Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

In walking by the intake desk en route to the kitchen, Christopher saw that his relief, the night supervisor, had arrived already. Christopher could go home soon—not that he wanted to go home. His coworkers this evening had seemed surprised that he'd want to be out and here on Christmas Eve this year considering what had happened the previous Christmas Eve, but he couldn't have been home alone this evening. Sandy, the night supervisor, was talking with Ben Thomas, the off-duty cop, who volunteered to spend the night here in case there was trouble. You never could tell with homeless men. Some of them were hopped up—especially since this was Christmas Eve, when emotions were high.

He found Mae Manning and Frieda Halpern in animated conversation when he entered the kitchen from the main hallway.

"Christopher. It's good you're here," Frieda said, turning to him.

"Let's not bother Christopher with this tonight of all nights," Mae said, giving the other woman an admonishing look.

"Not bother me with what?" Christopher said. "If there's a bother here, it's my responsibility," he added, knowing that Sandy didn't officially relieve him for another hour.

"There's a new man out there at one of the dinner tables—a very young man," Frieda said.

"Frieda, don't. We'll tell Ben," Mae said. "Christopher doesn't need to get involved with this."

"Yes, a new young man?" Christopher said. "What about him?"

"I think he has a gun. They aren't allowed to bring guns in here," Frieda said, breathless.

"Which one is he? Show me," Christopher said. She pulled him over to the passthrough window, past a clearly disapproving Mae, and pointed to a table out in the fellowship hall, where the last of the evening meal was being finished by the last round of diners.

"That one there. The young man who seems withdrawn into himself. The one not talking to the other two at the table. I saw the butt of the handgun inside his jacket. It didn't register to me that it was a gun when I first saw it. But now I'm sure it was."

"OK," Christopher said, picking up a deep service tray and a towel from the drying rack, "you're about to take that platter of cookies out to the serving table for dessert, aren't you?"

"Yes," Mae said, stepping up to him.

"Put a few on a plate for me and one of you go stand by the serving table to keep those other two at the table talking if I can get them to go for cookies and get that kid alone—you, Frieda, if you would." Frieda was younger and a lot better looking than Mae was. She could hold those two guys' attention.

Christopher walked out to the table with a plate of three cookies in one hand and the towel and serving tray in the other. "Here, son. Here are the cookies you requested." And to the other two men at the table, he said, "The cookies just came out, over there at the serving table. You guys might want to get to them first to get the ones you want." The two men got the message, rose from the table, and approached the serving stand, where Frieda stood, somewhat nervously, with a welcoming smile and the promise of a bit of conversation. Mae was looking disapproving from the kitchen, beyond the passthrough window.

"I didn't ask for any cookies," the young man said.

"I know you didn't, but we have a problem here that I want to help us solve without others knowing about it or getting the police involved, if we can." Christopher sat down across from the young man at the table. "And I think you'll like these cookies anyway."

"Problem? What problem?" the young man asked. He looked almost too young to be out on the street. He also looked like he hadn't been homeless long. He just didn't belong. His clothes weren't tattered enough. He had the despondent, down-on-his-luck look that many of the homeless exhibited, but he just didn't look fully into the role. He was tall, blond, and well built. He could easily be a college basketball player. He was achingly good looking but highly tense. Frieda had been right; the handle of a hand gun showed under the flap of his not-warm-enough-for-winter jacket at his armpit.

"The gun. That's a problem here. Let's get that put someplace safe before Officer Thomas sees it."

"Officer Thomas? There's a cop here?" the young man asked, as he pulled the jacket flap over the handle of the gun.

"What do you need a gun for here anyway, son? This is a church and we're just trying to give you guys something to eat, a warm place for a few hours, and a place to sleep safely. All the guys know firearms are off limits here."

"Safely," the boy responded with a snort. "You don't know homeless guys. You don't know what it's like to be young among homeless guys like this."

"Young and good looking?" Christopher couldn't help saying. The young man looked up into his eyes then.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What are you going to do with a gun?" Christopher asked. "My name is Christopher, by the way. What's yours?" Getting them on a name basis was basic training for working with a homeless shelter, Christopher had been taught.

"Evan. My name's Evan," the young man said. "I haven't decided what to do with the gun yet. Certainly nothing here at the dining table. I could rob a bank or just end it all. This life's the pits. I haven't decided yet."

Christopher's stomach turned over at the mention of ending it all. The Christmas tree in the hall was beyond Evan. Christopher looked at the young man, the tree glittered behind him. Christmas Eve. It was almost too hard to take. "It can't be that bad. You could get hurt trying to rob a bank or store with a gun." He couldn't bring himself to address the other issue Evan had mentioned.

"Yeah. Death by cop is one way out," Evan muttered. "And if it didn't get there, there at least would be a warm jail cell and free food."

"It's warm here and the food is free, Evan, and it's about a lot more than you here. If Officer Thomas had to shoot you, it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It's not fair for you to transfer your problems to him. And If someone is caught bringing a gun in here, we could get shut down completely. All the guys here would be out of someplace safe and warm, with free food, on Christmas Eve. You don't want that, do you? Not for the other guys here. Give me the gun. I'll take it away someplace safe—for the night—you can have it back when you leave in the morning. Here, when no one's looking. Place it in this pan. I'll cover it with the towel and go put it someplace safe. What do you say? Eat your cookies, go watch a movie in the TV room, and find a warm cot here for the night. It will all look better in the morning."

There would be no giving the gun back in the morning, of course, Christopher knew. Christopher wouldn't even be here in the morning. But if the young guy handed over the gun, they could all continue as they were into Christmas morning.

"Yeah, I guess," Evan said. He surreptitiously slipped the handgun into the tray, Christopher covered the tray with the towel, and he got up from the table.

"Good. Thanks. I'll go put this in a safe place and then come back and we can talk." The last thing he wanted to do was to talk with a confused young man on Christmas Eve who looked so achingly like Steve had, but he was oddly compelled to do so. He was drawn to this Evan. He was heartsick, but he felt the need to connect with this young man—to find out what was wrong, what had brought a beautiful young man like him to a homeless shelter on Christmas Eve, and maybe to help provide some healing that he hadn't been able to do—hadn't been given the opportunity to do—the previous Christmas Eve.

"It will be fine. Trust me. I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, and he took the tray, being careful not to permit its contents to rattle around in the metal pan, back to the kitchen. Frieda was still talking with the two men who had been at the table with Evan, and Christopher gave her a smile and a nod of thanks as he passed her. Mae had gone to fetch the off-duty policeman, Ben Thomas, and the two of them were in the kitchen, watching Christopher approach.

"Mae told me . . . is it in there? Let me see it," Ben said. He reached out for the tray and Christopher gave it to him. "Maybe we should—"

"It's Christmas Eve, Ben," Christopher said. "These men have no place else to go and it's taken care of now. The young man doesn't have the gun anymore. Let's just put it somewhere safe and be happy it's taken care of. I'll go back and talk to him—his name's Evan—and I'll try to find out what his situation is."

"There was no threat," Ben said as he examined the gun. "This won't fire. No firing pin and it's not loaded. It's a piece of shit . . . sorry. I guess it's OK. No harm can be done with this."

"Unless he brandished it about and whoever confronted him—possibly armed themselves—didn't know it wasn't able to fire," Christopher said.

"Yeah, I guess there's the danger of that."

"Put it somewhere safe, Ben. I'll go talk to the young man."

But when Christopher went back to the table in the fellowship hall, Evan was gone—and Christopher wasn't able to find him anywhere else in the building.