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CHAPTER 1
I am trav'ling tow'rd life's sunset gate, I'm a pilgrim going home.
— "The Sunset Gate"
Denver
I looked out over the crowd — mostly white folk. Wadn't nary a dry eye in the whole church. They was affectin me, and that ain't normal 'cause I seldom makes eye contact 'less I be thinkin 'bout takin care of bidness, if you get my drift. I paused, tryin to figure out what I was gonna say next. Maybe I done said enough — seemed like I'd been talkin 'bout thirty minutes. Then it come to me.
"I'm fixin to do somethin the Devil ain't never done for you — I'm gonna cut you loose. But before I do, I'm gonna leave you with a little somethin to think about. Whether we is rich or whether we is poor, or somethin in between, this earth ain't no final restin place. So in a way, we is all homeless — ever last one of us — just workin our way home."
A rich-lookin man 'bout fifty years old on the front row stood up and pointed his finger at me. That shut me down. I thought I might have made the fella mad tellin rich white folk they's homeless just like me. But the next thing I knowed, the lady next to him stood up, then Mr. Ron and his family stood up, and before I knowed it, the whole crowd, maybe a thousand or so, was on they feet clappin like they was at some kinda performance.
I never really wanted to know Miss Debbie. Miss Debbie forced me to know her. That was the stubbornest woman I ever met — black or white. That's sayin a lot for some skinny little white lady who wadn't scared of me, 'cause everbody else on the streets feared me — I made sure of that. I guess I'd have to say Miss Debbie was a stubborn angel, my angel that I wadn't never lookin for or never wanted. For the life of me, I never could quite figure the lady out, but she loveded me and never gave up on me.
Sad to say, she died before she seen me as the man she wanted me to be. She used to tell me, "Denver, you got a callin on your life, and you're gonna live to see it." That's why I be standin up here like a preacher in this big white-folk church to honor that lady in front of all these rich white folk. They was even a few fellas like me and some street ladies from the mission — God's people, Miss Debbie called 'em.
Miss Debbie wanted to bring about a change in my life — at least see me act a little nicer and help her help the homeless. Over and over, she kept tellin me I had to change places and playgrounds — leave my past. Bossy. She even offered me to move in with her family. For sure, I wadn't gonna be movin in with no rich white lady and her husband and kids and lose my status in the hood. I told her I was a bad man, but that lady was stone deaf to my objections. She say she didn't see no bad man — she seen a good heart. Seemed to me the lady was wearin Superman's glasses and was able to see plumb through all my anger and confusion to a heart only I knowed was locked up inside my scarred black skin. But now she's gone. I figure God needed her more in heaven than down here on the streets. God don't make no mistakes. Did you hear me?
Now, Mr. Ron — well, I figured the onliest reason he was bein my friend is 'cause Miss Debbie told him to. That man didn't never want to disappoint his wife or tell her no. He'd done somethin he was payin for. But now that she's gone, I figure he's gonna cut me loose and go about his life. We's friendly, but to tell you the truth, I don't let nobody, I said nobody, get close to me. Never have, never will. Although Miss Debbie come real close.
After the service, I slipped out the back door to avoid havin to talk to nobody. I've always been skitzy 'bout talkin to folks — especially whites.
I'd borrowed a suit to wear, a real nice one so I wouldn't be an embarrassment to Miss Debbie's family. Now, what's a fella like me gonna do with a suit? I ain't got no place to go or no place to hang it, so I walked right back in the mission store and hung it back on the rack so it's there for someone else who need to look nice for just a day. The clothes I wore before the funeral that mornin got throwed in the Dumpster, which ain't no big deal since I ain't never bought no clothes, not really. So I picked out a new pair of dark-brown britches and a brown belt to hold 'em up. A brown shirt, the same color, caught my eye, and I put it on. Then, quick as I slicked up for church, I slid back into my comfortable spot in the hobo jungle near the tracks.
Unless you ever walked in my shoes, you wouldn't understand how I could stay in the bushes in a cardboard box surrounded by hoodlums, crooks, killers, and thieves. Nobody never trusted nobody in the hobo jungle. That's why you never seen me without my baseball bat. I enforced my own brand of justice. Why do you think everbody on the streets called me Suicide? It wadn't 'cause I was a nice fella! That's called self-protectionizin.
I found a big piece of cardboard in the Dumpster and laid down on the wet ground from the mornin rain in the shade of a big ol' oak tree. I hadn't really slept in the last three days since Miss Debbie passed. When I closed my eyes, I just be thinkin 'bout Miss Debbie.
Ain't nobody ever seen me cry — specially on the streets, where they thinks I'm the meanest man alive. So I put a rag over my head to hide my face from the other fellas that was layin up in the bushes. In fact, the last time I remember cryin 'fore that was when I was a little boy and watched Big Mama burn up in a fire. I tried to save her, but she just wouldn't wake up after takin them Red Devil pills. She was a large woman, top to bottom and back to front, too heavy for me to drag out.
Them red and yellow flames looked like the Devil hisself was fannin 'em and killin her. I heard her cryin out for Jesus as the roof come crashin down on her. That was the terriblest thing ever happened to me. You just don't never get over somethin so tragible like that.
But here I was in just about the same spot I laid forty years ago — two days after I hopped on a freight train as it was passin by the plantation. Life there was slow and easy. Listen to me: ain't nothin more beautiful than a black-land cotton field ready for the pickin. Slimy green alligator-filled swamps lined with cyprus trees don't sound too appealin to someone who ain't never sat on the bank with a fishin pole watchin snakes slither and listenin to the bullfrogs croak. It brings tears to my eyes thinkin 'bout the beauty and wonderment of Louisiana.
There was plenty of work for the coloreds till mochinery took all the jobs. Wadn't long after that our peoples was forced into city slums with no money, no education, and no hope. I hung 'round longer than most — till the Man cut everbody loose 'cept the Boss Nigger. When he cut off my credit at his store, I just walked across the blacktop road and climbed up inside that boxcar. I smiled till I fell asleep. That was freedom.
I'd never been more than thirty miles off that Louisiana plantation — the Man made sure a that. I knowed people on the outside say we was free, but on the inside, I felt like his slave. I had no idea where that freight train was goin. A hobo layin up in there told me prob'ly California. Didn't matter. I had plenty of time to get there.
When that train finally come to a stop, I got off and walked right into this camp — it ain't changed much. I asked a fella where I was at, and he say Fort Worth, Texas. I knowed it wadn't California, but I figured it was a long way from the plantation — too far for the Man to come lookin for me.
The big city and me didn't get along very well. Too much confusion, hustlin, and runnin game. Things got bad in a hurry when a fella tried to rob me and shot me in the leg with a .357 Mag. I ended up on another freight train, runnin and hidin from the law, 'cause I gave him a taste of his own medicine. A few days later, one of the hobos I was ridin with say we was in Los Angeles. I stayed a purty good while out there, but I ain't wantin to talk 'bout that. There was a lotta allegations against me in that town, but the allegator didn't know the whole truth. So I eased on outta there on the next freight train goin slow enough for me to hop on.
I ended up back in Fort Worth and set up camp right here in the jungle. It was the onliest place I knowed. And to tell you the truth, I didn't have no other place to go — still don't. This is where I began my new life, runnin from the past with a secret I didn't want nobody to find out.
I been carryin this secret — a lotta secrets — a long time. Ain't never told nobody, and hoped I'd never have to. Miss Debbie got me to start talkin 'bout my past, and I almost spilled the beans once or twice 'cause she was the first person I ever trusted. But I still ain't told nobody. Now that she's gone, don't know if I ever will. But it's a load to carry. Did you hear what I said?
CHAPTER 2
Ron
I woke up to the news that George W. Bush had won the presidency. Just three weeks before, my wife, Debbie, and I had watched the last debate. Politics for her was a passion, and she was a big supporter of Bush. Now she was gone. But knowing her, I would not doubt that some of her new friends in high places might have helped with the election.
The kids and I were driving to the church about an hour before the start of Debbie's memorial service. I dialed Denver's cell phone over and over, but he wasn't answering. He'd already lost three phones since Debbie gave him his first one a few months ago. This was not a good time to lose another one.
Denver and I had talked early that morning as he drove back to Fort Worth from our ranch at Rocky Top. He said he was shaking with the chills and sadly would not be able to attend her service. Reluctantly, like it was a secret, he told me he had spent the whole night before keeping watch over Debbie's grave at the ranch, where we'd buried her the previous afternoon. I asked him why, since it had rained most of the night — a cold rain. But after living outside for so many years, he said the rain didn't bother him. "It was cleansing," he said, adding he had prayed for Debbie's service the whole night long and wasn't going to stop until it was finished.
I just couldn't accept that he wasn't coming, so I kept dialing his number, hoping he would answer, miraculously feeling better. He didn't. As we walked in the sanctuary and took our seats, through the blur and fog of my own tears, I visualized Debbie crying in heaven. One of her final special requests was for her friend Denver to say a few words at her service.
There was a commotion at the back of the church. The crowd all seemed to turn their heads at once to see who was arriving as the preacher began reading Debbie's eulogy. I'd never seen him so freshly scrubbed — wearing a suit and tie with shoes that shined like a mirror. He looked shockingly handsome, in contrast to his preferred vagrant style. After two years my heart and eyes were no strangers to this miracle transformation.
For the next few minutes a profound sadness lifted. Tears of joy flowed like the Brazos River as Denver walked down the aisle, followed by a few of Debbie's homeless friends — Mr. Ballentine, Hal, Clara, and two ladies I didn't know.
Though Denver and I had been friends for nearly two years, I'd never heard him speak more than a few words of wisdom. He was the silent type and had been most of his life, according to him. But this was a good day to break his silence. He spoke like a graduate of a master speaking class, inciting nearly a thousand mourners to stand and applaud — something I'd never seen nor heard of at a funeral. When he finished speaking, he slipped away as if he'd been an actor in a magician's illusion.
The next morning as my kids, Regan and Carson, and I were packing our car, I got a call from Don Shisler, who ran the Union Gospel Mission where we'd first met Denver. Immediately after Debbie's service, he'd received several calls from her friends. They wanted to donate money to build the mission of Debbie's dream, which Denver had spoken about at the service. Nearly five hundred thousand dollars was already committed.
I tried again to call Denver, but still no answer. I was uneasy about leaving for a week to decompress with my kids without at least letting him know. His words about friendship from one of our first meetings rang in my ears.
I had asked him to be my friend, and he'd told me he'd have to "thank about it." A couple of weeks after that meeting, I spotted him on the streets, taking trash out of a Dumpster and feeding the wild birds. I rolled down the window and asked him to go with me to Starbucks. Reluctantly, he slowly walked to the passenger side and opened the door without a word.
When he first heard the cashier ring up and say, "Four dollars please," he refused his cup, saying: "Coffee is free at the mission. Why pay for somethin that's free?"
A few moments later, sitting on the patio, he stared me in the eyes and said, "I been thinkin a lot about what you asked me."
"What did I ask you that required any thought?" I replied.
"You asked me if I'd be your friend."
"Yes, I did. So what do you think?"
"Before I decides if I's gonna be your friend, I need to ask you a question 'bout fishin."
"I don't fish much, Denver. In fact, I don't even own a rod and reel or a tackle box, so I'm not sure I can answer."
"Betcha you can." He seemed to stare deep into my soul.
"Well, ask."
"I heard when white folks go fishin, they do this thing called catch and release."
"Of course they do. It's a sport — don't you get it?"
"Nosir, I sure don't."
He went on to tell me that back on the plantation they would go out in the morning, dig a can full of worms, cut a cane pole, and sit on the riverbank all day long. When they finally got something on the line, they were real proud of it. They would take it back to the plantation and share the catch with all the folks.
Denver said, "So, it occurred to me, if you is a white man that is fishin for a friend, and you gonna catch and release, then I ain't got no desire to be your friend."
My body twitched at first, then relaxed as if an electrical shock of profound wisdom had coursed through my veins. Never had I heard something so wise from a scholar, much less an illiterate.
My mind flashed back to Debbie's dream about a poor man who was wise, and by whose wisdom our lives and city would be changed. Staring at my coffee, unable to look him in the eye, I took a minute or so to contemplate what he'd said — his blast of wisdom had fragmented my thinking. Could I actually be hearing from God myself? I considered that possibility before I raised my head and looked Denver in the eye. "If you will be my friend, I promise I will not catch and release."
"Then you gots a friend forever, Mr. Ron."
Those were the words that haunted me now as I prepared to leave town. For the last nineteen months during Debbie's battle with cancer, Denver had been at our home every day. Now she was gone, and the family was going away without him. I didn't want him to think I'd released him. But he wasn't answering his phone. He lived in the hobo jungle that no white man would dare to enter and live to tell about it.
So, sadly, we headed west on the interstate without ever telling him. Guilt rode shotgun for the next four hundred miles.
CHAPTER 3
Denver
Mr. Shisler seen me in line for supper and told me Mr. Ron told him to tell me he'd gone on a retreat with his kids. I figured somethin done happened. Wadn't like him to not be callin or comin by to pick me up. But Lord have mercy, that man and his kids needed a break after carin for Miss Debbie the way they did.
The funny thing is, Mr. Shisler laughed when he say the word retreat, 'cause he remembered the time Miss Debbie took me on a retreat.
I'll never forget that day when she showed up at the mission in her big ol' white-on-white fancy somethin or 'nother 'bout half the size of a bus, with four more white ladies in the back.
"Anybody seen Suicide?" she asked some of the homeboys sittin on the curb. They all pointed toward the hobo jungle, and she run across the street and right into the jungle like a hobo runnin from the law. I 'spect she be the first white lady ever to set foot in the jungle. I know she knowed how dangerous it was in them bushes, but she wadn't scared.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Workin' Our Way Home"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Ron Hall.
Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
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