The Collector of Lost Souls
The homeless community living under the overpass that runs along the river was transient. It was rare to see the same faces more than two years in a row, as the police routinely dispersed them with stern warnings not to come back. Most took the threats seriously, and those who didn’t would be joined by a new crop of young men surrendering to alcohol and drugs, the lost souls disowned by parents, siblings, and society.
The only exception was Big Mike. He was there every spring and fall in between the summer and winter clear-outs demanded by the city to hide the plight of the homeless from the media and the community. Standing only five and a half feet tall, Big Mike presented no threat to the newcomers and offered them advice on how best to survive among the detritus of society. He was knowledgeable of the best places to panhandle, wash up, and score drugs. Being also fluent in Spanish, he served as translator for the Hispanic homeless who shared the concreted, covered camp and was often credited for not letting any disagreements draw the attention of the police.
Flush with cash and drugs at the beginning of every month, Big Mike would share with his newfound friends. The only price he subtly extracted was their stories. Who they were, where they came from, and how they ended up as homeless. Stories willingly offered as backdrops to the injustices suffered from a world that cast them aside.
Without fail, three or four candidates would be found worthy of redemption and offered menial jobs and places to live. In time, they would establish themselves as contributing members of society, paying taxes, bills, and rent. All things necessary to get a foothold back into the American dream with a decent credit rating. The only thing they had to do first was to die.
