The Good Atheist (26 page)

I found myself fascinated by this man Jesus who claimed to be God and Savior. The victim of violence, he taught peace. The object of hatred, he taught forgiveness. When he was abused and mistreated, he responded with love and forgiveness. Yet he was no wimp. He was not afraid to confront the most powerful religious and political authorities of his day. He was an incongruity, but I could no longer maintain the feelings of disdain that orthodox atheism insisted on.

He was hated, not for anything wrong he had done, but for who he claimed to be. And I began to wonder for the first time if his claims might be true.

• • •

Evening came and there was still no knock on my door in response to my letters. So I decided to go back to the two soup kitchens and try again. One of them was likely the link to my father. I got out of my clean sweats and put on my best hobo disguise. The dirty clothes I’d been wearing the day before would do just fine. I took a few sheets of paper and folded them up into a shirt pocket, along with the pen. I put Jorge’s phone in my pants pocket.

I didn’t want to drive myself. I used the phone Jorge had given me to call a cab. I waited on the street, and it arrived ten minutes later. I got into the back and pulled out some paper Euros. “Will you take cash?”

He turned around to face me, a middle-aged man who looked like he might have been a college professor trying to make ends meet with an evening job.

“Cash is illegal. I can’t take it. Credit or debit only.”

“I’ll pay double. In Euros.”

He shook his head. “Look, buddy, I run a legit business and I’ve got kids to feed. How do you think I’m going to support my family from behind bars?”

I got out quickly. I couldn’t blame him for being an honest citizen. The next cabbie was less scrupulous. His eyes lit up when I showed him the Euros. “For twenty Euros I will drive you to California, my friend.”

I handed him the cash, and it quickly disappeared. “I don’t know how they expect anyone to live on what’s left over after they gouge us for taxes, know what I mean?” he said. “The system forces an honest man like myself to break the law.”

Complaints about high taxes and the cost of living followed for the next twenty minutes as he drove me to the first soup kitchen. I had him drop me off when we were two blocks away. It wouldn’t do to have the patrons of the soup kitchen see me pulling up in a cab and using cash to pay the driver. He pulled over to the curb and I showed him another twenty Euros. “This will be yours if you wait for me here.”

“For twenty Euros I will wait all night, my friend.”

“Good. I may be an hour or two.”

“Take your time, my friend.”

I walked the two blocks through a residential neighborhood of older homes. Large brick homes that at one time would have housed a single family but were now quad-plexed. The back yards were little more than patches of dirt for the dogs to run around, and old cars sat in pieces in the driveways. The bright glow of televisions and holovisions shone through windows.

I came to the corner on 64
^th
and turned towards the mission. A group of teenagers at the convenience store a block away noticed me and started to follow at a leisurely pace. The soup kitchen was a block ahead, and I quickened my pace.

There was a line-up at the door that extended down the sidewalk. I wasn’t there for a meal, so I headed straight for the door. That was my first mistake. Two pairs of strong hands grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me back from the door. “Hey, pal. Who do you think you are?”

I turned around and looked into a dozen frowning faces in the line-up. The guy who grabbed me was about twice my size with a large beefy face and long dirty hair. “Wait in line like everyone else.”

It was clear from the looks on everyone’s faces that another impertinent move on my part would earn me a good beating. There was no point in trying to explain myself, not with this crowd.

“Sorry. I thought this was the line-up for the bathroom,” I said, and headed towards the back of the line, passing down a row of scowling faces.

I’d been here for all of thirty seconds and was making enemies already. It must be a gift, I decided. I made a note to myself to be more careful about soup-kitchen line-up etiquette. As I got to the back the group of youths passed by on the street without stopping.

The line moved slowly but steadily, and I was inside in a few minutes. The place definitely needed a makeover. Rows of folding tables and plastic cafeteria chairs filled the center of the large room. The floor was scratched and worn, the walls faded and stained with grease and who knew what else. The place filled up quickly. I got to the counter and took a tray off the top of the stack and a plastic plate.

I slid my tray down the counter. A young bearded man dished out potatoes. Further down the counter a couple of older women served what looked like mystery meat with gravy and vegetables. At the far end a well-muscled middle-aged man stood with his arms crossed. He wasn’t serving, but his tee shirt was tight to emphasis the large biceps. He wasn’t all that tall, but you clearly did not want to mess with him.

The bearded young man smiled brightly when I moved my tray in front of him. “Hello there.”

“Hi,” I said, unsure of soup-kitchen etiquette.

“I haven’t seen you in here before, friend.”

“It’s my first time.”

“Welcome. I’m Clarence and I’ll be your maitre d’ for the evening.” He bowed slightly and dished a scoop of scalloped potatoes onto my plate. “We offer more than a hot meal. If you ever feel like you want a sympathetic ear to bend, we have people you can talk to after dinner.” He indicated a poster on the wall behind the counter, showing a photograph of a couple of middle-aged men at a table drinking coffee and appearing to be sharing a private chat. Underneath were the words ‘We’re here to listen’.

“Okay, thanks,” I said.

“We’ve also got a few fellowship groups.”

“What’s a fellowship group?”

“Just a small group of men who get together over coffee. We’re here to feed more than your body. It’s important to feed your soul as well.”

A gruff voice interrupted us. “Can we move it along? I still need to feed my body!” Laughter broke out along the line.

Clarence pointed his serving spoon at the wiry little fellow next to me. “Complaints will get you smaller servings, Richard.”

More laughter up and down the line as I moved my tray along the counter. Next to the scalloped potatoes I got some sort of meat swimming in gravy. Carrots and peas landed next to the meat. I grabbed some plastic utensils at the end of the counter and took my tray towards the tables. I picked a seat that faced the serving counter so that I could watch the staff. The doors into the kitchen were also behind the counter.

The men at the table were focused intently on their plates, wolfing down food. I sat down, squeezing myself between the bulks of two large men. Everyone seemed to be wearing several layers of dirty clothes and a lifetime worth of grime on their faces. Hair for the most part was long and scraggly, hanging in uncombed greasy locks around their faces. Then the body odor hit me. Surrounded by dozens of men who had not bathed in what must be a century, it became overwhelming.

I had to choose between breathing and being overcome by the stench. I chose not to breathe, but that made eating difficult.

“What are you looking at?” The guy across the table glared at me. I realized I’d been preoccupied with my new surroundings and must have been staring.

“Just looking for a friend,” I said, hoping to deflect his anger. If I got into a fight, I’d be on my own in this crowd.

“Well, if you want a friend, put an ad in the personals.” He laughed at his joke, and toothy grins broke out around the table, joining in the laughter. And they weren’t laughing with me.

I picked at my food as the others returned to theirs. I wasn’t actually all that hungry, and the food wasn’t helping my appetite. I contemplated my next move. So far there was no sign of dear old Dad, but then I wasn’t sure what to expect. I could hardly expect to find him behind the counter dishing potatoes.

I needed to get to know the staff behind the counters if I was ever going to find out if this was the right soup kitchen.

“You got a problem with your food?” It was the toothy man across from me again. Apparently he’d taken exception to my table manners. I’d been picking but not eating, deep in thought.

“You got a problem with me?” I said.

“You gonna pick at that all night, Mister Fancy Pants? Food not good enough for you or something?”

The laughter around the table stopped when a young woman stood up on a small raised platform in front of the serving counter. A small mic at her neck amplified her voice around the room. Some heads turned towards her, but most of the guys continued to concentrate on the food.

“Now Miss Goody Two-shoes is going to tell us about the love of Jesus,” the guy in front of me mumbled, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

“That’s how we pay for our free meal,” another chimed in, loud enough for half the room to hear. This earned him a chorus of guffaws and chuckles from several tables.

The young woman ignored the barbs, no doubt used to it. You’d have to have pretty thick skin to work in a place like this, I figured. She launched into her sermon with gusto, talking about God and Jesus and salvation from sin.

I watched the staff behind the counter coming and going through the kitchen doors. There did not appear to be a huge staff. After twenty minutes or so I’d only counted eight different staff members, and they were all busy enough for twice that number. But there was no sign of Dad.

It was time to get to know the staff a bit better. I pushed my tray towards the guy in front of me. “Help yourself,” I said and stood up. He grabbed my tray and started to inhale it.

I went up to the counter and stood in front of Clarence. I’d have to take a chance and trust someone if I was ever going to find out if my father was here, so I decided that he was as good a place to start as any. I hung back slightly so as not to give the impression I was trying to butt into the line. I’d learned the hard way that the customers of this establishment were touchy about line-up protocol.

“Hey, Clarence,” I said. He looked up at me. I drew near and leaned over the counter so I could keep my voice low. “I wouldn’t mind taking you up on your offer for a friendly chat. I feel the need to talk.”

“Sure. We’ll be done serving in about twenty minutes. Just grab yourself a coffee and I’ll come get you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I found a large coffee urn in a corner with stacks of Styrofoam cups, open boxes of packaged sugar and powdered whitener. I poured a cup of black sludge and took it to a half-empty table far from the one I’d sat at before. The coffee tasted like radioactive jet fuel, but I sipped slowly at it all the same. Everyone else’s eyes stayed down at the table, and I followed suit.

About forty minutes later Clarence waved to get my attention, and I thankfully left my half-finished coffee at the table. I followed him through a door, and we walked down a long dim hallway.

Most of the staff looked like their clients, but they didn’t smell as bad, and they further distinguished themselves with black tee shirts that said ‘Fellowship House’ in white lettering. Several of them bustled past us as we walked down the hall.

We came to a dirty white door and walked in. The room had several cushioned chairs arranged around a table. There was a side table with an empty coffee machine, a can of coffee, more bowls of sugar and whitener. A window crisscrossed with iron meshing looked out onto the street. The bright pinpoints of headlights moved along the street outside. Lights from houses and a single working streetlight cast a pale glow on the empty sidewalk.

“Please take a seat.” He indicated one of the chairs and I sat down. “Would you like a coffee?”

“No, thanks. That last cup cured me of the habit.”

He laughed and sat down. “Well, I’m Clarence, as you already know. What’s your name, friend?”

I realized, too late, that I should have already thought about what name I would give. I wasn’t sure if I should be giving out my real name, but then again, my father would never find me if I was giving the wrong name to his friends. “Jack. Jack Callaghan.”

“Well, Jack, I’m always happy to lend an ear. What’s on your mind?”

I reached into my pocket and took out the phone. I navigated the internet until I found what I was looking for. I never had much use for them, but Selene loved the social networking sites. She spent more time visiting and staying in touch with friends through the social net than in person. One in particular was her favorite, a website that let you upload pictures and share them. Selene had uploaded all our photos and organized them into albums and various themes. I found a picture of my father. It had to be twenty years old, but it was the most recent I had. I hoped he hadn’t changed too much, and that it was still recognizable.

I placed the phone on the table touched the holo-icon. The picture of my dad appeared in realistic 3-D in the air between us. “Have you seen this man?”

I watched him carefully for his reaction. He stared at it for a moment, then I thought I saw a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes. He stiffened slightly in a clumsy attempt to cover up. “Sorry, I don’t recognize him.”

This guy would never make a living as a poker player.

“You’re a lousy liar,” I said with a smile.

He had the decency to look uncomfortable, and I was even more certain I had the right place. “What makes you think he’s here?” he asked.

If Clarence knew my father, he might or might not know about Zuebo, but I decided it was safest not to say anything more. I didn’t want to risk blowing Zuebo’s cover. As ticked as I was with him, he was still, after all, an important contact for my father, and from the sounds of it, a friend as well. “Let’s just say I have good reason to believe he’s associated with the people who run this place.”

He looked at me. “I was wondering what you were really doing here. You don’t exactly fit the profile of our typical client.”