These Men

Prologue: Chester HouseI saw him on the corners of Jaxx and Swarthon in downtown Templeton. He stood under a plastic Santa Claus in a sleigh that hung from a telephone pole. Cold December rain splashed against his face. He wore a mud-stained T-shirt, ripped jeans, and boots that had seen better days. No jacket, even though winter lurked over the city. He couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. There were dark rings around his sunken eyes and a few of his ribs showed through the wet fabric. He looked miserable among the red-green-white Christmas lights; he probably needed food and rest. He didn’t have a sign that read Will Work for Food or Homeless—Please Help! Something told me he wasn’t strung-out on his third trip of the day. He did have a canvas backpack by his feet, semi-stuffed with his belongings. Maybe his winter coat was in the pack, I didn’t know. The semi-foggy twilight, Christmas cheer, or some strange fixation caused me to pull up to him in my Nissan Frontier, stop, and leave the truck’s engine running. We made eye contact. We needed to build human trust between us during the next few seconds: “I can help you,” I told him after rolling my driver’s side window down. “Do you need a place to stay?” He nodded. “Do you need some food?” He nodded again. “Can you speak?” “I can.” It came out as a whisper; I was satisfied with that. Good enough for me. We were making progress. I passed him a business card. I kept about twenty-five of the cards between the two seats in the truck’s cab for circumstances like that evening. “I have this house. It’s for men who need a place to stay. It’s called Chester House. It’s partially funded by the state. The other money comes from private donations. You can come and stay there if you’d like. You can get some food, a bed to sleep in, and a shower.” “I have no money,” he said, looking at the ground and his pack. The wipers flicked against the windshield. Rain splashed left and right. Thunder boomed overhead. A s***h of lightning arced across the sky from east to west and flickered a white-yellow hue that practically blinded me. “There’s no charge,” I told him. “For the first three months, that is. Chester House is a place that lets you get back on your feet.” “What’s your name? If I’m thinking about climbing in a stranger’s truck, I want to at least know his name.” “Joel. Joel Bass. What is your name?” “Mason. Mason Abraham.” “And where did you come from, Mason?” I asked him, calling out to him in the rain. “Salt Lake City.” “How did you get from Utah to Templeton, Pennsylvania?” “I did a lot of hitchhiking.” Rain started to pound down from the heavens, heavier. I told the kid, “Why don’t you get in the truck. We can talk more. I can help you.” Trust. It was always about trust during those first few minutes while saving lives. He walked around the front of the truck, opened the passenger’s door, and climbed inside. He said nothing as he placed his pack between his feet and strapped the seatbelt over his chest. A wet and raw stink lifted off his frame, s**t and heavy body aroma, proving that he hadn’t bathed in probably a week, maybe longer. “Safe and secure now,” I said, and headed to 473 Lincoln Street, Chester House. Changing the young man’s life. Helping him. * * * * We didn’t talk on the drive along Lake Erie and across Templeton. Awkwardness collected in a deep pool between us. Honestly, I didn’t expect the stranger to open up to me. None of the tenants of Chester House did at first; only after their third or fourth week. It took them that length of time before they felt safe, to adjust to the privacy of their rooms, a free bed, food, a bathroom, and quiet. Mason, I told myself, wasn’t going to be any different. I stopped at the red light at the corners of Jenkins and Weston Streets. More Christmas lights decorated the telephone poles. Christmas trees were scattered here and there. I pointed to a man in front of us who stepped into the backseat of an Uber. “That man ahead of us. Do you see him?” “I do,” the stranger in the cab to my right whispered. “That is a famous man. And very rich.” “Who is it?” “David Walker. The movie scriptwriter and producer from Hollywood. You ever see any of the Weston Warrior movies?” “Couple of them.” “He owns the franchise and wrote all eight movies. Plus, he’s written and produced probably three dozen other movies. I’ve lost count. I grew up with him.” “What’s he doing here in this small town by the lake?” “His family lives around here. Rumor has it he’s retiring here in Templeton.” The light changed and the Uber pulled out in front of my truck. It made a left and headed toward the lake and Elk Island. I steered the Frontier straight and through the green light. “We’ll be at Chester House soon. Sit back and enjoy the ride. You’re in good hands.” Less than four minutes later I pulled the truck into the drive at Chester House, a three-floor Colonial on the outskirts of Templeton. The place looked like a gingerbread house covered in bright, colorful lights. Two Christmas trees and seven illuminated penguins decorated the front yard. Red-and-white lights lined all the windows, the eaves, and front door of the house. I pointed to a soaking wet man in his early forties who paced in the front yard. He wore jeans, gloves, a scarf, a winter jacket, and a knit hat. I told Mason, “That man lives in Chester House. He’s been here for five years. A great guy. Super nice. He’s an actor.” “What’s he doing in the rain?” “His name is Andy. Andy Pass. He’s probably going over his lines for an upcoming play. The scene probably takes place in the rain or something like that.” “Interesting,” the kid whispered. “There’s a Templeton police car here. Is something going on?” I chuckled and parked the truck beside the city cruiser. “No worries. Let’s get you inside. The police car belongs to my best friend, Buck Fields. Like I told you before, you’re safe here.” “It’s a lot to take in.” “I get that.” We looked at Andy in the front yard. He leaned into the big oak and started talking to himself, or an imaginary someone in front of him. His right hand moved up and down. Then his voice became louder, his eyes flared, and his eyebrows rose. I told the kid to my right, “Yeah, he’s definitely practicing his lines. I’ll introduce you to him later. What do you say you take a deep breath and we’ll go inside, you can meet Buck, and another tenant named Scott Sebold? Then you can get a hot shower, some food in you, and enjoy a comfortable bed.” Mason nodded. “Thanks, Joel.” “It’s what Chester House is here for. Now, let’s dodge some raindrops.” We did. Part 1: Getting to Know You