- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9
The businessman was in no mood for the Saint. One side of his coat weighed down, he walked briskly down the sidewalk, stopping at nothing. He scattered pigeons, frightened dogs, stumbled on cracks, and nearly plowed down children as he strode purposefully forward. Head bent, eyes moving back and forth and up and down, tongue darting out every so often, he moved ever closer to his office building, and to the turning point of his miserable life. The dread he felt was that of a child at the dentist's door.
So when a figure half-walked, half-stumbled up to him out of the cold sunlight, the businessman's pace only increased. Adorned with numerous cross necklaces and saint medallions, the trim figure was small, with straight, mussed up, short blond hair. His khaki pants ended a good inch before his socks began, and these led into running shoes that had clearly seen better times. His white shirt, advertising a "Northwood Community Church," was also a tad small, and displayed a rather impressive coffee stain.
"Hullo, good stranger!" the man shrilled in a distinctly western accent. He held out his hand, which the flustered businessman ran into, and quickly grabbed without looking. His thumb went the wrong way, into the other man's palm, and clumped his fingers up oddly. The figure was unperturbed, and sidestepped frantically to keep up with the businessman. "How's your day going? Seen any signs from the Lord?" asked the squeaky figure, and the businessman just blinked several times, shook his head, and fired his tongue around his mouth again. The other man tried a slightly different approach. "What's happening in your life?" This at least got the businessman to look at the short, blond stranger. Something about the odd little man almost made the businessman explain his situation; his wife desperately needed an operation to help her recover from a rare illness, that he couldn't scrape together the medical bill, that his child's school progress was descending as a result, and that the reason that one side of his coat was heavy wouldn't exactly benefit his roommate at the office. But that was a big almost, and the businessman merely grunted.
"I should probably explain. I'm from a program at my church, the Northwood Community Church, an' we're called the Saints. I guess that'd make me a Saint, huh?" The Saint exclaimed with pride, and elbowed the businessman. This drew no response, so the Saint continued. "Our program's aim is to emphasize the community part of our church, so we decided to just go out on the street like this and talk to people, try to involve them in our big happy church family, you know?"
The businessman did not know. It had been a long time since he had seen, or used, the words happy and family within at least two paragraphs. He merely grunted again. "Not a very talkative fellow, are you?" asked the Saint, and the businessman grunted again. The Saint knew there was some irony in that, he just couldn't draw it together into one coherent sentence. Thus he continued on. "Come to think of it, our church is in a bit of trouble. We're desperately in need of refurbishment." It seemed that the Saint was pacified for a moment, staring glumly at the ground. Of course, this was not the case. In seconds his odd little head bobbed up, plastered with the familiar, bordering-insane grin."Play any sports?"
At last, this drew something from the businessman. "Golf now. Basketball in high school." The Saint barely contained his excitement.
"Yeah, you look like the basketball type." Thus the questions continued for, as the businessman saw as he frequently looked at his watch, approximately three minutes and eighteen seconds. Then the Saint touched a nerve. "How's your family?"
The businessman swallowed, and glanced at the beaming figure. His confidence in the strange little man had grown, and he said as much as "My wife's sick. I need to get some money for an operation for her." The Saint's grin disappeared, and his eyes bulged in his tiny ovular head. "Oh, that's terrible. You can look to Jesus, you know. Say, what's your wife's name?" The businessman raised an eyebrow.
"Marie. Marie Daniels. Why?" The Saint merely tapped his nose.
"I'll see if we can do something about your little predicament. Why, how about I buy you a drink?" They had reached a little Starbucks cart, and the Saint promptly purchased a Frappucino. He offered it to the businessman, who just waved his hand. The Saint shrugged, as if to say "suit yourself," and held onto the napkin wrapped around the drink.
"You know what?" The Saint looked up at the businessman. "You look like you need a bit more of a relationship with God." The businessman raised an eyebrow again, and began eyeing the Frappucino. "Mind if I write down my church's name? You could, you know, get involved or something. We have all sorts of terrific programs. Say, you could be a Saint too!" The little man shared a laugh with himself, and pulled out a pen. He crouched down, and the businessman found himself stopping to wait. On the napkin that had been wrapped around the drink, the Saint wrote out his church's name, and proudly presented it to the businessman, who indifferently crammed it into his heavy coat pocket.
The businessman glanced at the drink again, almost forgetting the weight in his pocket. Finally, temptation overcame him and he gingerly pulled it from the Saint's fingers. The odd little man just smiled inwardly and said, "Enjoy."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The elevator doors slid shut. There was the corny music playing, as usual, but the businessman paid it no attention. He was more preoccupied with his weighted pocket. He fished around in it: the napkin from his Frappucino, the one item that was most representative of humankind's inherent evil, and a scrap of newspaper. It was this final item for which the businessman was looking, and he drew it out. "Local Office Worker wins $500,000 in McDonalds' Contest," screamed the article in large bold type. The businessman read it and looked down at his feet. His heart was as heavy as his coat pocket but what must be done must be done, he thought.
The doors opened, and the businessman drew himself closer to the terrible, necessary choice. The carpeted corridor stretched out before him, and his eyes immediately focused on the third door down on the right. He took two steps forward, swallowed, and continued. The weight in his pocket moved up and down, constantly reminding him of its existence.
With a mind of their own, his feet directed themselves to the third door. He numbly turned the handle and pushed it open. He wasn't even fully in the room when his roommate stood up, grinning ear to ear. The innocent man reached down and picked up a suitcase as the businessman shut the door. "You'll never believe what I've got in here!"
"I know what it is."
"You read the paper?"
The businessman realized he had gotten this far. He stuck his hand into his coat pocket, and his resolve was steeled. "I read it, yes." And then, from his pocket, the businessman pulled the gun. In a second, it was up and pointed at his roommate's chest. The innocent pawn suddenly swallowed hard, and took a long breath as the cold black metal glinted in the light. "Give it here." The businessman's confidence was at its height. He was here now, nothing had gotten in his way. His wife would be fine, and no one could change that. No one had tried to stop him, he desperately reasoned with himself. And then he remembered a small man in khaki pants and a stained church T-shirt. The Saint merely tapped his nose, the businessman remembered thinking. "I'll see if we can do something about your little predicament," had said the stranger, the good Samaritan appearing out of the sunlight.
Even so, the businessman figured he couldn't stop now. He took the black briefcase, and popped the lid open. Five stacks, a hundred thousand dollars in each. "Are- are you kidding?" the roommate asked nervously. The businessman opened his mouth, and then shut it. What was he doing here? he wondered to himself. The silence opened like the gaping maw of that creature who lives inside all people.
"Of course I'm kidding." The businessman slowly smiled, and put the evidence of his inhumanity back into his pocket. "It was... just a test. A test," he flailed. "A test to see how the employees react under pressure." The roommate nodded with a cheerfully nervous look, that of someone who's afraid to see the truth. The businessman thought harder. The Saint had talked about community-so what if everyone helped each other, a community of charitable people. One would help another, and then that one would help someone else. It had been so easy for the strange little fellow to begin that chain. "Tell you what," the businessman smiled again. "Enjoy yourself. Here's a little something for your trouble." He reached into his wallet, pulled out all the bills he had and, without looking at them, dropped them into the case's black fuzzy interior.
The stunned roommate spluttered, and got his wits about him. "Why, thanks.
I will. I mean-I'll enjoy it!"
The businessman smiled, almost laughing. He remembered the Saint again."Hey," the businessman said pleasantly, "how about I buy you a drink?"
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The two men sat in their office's small Starbucks outlet. The businessman, already full of Frappucino, just sat and smiled. The other man sucked vigorously on an icy drink of his own. The businessman figured he'd try conversing.
"Any ideas what you're going to do with the money?" he asked. His roommate gave one large slurp, and ejected the straw. He looked out the window, at the pigeons fluttering from one perch to another.
"I hadn't thought about it much. I mean, I guess I'll just use it to, you know, help my wife and kids, and..." The businessman tuned out momentarily, the original reason for his visit to the office hitting him like a train out of the night. "...but I don't really know. Truth be told, I was actually thinking of-" The innocent roommate cut himself off, remembering.
The businessman smiled again. "Enjoy yourself. Here's a little something for your trouble." He looked again out the window. One pigeon fought for a space on the windowsill, while the others tried to crowd it out.
"I thought I might, you know, maybe, give it to charity, or at least some altruistic cause." The roommate turned back to his partner. "Do you know of any places I could perhaps donate too?"
The businessman thought, and was on the verge of shrugging when his hand fell to his coat pocket. He took a breath and his mouth cracked open. The hand, adorned with one gold ring, felt its way to a small scrap of paper, a napkin.
"Come to think of it, yes. I have this--" he faltered for a second, smiling. How to describe the Saint? One man who had taken fifteen minutes and two dollars out of his own life to completely change the lives of those around him, "--this really good friend who's in need of a bit of money for a project." The roommate leaned forward, intrigued, and the businessman slid him the napkin. In a scrawl as strange as the man who had written it, there was a series of large words on the small square of paper. "Northwood Community Church," the napkin read, with an address.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Two men stood in front of the building. The sun streamed down onto their faces as they looked up at the crane. The colossal yellow machine lifted a huge plate of plywood up onto the pointed frame of the building's new
roof.
The original building, as it had been before construction had started a few weeks ago, still remained. It was just being refurbished. As it was, there were two large white columns supporting an overhanging roof. This roof extended to cover a long, squat brick building, which was painted a strange shade of green. Two large wooden doors opened out of this modest building, and revealed a shabby red carpet and tan walls from which a few pictures hung. Over the door, there was a large plaque. It bore a splotched gold cross and, beneath that, the words Northwood Community Church. Construction workers carried boards, bricks, and buckets all around the building, and "Sweet Home Alabama" echoed from somewhere inside the little chapel. From the walls of this building hung two large banners. They too showed a cross, and a large picture of a pretty, smiling woman. The words "Marie Daniels Recovery Fund" were printed in red along the top.
The roommate turned to the other man. "Pretty nice, huh?" The Saint's eyes bulged in his little head again.
"Pretty nice? It's fantastic! May God bless you, and believe me, I'm sure he will!" The Saint's hair was as messy as always, and he was again wearing the Northwood Community Church shirt, although the coffee stain had come out in the wash.
The roommate laughed, and looked back up at the construction of the new chapel roof. He remembered someone: a coworker, a partner, and above all a
friend. "You know what?" The roommate looked at the Saint again. "What d'you say I buy you a drink?"
