We Three Kings

Red as blood. He looked at his gloves, stained from rubbing his hands together so many times trying to keep warm. Shivering on the cold pavement, he was enveloped in several coats and blankets discarded from their previous owners. His pale face surrounded by long dark hair. He felt for the snow-white girl hated by her stepmother in the story he once knew as a child. They were both outcasts, that much was true.

He did not know how long he had been thrown out of his own house in Coventry after his father had drunk himself to death and Stepmum forced him to live on his own with no one to take care of him. The youth never knew his own mother, she died long ago when he was born. Now he was alone, huddled in the only clothes he could find sat beside a borrowed Tesco trolley full of everything he cherished, in a vast tunnel leading to the heart of the city center. A few idle people passed on by all smiles. To some warm place other than here, he imagined.

He hardly moved from his spot of refuge. When hunger overtook him, he made his way to some restaurant alleyway to dig through their rubbish bins unseen. Some days he was lucky and he would have a proper feast, other times he came up short and so lay awake starving for nights. Out on these excursions, the youth kept in sight of the grey stone towers of Holy Trinity and St. Michael’s tolling the quarters and the hours. Most of the year he paid no attention to them at all.

The air chilled him through his layers of coats, threadbare gloves and woolly hat that he had found cast off in the streets. Who would think of discarding such useful things? At least he would find use for them and claimed them as his own, adding to what little he owned already.  

The night was especially cold for December, that he did know, and it was around that time of year he could not understand anymore. Something he knew he had lost long ago and could never reclaim again. It made him sick to his stomach and he felt more depressed than before. The youth tugged his blankets closer to him and sank further down until only his head remained visible among the folds. The red pom-pom stitched at the top of his woolly was like one large drop of blood smearing a dirty white snowbank.

He knew what most people thought of him. They would whisper things under their breath as he walked down every street with his splintering wooden cane. Kàn Kan Lǎo Rén. Look at that old man there. Stay away from him. Stay away from that dirty, old Qǐ Gài.

Yes, he was a Qǐ Gài. A dirty old beggar. He had known no other profession for quite some time. Having lost contact with his son and daughter-in-law, he was forced to leave his small village in Liaoning Province and head to the capital of Beijing. He was not welcome there either. Factory work did not suit him as he almost mangled his hands once while handling heavy machinery and so was released from his duties. After the incident, he had not managed to hold down a steady job and resorted to petty thievery just to survive. His life became dependent on the cane that he bore with him everywhere. He relied on nothing else as nothing else could provide for him.  

With one blackened hand outstretched as he hobbled along, past the graveyard temple of Confucius and the towering Long He Gong Lama Temple, he tried his luck begging for scraps on the tightly packed Guǐ Jiē, Ghost Street, known for its good eateries. Under the glow of hundreds of red lanterns swaying overhead, he lingered but would not stay long at any one place. Over time he knew he had been reduced to one of those beings known as the Èguǐ, a hungry ghost, seen around Yulan Festival in Summer. Like many of those spirits who sought out food finding every morsel turned to ash upon meeting their lips, he too haunted the earth as a lost soul. Sure, some of the waiters and cooks along Guǐ Jiē treated him well for they respected their elders and would give him something to eat every now and then. But most of the younger workers and the hearty business owners yelled at him, called him cruel names and shoved him off of their premises for fear of scaring their regularly paying customers. They did not want anything to do with him.

On one particular night, the beggar woke up in a hot sweat from his current alley retreat. The sky was still dark with just the slightest hint of the pink dawn approaching. Cars streamed down the street while the colorful lights gracing the fronts of the buildings remained unlit. He knew it was some kind of holiday today but one that did not belong to his culture. Still, he thought about his family and how they would spend hours on the night before the New Year watching the famous variety show on CCTV and eating wonderful food prepared by his wife who had long since been buried back in their rural hometown. Out in the streets, he remembered lighting up sparkling firecrackers with his son, watching them pop and hiss all in a row, and marveling at the many fireworks bursting overhead to scare away the darkness into glorious light. The beggar hugged his cane and fell back into a restless night’s sleep, his body trembling from the bitter cold wind that blew through the alley.

“What’s an old fool got to do to get something done ‘round here?”

The man was kicked out of the corner gas station when he had demanded for a pack of cigarettes, thrusting a couple of crinkled dollar bills into the frustrated cashier’s face.

He walked back out into the southern California sunshine, unseasonably warm for this time of year. The skyscrapers from Downtown LA lurked in the distance along MLK Jr. Boulevard as he trudged along the cracked sidewalk, trying not to fall again. He was doing better, that he was sure of, but he was still going through withdrawals after taking a break from the bottle. That’s when he started experimenting with coke. Among other things.

One step at a time, the old druggie kept telling himself, only one step at a time. He was unaware how much he was shaking from head to toe and of the stares he received from other pedestrians who crossed the street to steer clear of him. The drugs were helping him a little but not by much. Walking down the palm tree-drenched street, he looked up at some of the apartments with their strings of lights around the windows and a few deflated snowmen and Santa Clauses resting on browning lawns waiting to spring back to life come sunset.

Dammit, its Christmas again! Why did he always forget when it came around? There was a time, long ago, so clouded in the back of his mind he could hardly remember it, that he used to have a tree and presents and a family to come home to. It had been the happiest time in all his life however brief it lasted. If only his parents did not go and get themselves killed in that car accident he wouldn’t be where he was today—years out of the foster system, in and out of shelters, rehab, never working, never caring, kept barely alive by sniffing up powders and shooting heroin and alcohol into his veins. It did not matter which. It was all the same to him.

Some shitty Christmas. What’s a brother got to do to make it in this world? He then tripped over a raised section of sidewalk falling face forward onto the concrete. His head was badly bruised and a trickle of blood made its way down his face. The taste was acrid on his tongue. He gathered up the needles and change that fell out of his pockets, stuffing them back in, and continued on his way. Man, this Christmas blows.

The youth suddenly became aware of the sensation of pain all over his face. His hand lifted from out of its blanket cocoon and he felt throbbing all over from his forehead to his chin. He could not explain what he was feeling. Maybe it was just too bloody cold to be sitting outside tonight. Wonder what Stepmum was doing? Probably finished with tea and stuffing her face with Christmas sweeties before going to bed in his father’s old room, daft cow that she was.

The young man also sensed how old and tired he suddenly felt. But it was a strange feeling that came outside of himself. As if it did not belong to him. And he kept seeing shadows, or what he thought were shadows, appear before him. Bollocks, lack of sleep made him see things lately, nothing new. But he saw that these particular images were more distinct than usual. A body lying down. Sun and trees overhead. Another person. An older body this time. An alleyway. Darkness.

He shook the images from his mind as if that would solve everything. But the figures remained. One standing back up. One still lying down. Goddamnit! He shouted his frustration echoing from one end of the tunnel to the other. A few teens were startled and ran past him. Another person turned around and went back the way they came.

Liǎng Gè Lǎowài. Two foreigners. Curious. The beggar had only come across foreigners from time to time when they would come down to Guǐ Jiē to sample some of his native cuisine. They were harmless for the most part and were all pretty young. He could not really tell them apart, they all looked alike to him. But why was he seeing them now in his dreams? Qí Guài. Strange. He could see both of them as clear as the dawn that was now slowly appearing above the many, red-tiled rooftops surrounding him. A young man in a cocoon. An older one in a hot city.

But what could they mean for me? he thought. Am I to be brought some good fortune, or worse, suffer at the hands of these crazy foreign devils? Do I need to be abused more than I have already? He was not certain. But he knew he could not go back to sleep now.

Man, I’m havin’ visions again. Some kind of holy motherfuckin’ revelation. Here’s ol’ man Confucius lyin’ on the streets and some young white dude looking ‘round. What in hell he’s lookin’ at anyway? Musta been some kind of mushrooms, better avoid that dealer, he thought.

The druggie scratched his dry scalp with a withered hand puzzling over what he was seeing. At one rehab center, among many he had frequented, he recalled “seeing things” that no one else but him could see. Or at least that was what he was told by the volunteers when he was trying to get off of LSD. Freakin’ angels with halos and wings arguing with red devils sprouting horns and pitchforks and the like. He even saw his own mother and father telling him to stay strong and that they will see him again soon. Someday. Soon. Then they all vanished.   

He thought about the years of isolation he had suffered, being ostracized by the other kids like him in the homes he could not stay long at. No one wanted him. No one wanted to love him. Now here were two more sons of bitches just to add to the mix. But what in hell did it all mean anyways?

Then the youth understood.

The beggar nodded slightly.

 The druggie blinked in acknowledgement.

And the three men saw each other. They really saw each other and knew one another. One late in the night turned towards the faraway lights of the city center. Another looked up to see the new and brightening day before him. The last stood on the side of the road and lifted his hand up to the ever-shining sun in the sky. All distant solitary beings, three souls and three hearts set adrift on a friendless and unforgiving ocean of time. Yet somehow, they were together. Somehow, they became one. One soul, one heart beating together. Their tomorrows lay before them. They just had to take that first step back into the light.

The first one stood up. He breathed into his gloved hands, fixed his own coat and let the other trappings fall off his shoulders. He walked through the tunnel leaving everything he owned on the ground and in the trolley to their own devices. Up ahead he spotted a red phone booth and made his way towards it just as the bells of Holy Trinity and St. Michael’s started tolling the early evening hour. He opened the creaking booth door and shut it behind him. He found some loose pence in his pockets, picked up the phone, dialed 111 and waited until the NHS operator came on. The streets outside seemed vacated. But soon he observed some semblance of life as he saw small groups of young people, like himself, making their way out of pubs and heading to their respective homes. A tree with fairy lights blinked at him across the street from a storefront window and he smiled.  

“Hello, what’s your emergency?” came the voice of an older woman from the other end of the line.

He hesitated, but soon found the courage to say what he had to say.

“Hello ma’am, my name’s Matthew Cunningham. And I need to find shelter for the night. Can you help me?”

The second one looked up. A bright, blue sky greeted him. He breathed in the early morning scent of meals being prepared, heard the sounds of frying pans in nearby restaurants. Quickly he raked his dirty fingernails through his greasy hair, patted his cheeks to get the blood going, arched his back, and approached the back-door entrance to a dumpling house he had not frequented before. The cooks were already yelling orders to their staff in preparation for the day’s influx of customers.

            He knocked on the door and waited, wondering what would happen.

            A middle-aged man in a white apron and hat opened the door and looked him over.

            “Yes, what do you want?”

            “Zǎo Shàng Hǎo, Good Morning, sir. Please, I want a job. I need to work. Do you have need of a dishwasher? I’m good with my hands.”

            “Well, if you clean yourself up you can start today Mr.…?”

“Yang,” said the man on the cobblestones. “I am Bowen Yang.”

“We can discuss payment later, please come in. Water closet is on the right,” he said as he hurried off to check on his fellow cooks.  

            Mr. Yang stepped into the steaming restaurant as the sun shone through the narrow corridor behind him. In one forgotten corner lay his old wooden cane.

The third one emptied his pockets to see what he had. He let a cigarette pack, a couple of used needles and tissues, dollars and spare change fly out and drop to the ground below. He stooped to pick up the money and spat at the other remaining objects, stepping over them with care. His head was still bleeding and he patted it with one tissue until it clotted. Although his body started twitching again, he found that if he concentrated enough, one foot in front of the other, looking straight ahead, peering down at the pavement to not lose his balance, then up again, he could control his walking.

            He was soon at another corner gas station with hardly anyone at the pumps. Straightening himself up, he opened the door to the convenience store, heard the welcoming bell, walked up to the cashier and tried to act civil.

            “Hey man, I don’t mean any trouble, but could I use your phone for just a sec? I have to call my case worker and I don’t have a cell.”

            The cashier eyed him for a moment but soon obliged. He handed him a corded phone over the counter.

            The man dialed a number which rang until a voice spoke up.

            “Hello, Mr. Gonzalez speaking.”

            “Hi Emmanuel, it’s me Caleb. Caleb Lewis Davis?” He paused and held his breath. “Look, I knows it’s been a long time since I last called you but I need your help to get my life back on track, man. Let’s just say I have a couple of friends who got my back and showed me the way, you know. Cuz we all just going through this crazy thing called life together. We all are. How soon can I see you?”

The two talked for some time. But not before Caleb stuttered and with the slightest hint of a smile erupting across his face said, “And oh, by the way Emmanuel. Merry Christmas.”