Homeless in Heaven

Chapter 1-2

Nathan Bloom turned the furred collar of his down parka up around his neck against the biting wind.

I’m certifiable, coming out when I could be home in a cozy house. But the light today with these broken clouds is perfect. It’ll set off the starkness of the camp and the pathos of the situation. I ought to be able to get some great photos.

He shifted the classic Nikon and the Canon digital cameras that hung around his neck, gloved hands a bit clumsy in the effort. To actually use the cameras the gloves would have to come off, but he’d wait until he was ready to shoot before he removed them. Otherwise, his hands would be too stiff to operate the controls.

Looking ahead, his gaze probed down the path meandering along the creek under disordered platoons of towering trees, now leafless. The stark, barren shapes added to the bleak mood. He snapped a couple of fast shots in hopes of capturing the feeling. When he looked back at the path, he checked the stride he was about to make.

His gut clenched with brief anxiety at the sight of the man who approached him. The fellow looked like a grizzly bear or a gorilla in mismatched cold weather clothes. The first item was a hugely bulky parka, mostly red with patches of other colors scattered here and there. The pants might once have been blue, but now were a dull gray-brown, as if coated with grease and soot. A ragged wool cap striped in red and dirty white topped his head. Twigs and wisps of rich brown hair poked out from under it, hair that matched the tangled beard hiding most of the man’s face. He carried a bulging bag on one shoulder, probably one of those heavy-duty black construction-weight trash bags.

On second thought, the man really did not look threatening, just rough and very big. Nate drew his gloves off and readied a camera. When the man drew close enough, he spoke a greeting.

“Hello. Not the greatest day, is it? Would it be all right if I take your picture?”

The big man halted, a quizzical expression crossing the visible part of his face. “Me? Why would you want a picture of me?”

“I’m working on a photo-journalism piece about our local homeless camps and the people in them. You look like a unique member of the camp residents, maybe a leader? Not many of them display the vitality or size you carry.”

The big man shrugged. “Nope, hardly a leader. Kind of a loner, I guess. Oh, I’ll try and help if somebody’s being bullied by other campers or hassled by the cops, but mostly I keep to myself. If you want a picture, though, I don’t care.”

Nate raised the Nikon and snapped a couple of pictures, centering the man’s bulk against the glowering clouds piling up to the north. Then he got a couple of shots with the digital.

“What’s your name?” he asked, more to buy a few more minutes than from an actual desire to know.

“Merl.”

“Just Merl?”

The man shrugged again. “That’s all there is of it anymore. Used to have two names and even a title of sorts in front of them, but that was in another life. How about you?”

“My name’s Nate Bloom. I live here in Eden, about a mile to the west.” He held out a hand before he put his gloves back on. The big man wasn’t wearing gloves. He shifted the bag to his left shoulder and met Nate’s offered clasp.

“Pleased to meet you, Nate.” Although the big man’s hand felt cold, a strange sizzle of energy still zipped up Nate’s arm from the contact. He noted the other man did not squeeze hard, although the clasp felt firm and positive. Well, you wouldn’t expect a limp shake from such a bear of a man, would you?

“I need to be getting along,” Merl said. “Gotta get these cans sold down at Kardamian’s Recycling today. You be careful, Nate. Most of the folks here are okay, but there are a few rotten apples—they’d shove you in the creek to take your coat, maybe try to rip off those cameras to pawn.”

Nate saw what seemed to be genuine concern in the other man’s deep-set dark eyes. “I’ll be watchful,” he said. “I’ve been down here quite a bit and never had any trouble.”

He thought of mentioning he had a permit and carried a small handgun in a concealed holster, but decided against that. It was nobody’s business whether or not he could defend himself. Still, the big man’s advice and apparent care warmed him. The people he’d met here in the camp never ceased to amaze him, in ways both good and shocking. Few fit the stereotype of folks lacking ambition or education, maybe dragged down by drugs or alcohol. Oh, there were some of them, of course, but the population held great diversity.

Most of them had a story, too. Maybe in time he’d get to know Merl better, enough to learn his tale. He sensed the big man had to have one because he spoke with an educated accent and reflected a quiet dignity, despite the total indignity of his present life.

As Nate continued down the path, he again recognized how fortunate he was.

I’m one of the lucky ones. Mom and Dad left me in good shape—a home and enough money to last my life if I don’t get too profligate with it. I’ll never be homeless. Maybe that’s why I want to tell the world about these people…

Nate sensed it took a strong man, an unusual one, to live as Merl did and still radiate the calm, sure confidence he displayed. He knew he could never do it. He’d been almost a complete stranger to personal hardship. Other than coming out when he was in his late teens and telling his parents he was gay, knowing they would disapprove, he’d lived a protected, near-perfect life. Even that had gone better than he had feared. In time they’d come to accept and tolerate his s****l orientation, so long as he was discreet about it.

And when they died together in a plane crash four years ago, he’d inherited everything with no restrictions or stipulations. Yep, he was one fortunate guy. Maybe he could somehow help those whose luck was not so good. That was his goal for this project, anyway. If more people knew the extent of the problems and saw behind the bum and bag lady images, maybe more help would flow to these unfortunate people.

He walked on, even managed a jaunty step despite the nip of the wind and the bleak surroundings. Now and then he snapped some scenes featuring the tents and rude hovels the campers had created from salvaged junk. He shook his head over most of them—such flimsy and pitiful shelters to rely on in the coming harsh winter. These people lived in a style hardly a notch above folk in the Middle Ages or even prehistoric times, and in some ways even worse since better conditions were all around them. How could modern humans survive like this?