To Any In Need
Stories
56 Stories For Preaching
White Boy shuffled down the street. His run-over loafers
slapped on the pavement with every step. His breath made thin
white streamers, and his hands, stuffed in his pockets, were
purple with cold. Hunger gnawed at him, and there was a rawness
in his throat that he knew was getting worse. He needed a bowl of
soup. And a place to sleep.
White Boy didn't look around him as he walked. He tried to
look like a man, with someplace he was in a hurry to get to. To
look aimless was to attract attention, and attention meant
trouble, either from gang members or the cops. Gangs meant a
beating. Police meant questions he was not prepared to answer;
police meant juvie hall, and more trouble. So he kept his head
down, shoulders sloped in a determined attitude.
Which is why he didn't see the van until a voice called to
him, "Looking for a place to stay?" He stopped, startled, shook
his head twice, deliberately, and stepped up his pace. Places to
stay carried price tags he didn't care to pay. He knotted his
fists in his pocket, prepared to swing if necessary.
"Hey, kid!" It was the voice of an older boy, couldn't be more
than 20, White Boy guessed.
"Who you calling a kid?" he retorted. "You wouldn't last one
night on the street!"
"Oh, yeah, I'm a real innocent, and you're a tough guy. NOT."
White Boy stopped and faced the van. There was a huge white
dove painted on the side of the van and a sign that said,
"Overnight Sleeping Space, Hot Supper, No Strings." White Boy
made a face. The boy in the van looked at the sign, back at White
Boy. "Okay, I can see you've been on the street for
a while. Trust nobody." He didn't pause for an answer, but
plunged on. "So, I tell you what. Here's a sandwich and a cup of
coffee. And a blanket, if you need it. Don't come near the van.
I'll put it down on the sidewalk here, and you can pick it up
after we're down the street." He rummaged around behind the seat,
produced a plastic-wrapped sandwich, and a real coffee mug, with
a lid.
As much as he wanted what he saw, White Boy backed up, ready
to run, as the young man hopped out of the van, putting the food
and blanket on the pavement. "Need anything else?"
Sarcastically, White Boy said, "Yeah, how about some soup? And
an aspirin."
Hesitating only a second, the older boy tossed a tin of
aspirin to White Boy, who caught it on the fly, deftly stuffing
his hands back in his pockets. A street trick. Van Boy grinned.
"Okay, soup tomorrow -- same corner, same time?" White Boy just
shrugged.
The van zoomed away from the curb, disappearing down the
street. White Boy gobbled the food, burning his tongue on the
coffee, swallowed three or four aspirin, and hurried down the
street, the blanket wrapped around him. In the darkness of an
alley behind a bakery he found some warmth and the insulation of
garbage-filled bags to sleep on. His dreams were filled with
white doves and a smiling boy, carrying buckets of soup.
slapped on the pavement with every step. His breath made thin
white streamers, and his hands, stuffed in his pockets, were
purple with cold. Hunger gnawed at him, and there was a rawness
in his throat that he knew was getting worse. He needed a bowl of
soup. And a place to sleep.
White Boy didn't look around him as he walked. He tried to
look like a man, with someplace he was in a hurry to get to. To
look aimless was to attract attention, and attention meant
trouble, either from gang members or the cops. Gangs meant a
beating. Police meant questions he was not prepared to answer;
police meant juvie hall, and more trouble. So he kept his head
down, shoulders sloped in a determined attitude.
Which is why he didn't see the van until a voice called to
him, "Looking for a place to stay?" He stopped, startled, shook
his head twice, deliberately, and stepped up his pace. Places to
stay carried price tags he didn't care to pay. He knotted his
fists in his pocket, prepared to swing if necessary.
"Hey, kid!" It was the voice of an older boy, couldn't be more
than 20, White Boy guessed.
"Who you calling a kid?" he retorted. "You wouldn't last one
night on the street!"
"Oh, yeah, I'm a real innocent, and you're a tough guy. NOT."
White Boy stopped and faced the van. There was a huge white
dove painted on the side of the van and a sign that said,
"Overnight Sleeping Space, Hot Supper, No Strings." White Boy
made a face. The boy in the van looked at the sign, back at White
Boy. "Okay, I can see you've been on the street for
a while. Trust nobody." He didn't pause for an answer, but
plunged on. "So, I tell you what. Here's a sandwich and a cup of
coffee. And a blanket, if you need it. Don't come near the van.
I'll put it down on the sidewalk here, and you can pick it up
after we're down the street." He rummaged around behind the seat,
produced a plastic-wrapped sandwich, and a real coffee mug, with
a lid.
As much as he wanted what he saw, White Boy backed up, ready
to run, as the young man hopped out of the van, putting the food
and blanket on the pavement. "Need anything else?"
Sarcastically, White Boy said, "Yeah, how about some soup? And
an aspirin."
Hesitating only a second, the older boy tossed a tin of
aspirin to White Boy, who caught it on the fly, deftly stuffing
his hands back in his pockets. A street trick. Van Boy grinned.
"Okay, soup tomorrow -- same corner, same time?" White Boy just
shrugged.
The van zoomed away from the curb, disappearing down the
street. White Boy gobbled the food, burning his tongue on the
coffee, swallowed three or four aspirin, and hurried down the
street, the blanket wrapped around him. In the darkness of an
alley behind a bakery he found some warmth and the insulation of
garbage-filled bags to sleep on. His dreams were filled with
white doves and a smiling boy, carrying buckets of soup.
