"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 1

            All hope was blighted when I saw the line of faceless bodies snake around the corner of the church with the red door. I took my place in the back and pressed my cheek to the side of the building, hoping to suck up even just the slightest ray of heat contained within the bricks.  It wasn’t snowing, although I had heard that there was a chance of a storm tonight through the scattered conversation of passersby’s that day. The January wind was violent, whipping at the bare skin of my face like thousands of pins. It made you actually want it to snow instead.

            I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and nose. It reeked of smoke and week-old trash. Quickly, I pulled my hood farther over my head, and then darted my hands back underneath my armpits and into the two holes there in the fraying fabric. A gust of wind thrashed my tangled hair into my eyes. Somewhere a taxi gave a long honk, making all the bodies in front of me jerk their heads towards barbwire fence that separated the courtyard from the street.

            The sun had just crossed over the horizon, shedding a pink glow over the sky and highlighting the shadows of the skyscrapers. For once, something in this city was beautiful. I wondered if anyone in line was thinking the same thing as me.

            Most of the pedestrians on the sidewalk over the fence seemed to be college students. In groups of twos and threes, most had backpacks and cardboard coffee cups. Some walked their bike, a burning cigarette held between their fingers. A few couples passed, holding hands and multiple shopping bags. One man dressed from head to toe in tight thermal spandex sprinted, panting, his breath clear and spastic in the air. These were the sights that I saw everyday, and though it is hard to believe, I have practically become numb to their emotional impact, the strong image they convey of the life outside the small circle to which I was confined.

            The body in front of my stirred, and the line began to slowly trudge forward, like weary soldiers marching off the battlefield. I felt my stomach tighten as my feet began to shuffle. The Christians here only let seventy-five people stay the night. For a long time, I did not know why. But I have come to understand that this was only a good thing, because they only wanted to protect themselves from the bad people. But I always think about the good people- the people like me who won’t hurt anybody, who just come to rest- and I always worry that someone like that will be left outside. I know it happens everyday.

            As I turned the corner of the building, another body came running through the fence, nearly crashing into my back.

            “Shit, that was close.”

            It’s a man voice. I can feel his steaming breath on the back of my neck. Suddenly the air smells like rotting vegetables, and I hear the smacking of his lips.

            I couldn’t tell if his statement was directed at me, so I didn’t turn around. It’s always the safest thing to do.

            We don’t enter through the red door. That’s only open on Sunday mornings when the bells chime and families go to service. Instead we go through the heavy metallic door at the side entrance that leads down a long hall. A Christian is always guarding the door. Tonight, it is a woman in a sweatshirt and reading glasses. She smiles as the line slowly feeds through the door. She holds a clipboard in one hand, and checks it with her pen whenever a person crosses the threshold.

            Finally, it’s my turn.

            The Christian smiles and says,

            “Welcome! Glad to have you with us!”

            I can feel every nerve go slack in my body as I force a smile though chattering teeth. I cross the threshold like a finish line. Victory. I have been saved for the night.

            As I begin to walk down the hall, following behind the others, I hear the woman’s boots take step and unhook the chain the holds open the door.

            “I’m very sorry, sir, but we have reached our limit for tonight. But I know Meryl’s Shelter on 18^th street will be more than happy to give you a place to stay.”

            I am number seventy five.

            I stop and turn around when I hear the man laugh, a breathy toothless wheeze, and I see him point his finger at her. Then his face turns impertinent.

            “This is because I’m black, huh? Or is it because you think imma all go in there and ruin your perfect Jesus-lovin’ celebration? Bitch, you just think you’re so much better than me-“

            “Sir, I’m sorry but these are church policies-“

            “Fuck you. Fuck you, I don’t need these Jesus-Freaks.”

            Then he spat at her feet, dark and thick, and walked off the stoop into the dusk, still muttering obscenities.

            The Christian closed the door and locked it with one of the many keys that hang from a chain on the belt loop of her jeans. She turned around and began walking down the hall, appearing to be completely unshaken by what just happened.

            When she saw me standing there, wide-eyed and windblown, she was still able to give yet another smile.

            “Come now, honey. Don’t worry he’ll be fine. Let’s go get you warm.”

            But I wasn’t worried about the man. In fact, I was rather happy that I was in here, and he was out there.

            We walked down the hall in silence, her heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. We turned the corner to another hall lined with small cubbies and wooden doors. Day care art projects decorated the walls. Oversized calendars and bright posters were taped to the doors. Some other women had begun to strip off their layers, like makeshift bandages, and stuff them into the cubbies. One by one, phantom bodies began to take on the form of human beings. Faces began to appear.

            “You can leave your things here. Then we’ll go upstairs for the service and meal.”

            She didn’t have to tell me.

            I found an empty space between two cubbies that were already stuffed. It may have just been the dim lighting, but, for a second, I thought I saw something stir underneath the blanket, crumbled and stuffed in the back of the cubby on the right.  Across the top of all the cubbies was a laminated nametag. The one across mine read “Christy” in black Sharpie. A sticker was stuck inside, half of it was just white scrap clinging to the wood, as if someone had tried to take it off but couldn’t get a clean tear. I think it said “excellent work”.

I took off my backpack first, making sure to push it all the way to the back, and then carefully concealing it with my coat. I kept my gloves on. Then I heard an organ begin to play, shaking the ceiling of the basement, and I knew the service was about to begin.

As well as the seventy-five people policy, the church also had another. We are allowed to eat a meal and spend the night, but only on the condition that we attend a service. I didn’t mind it. I wasn’t really sure if I believed in God and Jesus, but I still liked the feeling of peace and hush when I sat in the sanctuary, warm and empty handed. Others were very opposed to the service, and were very rude to the Christians that talked.  Some didn’t even stand when we were asked to, or closed their eyes when we prayed. I resented them for all their crass behavior, and I always felt like I should apologize to the Christians for their intolerance.

“Come on now, we’ll be late.”

The Christian woman was still there, half way up the stairs at the end of the hall. Quickly I walked over to the staircase, while the other two lingering woman slowly meandered over, staring up with gaping eyes.