Mr. 8

Chapter 31: Superstition

There were proverbs on the walls.  Little blue banners with white letters stitched on providing small splashes of color to the otherwise drab room. Even though the shelter was at ground level, there was a murky, subterranean quality to the light that made it feel like a basement.

Three men sat at the table closest to the door playing gin. They spoke loudly, but the room still felt hushed, as if there were an oppressive silence trying to drown out all joy.

The other two tables only had one person sitting at each of them. Behind the card players was another man just as grimy as they were, although significantly older. At first, Denton thought he was being stared at, but the man's eyes were just fixed blankly on the door, as though he had been waiting for someone for so long, he had forgotten who he was expecting and why it mattered. Spittle clung to his gray whiskers, and every now and then his body would be racked with convulsions, as he broke into a coughing fit. He made no attempt to cover his mouth, but no one else in the room seemed to notice.

Sitting alone at the last of the tables, with just five empty chairs for company, was the least destitute of the occupants. He looked clean and recently shaven. His clothes were ill fitted but didn't have that lived in quality of the others.

Beside him was a counter. An old woman sat behind it, reading a book, and standing guard over a big pot on a hot plate.

In a corner, on the other side of the room next to a crucifix, there was an old artificial Christmas tree, looking Charlie-Brown-like with missing branches, one string of multicolored lights, and a few mismatched ornaments.

"Are you here for food or a bed? Or both?"

Denton was in the middle of wiping the snow off of his glasses and hadn't seen the little man come up to him. Frail and silver haired, he seemed as ancient as the colonial era church next door. His bearing and the prominent gold cross around his neck suggested he worked there. He wasn't dressed like a priest. More likely, he was a faithful member of the congregation, volunteering his time.

"I'm hungry." The words that spilled out surprised him. He hadn't consciously spoken them. It was as if the starving beast clawing around his stomach had climbed up and spit them out of his mouth. He hated the pathetic sound they made and the humiliation of standing there asking for food. He should have stopped off for something at a drive-thru. But there was some reason for coming in here. Even though at that moment, the only reason seemed to be to confirm to himself and the world that he had lost his last shred of dignity.

"That's good, because we're out of beds for the night. The storm filled us up fast. You can go see Sheila for a bowl." He pointed over to the old woman. His other hand hovered next to Denton's elbow, as though he wished to guide him over but didn't want to touch him. "Better be quick. We shut down at 11:00."

At the counter, he got a tray and a bowl. The women put down her dog-eared paperback and ladled him some mystery soup. She then carefully lifted a chunk of stale bread out of a plastic sack with a pair of tongs and dropped it onto the gray plastic tray, before going back to her book.

He looked around at his seating options with distaste. None of the decrepit plywood tables looked appealing. The closest chair was across from the cleanest of the men, and seemed as good as any, and better than some.

At the noise of Denton's settling in, the man looked up. His eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of his new table companion. His nose wrinkled and he frowned. Without a word, he got up and moved down to the other end.

A cackle erupted behind Denton. One of the card players was laughing. The man had a scraggly gray beard and a red wool cap upon his head. Denton wasn't sure whether he was laughing at him, or at the other man, or simply at the situation. But there was something in the timing that made it undeniable that it was directed at what had just transpired.