Desperate Measures

18

Pittman woke with a start. The shadows were gone. The air was pale, the sun not yet risen over the city’s buildings. Traffic was sporadic.

As he became fully alert, his memories from the previous night made him flinch. He sat upright. The man to whom he’d given his trench coat was no longer on the bench.

But someone else was-a well-dressed, slender, gray-haired man who wore spectacles. Pittman had the sense that the man, who seemed to be in his fifties, had nudged his knee.

“Did you sleep well?”

Skin prickling, Pittman had no idea if this was a policeman or a pervert. He debated what to answer. “No, not really.”

“That’s understandable. When I slept on a bench like this, I always woke up with back trouble.”

“When you did?”

“Before I reformed. You look like you’re recently down on your luck. Fairly good clothes. But that overcoat. Where on earth did you get that overcoat?”

Pittman realized that the grungy blue coat was draped across his lap. The man to whom he’d given his own coat must have covered Pittman when, despite all his effort not to, he drifted off to sleep. That would have been about 3:00 A.M.

“I got it from a friend.”

“Certainly. Well, no doubt you wonder what I’m doing here.”

Pittman didn’t respond.

“My name is Reverend Thomas Watley. I come here every morning to see if the park has any new occupants. The other residents are quite familiar with me. In fact, at the moment, they’ve gone to my church. Every morning at six, a free, although modest, breakfast is available. There’s also a place to shower, shave, and relieve oneself. Would you care to join us?”

Pittman still didn’t respond.

“I do conduct a religious service, but your attendance is not required, if that’s what worries you.”

Pittman kept staring.

“Well, then.” The man shrugged. “I must get back to my guests.” He held out his hand.

At first Pittman thought that the man wanted to shake hands, but then he realized that the man was trying to give him something.

“In case you decide not to join us, here’s five dollars. I know it isn’t much, but sometimes it takes only a little boost to raise a person back to where he was. Remember, whatever caused your downfall, it’s not irremediable. The problem can be solved.”

“Reverend, I very much doubt that,” Pittman said bitterly.

“Oh?”

“Unless you can raise the dead.”

“You lost your…?”

“Son.”

“Ah.” The reverend shook his head. “You have my sincerest condolences. There is no greater burden.”

“Then what makes you think my problem can be solved?”

This time, it was the reverend who didn’t respond.

“Thank you for the money, Reverend. I can use it.”