg and into my shoe. I stopped, dug it out with a hooked finger, stood back up, and stupidly shoved it back into the same pocket. This time, it fell through rapidly and clicked across the tile floor as it rolled away. Paying no heed to the insignificance of its worth and only knowing that it represented the sum total of my wealth, I chased after it in a mad panic as it rolled clicking across the tiled floor. The coin stopped with a clack as a booted foot plopped down on top of it. I followed the well-shined brown boot up to a worn but very clean pair of Levis that were fitted snugly over the legs of a man who looked something like me, or at least like how I liked to imagine I looked or wished I did, although shorter by several inches and with strikingly black hair. My father was of German descent, according to what I had been told of my ancestry, which accounted for my somewhat taller stature than the average man, but I wasn’t sure of much more.

This man was definitely of Mexican ancestry, and I felt an immediate friendship toward him. His face was wrinkled around the eyes and deeply tanned, looking as though he had seen many a day outside. I judged his age to be between thirty-five and forty. He stood about five foot eight in the Western boots that clad his feet. He sported a very pleasant, wise countenance, which gave me a warm feeling of security even before he spoke.

Finders keepers, losers weepers, he said with a wink and an accompanying smile that told me the penny didn’t mean a damn thing to him other than a way of breaking the ice for conversation. I just knew immediately this man and I could become good friends.

In a single smooth motion, he stooped, scooped the penny up as he tilted his foot to expose it. and held it out to me in a rolled-up hand. Here, son, a shiny new penny for your future, he said.

I held my hand under his, and he dropped the penny into it.

I slipped the coin into the watch pocket of my Levis, now thinking it may at least have some value as a good-luck piece. He opened his hand as an offering of friendship after the coin dropped out, holding the elbow high, almost awkwardly. It was several seconds before I realized with a start that it was intended for a handshake, and I almost knocked myself down trying to get my hand into his to complete the gesture before he withdrew it.

Hi, I’m Mike, he said in a warm and pleasant voice.

Abe, I responded. Abe Augustine is my name, I sputtered, trying to please the man I found I liked better by the moment before he walked away.

He smiled and gestured with a little tilt of his head, which I interpreted to mean that I was to follow him, then turned and walked up to a signpost that directed, Please wait here for hostess to seat you—where he stopped, placed his hands in the small of his back, eased back to lean against the wall of the hallway, and motioned with his head for me to join him.

I slipped in behind him, thinking to myself how wholesome he looked in those faded yet clean jeans and ivory-colored cotton shirt. The shirt was of Western cut with long sleeves. On each side of the front, several little red squiggly lines started on top of the shoulders and ran down, fading to disappear about midchest. His boots were of Western style, scarred by use but very well polished and matched in color the tooled leather belt that displayed a plain brass buckle at its front. Everything fit him perfectly, and even though he wore no jewelry, his complete attire gave me the impression of great quality and cleanliness.

Mike beckoned to a waitress who obviously knew him. She swung her arm around in a semicircle over her head, ending with her index finger pointed in kind of a hook toward the rear of the room. During the gesture, she was forming words with her mouth in a silent, exaggerated speech, which gave her a cartoon-character look, making me smile widely enough to open the split in my lip.

Ah, there’s room in the back, Mike said to me. He did a little double take when he saw my grin and added, That’s Alice. She’s quite the card, isn’t she? he said and then headed off through the crowded restaurant. I followed closely, holding my hands down in front. For some reason, I suddenly remembered the tear in my pants and was extremely self-conscious about it.

Mike rounded an adobe pillar that supported an arch leading to a second dining room, smaller than the forward one and much less busy. As I looked around the room, it became apparent it was added on to take the overflow of the main dining room. The back room must have been a favorite of the regulars in the restaurant because Mike made knowing gestures to all the patrons who looked up as we walked by. Most of the seated diners returned the nodding gesture, and those within speaking distance each voiced the same greeting of, How ya doing? as we passed. The diners were dressed similarly. To a man, they wore blue jeans, light-colored long-sleeved Western-cut shirts, leather boots, and white hats. The only differences among their attire were the various stages of wear and collected dust that their cloths displayed. The hats varied from brand-new bright white to yellowed, sweat-stained, and crumpled. The boots ranged from stiff, new, and obviously uncomfortable to boots worn white with heels walked over so badly the wearer appeared to be walking on the sides. Everything else showed in-between stages of wear. I had the eerie feeling that I was walking into a place in time that really didn’t exist anymore, kind of like the Old West; only here, I was a part of it—except I was really out of place, dressed in my modern stonewashed jeans and polo shirt.

Nice and quiet back here, Mike noted out loud as he slipped into a booth.

Sure is, I answered, sliding in across from him, happy to have the cover for my torn pants.

Hungry? he asked.

No, I lied. I wasn’t ready to tell Mike I only had the one penny that was the cause of our meeting.

He took two menus from between a little sugar jar and tiny wrought iron rack that held small envelopes containing salt, pepper, and Coffee-Mate. He slid one of the menus across the table to me as he said, I’m buying.

I looked up and could tell by his soft brown eyes that I wasn’t hiding anything from him. He knew I was hungry, and he probably knew I was broke to boot. Well, maybe just a burger, I said quickly. The realization that I was about to have food started the saliva glands working, and only a swift wipe with the back of my hand prevented me from drooling on the table.

The waitress walked up, wiping her hands on a white terry cloth towel. What can I get you boys? she asked with a warm and seemingly genuine smile.

Iced tea, burger, and fries. Twice, Mike instructed.

I felt a wave of relief when he ordered for me. Somehow that made accepting the meal easier, even though I had prepared myself to take advantage of his offer.

Are you a trucker? I asked, trying to start a conversation.

Mike gave a little squeal of laughter and rocked back and forth in the booth. No, he said, Just a bum, he added with some giggles. Kind of what you look like. And what are you? he asked back.

Well, I guess that makes a pair of us, I answered. I woke up this morning in a parking lot down the road a ways, fresh in from California.

On vacation? he asked with a knowing wink.

No, more like shanghaied. I was out partying with some guys from work, and the next thing ya know, I’m waking up on some strange blacktop, beaten and robbed. I have no idea how far from home I am, must be at least a thousand miles back to Lodi, I said, hoping he would enlighten me more about our location.

No, that’s only about four hundred miles or so from here, Mike said thoughtfully.

Might as well be a thousand, I said I don’t really want to go back there anyhow. Saying it out loud surprised me. I knew I’d considered not going back, but when I heard myself say it, it seemed so final that it scared me way more than a little.

Mike put me at ease by continuing our conversation. Yeah, I spent most of my life in California. Of course, most of my time was spent in the farming communities, picking up whatever work my family could find. I’ve seen enough of those big cities to last me a lifetime, and after spending the last couple years around here, I find this lifestyle much more to my liking, more easygoing, you know what I mean? he asked as he looked at me with his warm smile.

Not really, I said. You have to remember, I just got into town this morning. But as far as a relaxed lifestyle, if that’s what you’re referring to, I guess I’ve been going at it pretty strong lately, and maybe I should take a break too.

Sure, he comforted. My partner, Chad, was one of those real fast-paced people for many years. Then one day, things just got to be too much for him. You should see him now. I guess he’s what you’d call real laid-back.

Where is Chad now? I asked.

Well, Mike said hesitantly with a quizzical little wrinkle to his brow, which gave me the impression he was wondering whether he should say any more, I guess it’s all right. Chad is down the interstate at the next exit, doing a little panhandling.

I must have looked a little startled by the frankness of his statement because Mike permitted the conversation to lie flat as he sat with a somewhat amused expression, which led me to believe he was waiting for me to question him further. Having always had a very inquisitive nature, one that I have been rudely reminded of on many occasions, I searched my mind for some way to enter back into the conversation that wouldn’t offend Mike. Finally, unable to control my curiosity any longer, I just blurted out, You guys have a run of bad luck or something?

No, he responded. Actually, it’s our chosen profession.

Again, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I figured if I was right about what he meant by that statement, he wasn’t going to be offended if I continued my little inquisition. You mean the profession of panhandling?

Why, yes, he responded then fell silent again, exhibiting the same amused grin. He was visibly having a good time with my ignorance to his situation, as well as my awkward curiosity.

Please tell me more, I pleaded.

He opened his mouth to speak just as Alice escorted a family of five, clad in matching gray sweat suits, to the table just across the narrow aisle from our booth. Maybe a little later, he said with a wink and a jerk of his head toward the family, now wrestling for positions around the table. It’s really not something we’d want to get around, he said with a serious look, which told me the subject was, for the moment, closed.

I began to search mentally for another topic, wanting to engage this fascinating dude in further conversation. After looking around the room, I leaned over the table and motioned him closer. He leaned in, and I whispered into his ear, That family sure is out of place in this Old West atmosphere.

He looked toward the sweat-suit-clad group seated at the adjacent table, which I indicated with a jerk of my head, and smiled broadly at me as he shook his head. Yes.

Alice walked briskly up to our booth, balancing two plates on her left arm. She deftly set silverware out with her right then slid heaping plates between the settings. Enjoy your lunch, boys, she said over her shoulder as she bustled back the way she came.

Mike glanced up at a clock on the wall and said, Better eat up. Chad will be coming soon.

Does that mean you’ll have to leave? I asked. The disappointment must have shown on my face because he smiled as he pulled a slender ivory-and-brass-handled pocketknife from his jeans, snapped it open, and sliced effortlessly several times through his hamburger to create finger-sized strips.

I’ll tell you what, he said as he clicked the knife shut and rolled up on one buttock to stuff it back into a tight jean pocket. I’ll talk to him when he gets here, and if it’s all right with him, maybe we’ll take you along to one of our hangouts for a while.

With this, I began to wolf my food down, my mind racing with anticipation as to what my future might now hold.

Chapter 2

A Few New Duds

I was standing in front of the restaurant while the two of us waited for Mike’s friend Chad. Mike was making a brazen attempt to solicit money from people as they left the entrance of the service complex. I overheard his line as he repeated it to each of his intended victims, one after the other.

Sir, sir, my brother and I—at this point, he would hook a thumb over his shoulder at me—had an incident last night on the freeway. Our automobile burned to the ground from a fuel leak, and we’ve been left destitute. Is there any way you might be able to spare some change that would help us return to our home in Northern Arizona?

His sincerity amazed me, but even more so did the generosity of the people he hit on. In the space of about forty-five minutes, he managed to accumulate about thirty-five dollars. Only two of the people he approached turned him down. All the others reached into their pockets and handed him some change or paper money. One elderly gentleman quickly produced a twenty-dollar bill and passed it to Mike in such a rush it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get away from him.

During one of the brief periods when no people were leaving the station, Mike came over to talk to me. I stared wide-eyed, no doubt, at the huge wad of bills he produced to wrap his new booty in—I mean, it was really a fistful. Huh, how much do you make doing this? I sputtered.

Well—he screwed up his brow in thought for a second—about a hundred and fifty dollars is a real good day. On the average, Chad and I take in about seven to eight hundred a week, but then we salt out a lot. We’ve got to keep our panhandling spots from getting too crowded and, you know, make an occasional payoff to certain people so they’ll let you hang around their places to hit on people. Healthy tips to those who work in them do a lot too. Most of the money we salt out, though, goes toward helping people who have legitimate problems.

What does that mean? I asked.

A lot of young kids—well, all sorts of people for that matter—have car problems as they pass through here. The desert is real cruel to machinery, and the places of business along an interstate aren’t cheap. A few of the repair shops around here know us and give us—well, really the people we’re helping out—a break on the cost of repairs because they know if we’re involved, the folks we’re helping are either broke or real close to it, he explained patiently.

Every now and then, a wrecker driver will pull up to us with a car in tow that the state police have requested be removed from the interstate because it’s broken down. Well, from experience, they know we’ll help out anyone if they’re in trouble somewhere along the section of interstate that we use. So if the people are around and they’re destitute, the wrecker driver will ask for our help. He waited a moment then added, We’ve never turned down anyone in trouble yet, and probably never will. We’re actually some of the best people in this environment. We make sure everybody passes through here safely. I’ve always considered us to be kind of modern-day Robin Hoods. We panhandle a little here and there then, in return, buy a tire or fan belt for this person or that. Then there’s the fact that Chad came from the automotive industry a while back, and he’s really handy with a wrench. He does most of the minor repairs for those less fortunate.

Mike looked over to the off-ramps of the interstate, and a flash of pleasure spread across his already satisfied countenance. Speaking of Chad, here he comes now.

I looked up to see a large black Cadillac with darkly tinted windows coming down the ramp from the interstate. It was followed by an old Ford pickup painted with red primer and driven by an elderly gentleman. Both vehicles turned into the pump-island area of the service complex, the old red truck at the closest island and the Cadillac at the next.

Mike sprang his body off the block wall we were leaning against with a jerk of his back muscles and headed for the pickup. I followed, hoping they would decide to take me along for the day. I did have reservations building at the thought of riding in the bed of the old pickup in the direct heat of the sun but quickly blew them off because I had tired of the service station and had an intense desire to get to know Mike better by whatever means it would take.

Mike walked up to the back of the pickup as the old man pulled the gas-pump handle from its cradle. How ya do’n? Mike greeted then walked right on by, leaving me to face the pickup’s owner. After Mike passed the truck, he turned and walked backward toward the Cadillac, watching me with a grin to see if he had fooled me into thinking this was Chad. He had.

I was completely at a loss for words when the old man looked me directly in the eye and irritably said, Well?

I looked up toward Mike for help, but he stood there smiling and waving me back to the station with one hand as he held up the other with one finger extended so as to indicate, Give me one minute.

I… I thought you were someone else, I finally blurted to the old dude then turned and walked as fast as I was able back to the block wall of the station, remembering Mike was going to try to clear it with Chad first and assumed he didn’t want me there for the conversation.

I leaned back on the shop’s wall, where I had spent the past several hours, and watched as Mike strode up to the driver’s side window of the Cadillac. He stood there talking, occasionally lifting his head to peer over the top of the car at me.

The Caddy was an older Fleetwood model, one of the really big ones from the middle or late seventies. Its color was either a really dark blue or somewhat faded black—sometimes the desert can really play tricks with paint after several years of baking in the sun. All the windows were darkly tinted, and the old machine appeared to be in excellent shape.

After what seemed to be about thirty minutes of conversation between the two, involving intermittent glances over the top of the car with palm-toward-me gestures, which I read to mean, Have patience, just wait, Mike went to the back of the Caddy, pulled the fuel-pump handle from its cradle, opened the tank, and after feeding several bills into the pump, began to pump fuel into the machine.

Meanwhile, the old gentleman with the Ford had completed his fuel up and returned the handle to its pump. He walked over to the driver’s window of the Caddy and stood for several minutes talking. Then he returned to the bed of his truck where he extracted a gas can and took it over to the back of the Caddy, where Mike was just replacing the cap on the tank. Mike took the can, set it on the ground, and proceeded to fill it.

After the old man walked past me into the store, I looked up to see Mike return the fuel nozzle to its cradle, turn, and knock gently on the trunk of the Caddy, whose lid then popped up. Mike placed the fuel can into the trunk and returned to the driver’s window. This time, he remained for only a minute then, with a frown on his face, started to walk back to the station where I stood. When he reached me, he tugged my shirt by the shoulder, turning me toward the store entrance, and said, Come on, I need to talk to you.

We entered the store and walked to the back of a line at the cashier’s desk. Standing behind the old man as he waited for a trucker to pay his bill, Mike hooked his arm around my back and pulled me close by the far shoulder. He said in a genuinely sad voice, I’m sorry to tell you this, Abe, but Chad said he didn’t like your appearance.

I had the feeling of being absolutely destroyed. I was so sure that I would be accepted, so excited about the start of a new life in a different place that I wasn’t prepared for rejection. My entire new world came crashing down with utter disappointment. I stood there for a moment in shock, trying to plan my next move without the man I learned to like so well in one short afternoon. I felt starkly alone.

Then Mike gave my shoulders a playful push and said, So we better clean you up.

Turning to look at him, I saw him through eyes clouded by the presence of tears that I didn’t remember having since my early teens and whose presence now I couldn’t explain. I felt quite disgusted with myself for not being able to control them. When my vision was cleared by a couple of blinks, I saw glee on his face, not hidden but blazing, and I realized he had been toying with me.

It’s hard to relay the feeling of elation that overwhelmed me as he gave me another little tug of a hug. I was experiencing something I never had before—being brought from the depths of despair to a feeling that all is well with the world in less than a minute.

Mike pushed me toward the back of the shop as he directed, You pick out some jeans, a shirt, and shoes from the racks back there. Then we’ll get you a shower.

I hurried back to the aisles that contained the clothing and grabbed a pair of prewashed Levis 502s that looked about as faded as the ones Mike was wearing. I was just pulling a pair of sneakers from the large basket they were displayed in when Mike walked up behind me.

Better you should try a pair of boots, he said as he pointed toward a rack filled with Western-style boots along the wall at the end of the aisle. I was walking toward the rack when he added with a grin, Something simple and neat. It helps in our work.

I chose a pair of boots by the price, twenty-nine dollars, the cheapest pair of elevens on the rack. I returned to Mike just as he pulled a long-sleeved light-gray shirt of Western cut from a rack and held it up in front of my chest. We both nodded our approval. Mike looked at my choice of boots and twisted his face with mock disgust. He pointed a finger down his throat then at the boots I held in my hand. Please! he said as he took them from me and walked back to the rack of boots. Size ten and a half?

Eleven, I said, feeling