Dear Friends: This is my gift to you.  Because of your encouragement I have become a writer after years of dreaming, over the last year.  This is the story I am most proud of creating.  Grab a warm drink or glass of wine and enjoy a few minutes with a Seattle street guy, Blackie, and his street friends.  Get comfortable, it could be worth it.   

Blackie heard the ferry whistle in the distance and was awake instantly. "Oh, I love this time of year," he spoke aloud as he rolled up his bedroll, put it in his storage sack and pulled out his nighttime coat along with his lucky, tattered San Francisco Giants baseball cap. He was humming his favorite childhood Christmas tune, “Must Be Santa, Must Be Santa, Must Be Santa, Santa Claus” as he buttoned up the coat and readjusted his ball cap on his long gray hair. He put the storage sack into the plywood box and snapped the lock. He took the key and placed it carefully under the fake rock beneath the big rhododendron bush that sheltered his hideout from street view. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found what was left of a crumpled pack of Old Golds and checked its inventory. Three smokes left. " That will do, nicely," he declared and finally got one lit after trying four times with a damp book of matches. He took a drag and announced, "I am ready, Freddy."

"I love this time of year," he repeated. Blackie spoke most of his thoughts aloud, a result of being alone on the streets for over three and a half decades. It was a good time, the holidays, for a long-time streeter like Blackie who knew all the tricks to survival. Seattle was a safe enough big town, the people were friendly, the many tourists generous if you had the touch, the cops left you alone if you behaved yourself by not causing any public ruckuses. The weather could be a problem, but if you had a good hideout that kept out the rain, things could be almost comfortable. Blackie was taking huge strides toward the ferry dock completely focused and excited. He was going to pull off one of his favorite tricks of the year. He had saved up the $3.35 it would cost him to ride the ferry back and forth warm and secure for several hours. It was mid-evening  December 23^rd and he always celebrated the dawning of Christmas Eve by watching the twinkling city lights from the view of the Bainbridge Ferry. He had done it for years.

“Who's gonna make some money tonight? Blackie's gonna make some money tonight. Who's running around with a beard of white? Blackie's running around with a beard so white. Money tonight, beard that's white-- must be Blackie, must be Blackie," he sang quite loudly.

“Well, ain't you a happy camper tonight? Got a smoke?” the voice of a wheel-chaired long-time streeter known simply as Psycho called out.

“Sure, do Psycho” and Blackie pulled out one of his last cigarettes. “I don't have a light though.” He handed him the smoke.

“Bless, you brother. I've got fire,” and he pulled a lighter from his camouflaged Vietnam '72 hat band.

“Hey, Psycho when the hell are you gonna get a new hat, for Christ Sakes?”

“It's part of my street charm,”  he readjusted himself in the chair and blew out an impressive smoke ring. “What you so happy about?”

“Just a romantic, my friend. I love the holidays.”

“Bullshit, you got some scam going on don't you?”

“Why, I'm insulted. I'm an independent entrepreneur, living the American dream.

“Yeah, and I'm the mayor in disguise.”

Blackie kept moving and was underneath the freeway entrance when the lights of a parked cruiser came on. Out stepped the massive blue uniformed Officer O'Malley.

“Hold it right there scumbag,” O'Malley said blocking Blackie's way.

“Fuck you!  You ain't tough enough to take me alive, sucker!”

They both laughed at the little game.

“What you doing for Christmas? Want to come up and have dinner?"

“I'm touched officer, but that could ruin my street cred, if you know what I mean."

“You could at least go to confession, it would probably only take a few hours  or ... days."

“Hey, my taxes pay for your salary buddy. So watch the insults."

“Holy shit, when was the last time you ever did pay taxes, 1964?”

"Officer, I would like to continue this but I have an appointment to keep.”

“Well, excuse me! Hey, seriously, Blackie why not get a room at the mission for a night or two and get clean and rested up?"

“Why would I want to do that? I'd smell like dried piss and puke for a week. I got a great Christmas coming on. By the way, if you get any bigger..."

“No fat jokes dammit or I'll run you in. See ya.”

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Blackie took the steps two at a time up to the ferry ticket office. He got on the ferry, found an old Seattle Times and bought a coffee for the first trip. He was still reading as the craft headed out of Seattle for the second time. Blackie put down the paper and started his casing of the boat. He walked from one end to the next looking at the people and sizing them up. He finally found what he was looking for outside at the far end of the ferry. Two huge Indians sat laughing and sharing snorts off a bottle of Jack Daniels. He noticed they had three stuffed to the brim duffel bags next to them. “ Are you guys down from Alaska?”

“Yeah, we just got in yesterday but blew most all our money at the casino. We got more coming in a few days. Know any place we could crash tonight?" spoke the smaller of the two as he handed Blackie the bottle of Jack.

“Yeah, it looks clear tonight so go to the little city park on the water. No one will bother you there. You take a right off the ferry and walk down a few blocks. You can't miss it."

“Thanks, hey go get us something to eat would you ?” He handed Blackie a crumpled up $20 bill. “Get something for yourself too.”

Now, Blackie had a decision to make. He had a clean twenty buck score and about a hour to hide from them before getting back to Seattle. He remembered their size and knew he would be in trouble if they found him. He was more than a bit hungry himself so he ordered a hot dog and more coffee and got them both cheeseburgers and fries. He pocketed three bucks and delivered them the food and change. He ate his hot dog with the guys and took a few more drinks from the Jack bottle before excusing himself.

"Whew, I can't take much more of that tonight," he warned himself. He took a seat at the front of the boat enjoyed his little high and the beauty of the city lights that came into view as they reflected off the water of Puget Sound. The ferry chugged into the dock and Blackie was the first one off. He watched the crowd of people exit. It was 11:55 and Christmas Eve was just five minutes away. He had a good feeling he was going to have some presents soon.

People smiled at him, and wished him a Merry Christmas and he was enjoying himself. He didn't try to panhandle from anyone. His eyes focused on a couple, a guy in his late thirties and his much younger woman companion. They each carried bulging plastic garbage bags and held the hand of a child. The man guided a sleepy, little girl of about five off the boat. His woman friend or wife, kissed the cheek of a clear blue-eyed boy of about ten. The man stopped and put his heavy bag down. “Excuse me mister, but could you guide me and my family to the mission? “

“Sure, turn right at the bottom of the stairs and walk up six blocks. Turn left on James and walk up three blocks, it has a big neon sign, you can't miss it.”

“Thank you and Merry Christmas,” his shy wife and the little blue-eyed boy smiled at Blackie and they took off on the march to the mission.

“Shit, that is pathetic. Those looked like nice people. They have no business on the streets for Christ Sakes. They'll get robbed tonight in that damn mission. What is this country coming to?" He mumbled all this aloud under his alcohol breath. He almost ran after them on an impulse and thought about taking them to one of his other hideouts. But he decided against it. “I ain't no damn do gooder. Yeah, all of you just keep voting for those same crooks!” This he said too loudly and a few heads swung in his direction. He ducked behind a large round pole at this mistake and it was lucky he did.

The two Indian guys were getting off the ferry, the last ones to leave and arguing with the ferry worker. Blackie heard the worker threaten: “If this wasn't Christmas Eve, I'd call the cops right now. For the last time, get off!” They did and headed toward the steps with Blackie hot on their trail. He stayed a safe distance behind and saw them turn into the park just as he had suggested. Now the wait.

“Jesus, I need a smoke bad." He was underneath the roof of the outdoor section of Ivar's Seafood Restaurant which was closed for the night. The seagulls were still out flying around looking for the last possible French fry or fish morsel and squawking. He was pacing around and picked up a couple of rocks and gave them  expert tosses into the water. His mind wandered back to his baseball days. He was once a fireball of a young pitcher and had struck out the Hall of Famer Hank Aaron in a spring training game. He remembered every detail of it even now. He spoke aloud: "I busted him inside with my best fastball and he fouled it off. I came further inside and nearly hit him with the second pitch. I threw him a slider that just caught the outside corner. I then rocked and fired high heat that froze him for strike three. He tipped his hat to me. Hank Aaron tipped his hat.” He had repeated that story thousands of times, always acting out the windup and throwing motion.

He was getting cold and buttoned up his coat once more all the way to the top this time. “Damn, I need a new coat and Jesus, I have got to find a smoke." He no more than got out these words when he found tobacco gold. In the corner on one of the more remote tables sat a completely dry three quarters of a fine cigar. “Maybe there is something to this Jesus thing,“ he said. He asked a nervous guy for a light on the street and sat and smoked the entire thing down to a nub. It was nearly three am and he knew it was now or never. He flicked the cigar butt into the water which caused a gathering of the seagulls. One came out with it in its mouth and flapped off. “You stupid flipping bird, don't you know smoking's bad for you?” He laughed to himself and headed to the park.

He got to the entrance and listened. He crept up to the public restroom which gave him some cover in order to spy. He saw the two figures both in sleeping bags and not moving. He tiptoed up to them holding his breath and hoping they couldn't hear the racing of his old heart. He picked up one of the bags and was starting to sneak off when the big Indian sat straight up, grabbed a bottle, took a quick chug and collapsed back on his sleeping bag. Blackie unfroze himself and ran off whispering, “Feet, don't fail me now!” as he bear hugged the duffel bag containing God knows what and waddled his way back to the safety of Alaskan Way. It was very heavy.

“Hey, Blackie what are you doin?" It was the voice of a young streeter called Jimbo and Blackie didn't hesitate. He dropped the bag and pounced on him.

“Shut your shittin' hippie mouth,” he hissed at the surprised Jimbo.

“What's wrong with you? " Jimbo questioned.

“Get out of here, or I'll smash what's left our of your crooked teeth in!”

“Okay, okay, Jesus,” Jimbo managed to get out as he took off in a full sprint up the street and disappeared in an alley.

It was still dark when Blackie got back to his hideout near Pioneer Square. He got out his bedroll and started to inspect his bounty. A carton of cigarettes, Marlboros, a Zippo lighter that lit on the first flick and a new pair of wool socks were the first things out. Blackie tore off his old socks and threw them in the corner. He put on the new socks and gushed with satisfaction. "New socks, man do these feel good." He tore open the Marlboros,  got a cigarette out and lit it with his new lighter. He let out a puff of smoke with satisfaction and kept opening his presents. He pulled out a nearly brand new coat and although a little big, it felt great. He found a pair of boots which were a little loose but a little newspaper did the trick. A new wool blanket and a small pillow came out of the bag and became a part of his bedroll immediately. Next, were two bags of peppermint candy, a big Hersey Bar and a new wool cap. The last two items, were a still sealed bottle of Bailey's and a half full bottle of Jim Beam. Blackie was sipping Bailey's, snacking on the Hersey Bar and flipping open the Zippo lighter over and over again when his hand found an inner pocket in the new coat. He felt a piece of paper and it was getting light enough now for him to recognize this paper. He held up a crisp, half-folded hundred dollar bill. “Well, Merry Christmas to me!”

Sleep was no longer possible or necessary. He planned out his day and knew exactly what he wanted to do. "This is gonna be a Christmas Eve to remember." His first stop, right after sunrise, was at the Cooper Kettle Restaurant where he ordered oatmeal, a three egg omelet, French toast, sausage, bacon and a large orange juice. He was eating happily away, when they walked by his window. The couple and kids from the ferry the night before moved as one unit down the street. The man wore a brand new purple eye and they looked confused and tired. He shook his head, "Now we even got families out on the streets, Jesus Christ!" and finished his food. He half-heartedly looked for them before heading on over to the waterfront.

There were hundreds of last minute shoppers out already today weighed down with their colorfully wrapped purchases. Music and laughter floated around everywhere. The streeters were out in force as this was their Super Bowl day. It was like a bizarre cacophony of the best of the street people today. There were mimes, dozens of open guitar cases, and streeters selling single near wilted flowers along with a rehearsed line of bullshit. He ran into Bill, once an Alaskan bush pilot until the booze took completely over, who was dressed up in his remarkably clean Santa suit and fake beard as was his holiday tradition. “Have you been a good boy this year?” the fake Santa asked Blackie.

“Yes, Santa, are you making any cash today?”

“It could be a good day,” he answered as he got right in the face of a young man walking solo in the midst of the throng. “Young man, could you help ol' Santa get back home to the North Pole?”

“Hey, that's the best line I've ever heard”, the young man said with a big grin. “Here you go, Santa, get Rudolph some fresh hay.” and he pulled out five bucks and dropped it in Santa's waiting hat.

“You're a good boy and you can expect some nice presents under the tree this year son.”

“Ah, Santa, you can skip my house this year. Your breath would knock the tinsel off my tree. Who's that, one of your elves?” He pointed at Blackie. “Here have a cigar on me.” He tossed them both a short, fat, black,expensive  cigar and waved as he continued on his way.

“Got a light, Black man?”

“Sure do,” said Blackie proudly pulling out his new Zippo. “Here ya go,” They were both puffing on the gourmet tobacco while leaning on the railing of the abandoned old dock and gazing at the gray water below. “How you been Bill?”

“Okay, but O'Malley ran me in and I had to spend most of the night in jail. God, it was a zoo in there last night. He got me out and dropped me off just as he got off shift. He's a good guy, that O'Malley, especially for a cop.”

“Oh, yeah, he's decent ain't he? What did you do?”

“Shit, I was doing my Santa thing and noticed some poor sucker with his little son, I don't know, maybe seven or eight years old sitting out here with a hat and a sign that said, “Please help us get back home.” He was doing everything wrong and I knew he wouldn't get any cash at all. I was moving over to give him some tips when two young couples came by. One guy took out a penny and dropped it in the guy's hat while the other three laughed. Hell, the women each had on probably five hundred bucks of clothes and the guys both wore expensive leather jackets, and they thought it funny to fuck with some poor dude stuck on the street.  I heard the one guy say: “Wonder how much he's pulling in today?” I got pissed and followed them for a couple of blocks yelling shit at them all the way to their cars, both shiny new dark colored gas hogs of some kind." He paused for a long drag on the cigar.

“Were you in your Santa suit, still?” Blackie asked trying to visualize the scene of a pissed Santa screaming cuss words at some yuppies.

“Yeah, sure was. I was about to turn around and go back and talk to the guy when I saw the bumper stickers. That kind of sent me off. He paused for another puff. “One said: I Choose Life and the other said : What Would Jesus Do? I turned over a garbage can and just started throwing shit at them. They had to wait for traffic to get on Alaskan Way and I pelted them with all kinds of messy stuff. The last throw was a half-eaten apple which I hit their back window with dead center. The thing exploded all over and the scared bastard burned rubber for nearly two blocks."

“Jesus, did the pissed Santa draw a crowd? I know I'm sorry I missed it.” Blackie said as he he took a big toke on the cigar.

“Oh, yeah, and one of the crowd was our hero O'Malley. He gave me a fine lecture and a ride to jail.”

“Oops! Hey, did you ever make it back to the guy?”

“Nope, hey Blackie, here's that five bucks I owe you from a while ago.”

“Forget it, I'm flush for today. Hey, let's go look for the dude.”

The two characters strolled down the waterfront and three blocks later spotted the guy and his little son. He had out his pathetic sign and his hat had a few coins that didn't make up over three bucks total. Blackie spoke first: “What's the story, boss? You're doin' this all wrong by the way.”

“I know, I ain't never been this broke before and I'm embarrassed as hell", the man probably in his late twenties answered. “I spent my last bucks on getting up here 'cause I heard Boeing was hiring and then my truck broke down and there was no work. I'm just trying to get us back home to Denver."

“Santa, give him the five bucks you owe me and Blackie pulled out a five himself. Here ya go man, now watch two pros at work.”

Blackie and Santa Bill started stopping everyone and I mean everyone and shared the guy's story. The hat was soon filled with bills of all kind and tons of change.

“Well, our work is done here. Bless you brother," Blackie said and walked toward the Pike Street Market stairway. “See ya, Santa,” Blackie called as he flipped the last of the cigar in the water.

“Hey, wait up, I was thinking those Pike Street people may need a visit from Santa.”

Blackie was taking the stairs two at a time up the steep climb from the street to the market. Santa was huffing and puffing behind him. Blackie waited for him at a landing only a dozen or so steps away from the market's back entrance.

“Holy shit, Blackie, how do you do that? That climb almost killed me.” Santa was now sweating and his beard was on slightly sideways.

“I was a professional athlete...”

“Oh, no not the Hank Aaron story again.”

“It's a good story. Hey, Sly is that you?” Blackie yelled to a small Hispanic man in his thirties puffing on the butt of a cigarette that was nearly burning his fingers and mumbling to himself. No answer. “Sylvester!”and he moved up right next to him.

“Oh, hi,” the streeter whispered barely making eye contact.

“Why are you back on the streets? I heard you were in a group home.”

“No coffee, can't smoke inside,” he answered.

“Sly, want some coffee? Let me buy you a coffee.”

“Oh, yeah. Need coffee. Can I buy cigarette?" He held out seven sad pennies.

“Here's a Marlboro, keep your money.”

“No, I buy smoke," and he showed the pennies again.

“Okay, here you go but for that much money take three.”

Sly did so and was drinking a jumbo Styrofoam cup of coffee with a new cigarette in his mouth unlit. Suddenly, in crystal clear English with proper tone and volume and steady eye contact, he announced to Blackie and Santa Bill: “This is pretty good but the coffee from the War of 1812 was quite a bit better."

“You don't say, really? Hey, go buy us each an apple over there," and Blackie gave him five bucks.

“Jesus, that poor kid. I know what his problem is. He's a schizophrenic and if he just took his meds...” Santa Bill's voice trailed off.

“How do you know that for sure? " Blackie asked.

“That's what I got and when I take the meds for a few weeks in a row the voices and distorted thinking quits. But drinking on those things makes wild things happen. I'm gonna get back on them after the holidays and try to get my shit together again.”

They were sitting with legs crossed against the wall  listening to a fiddle player while watching a really bad mime attempting to do his thing and trying not to yell insults when Sad Sally found them.

“What's the word? What's the word? Just a minute, What's the word ?” and she pointed at Santa.

“Santa, is that the word, Sally?” Blackie said to this short woman of over sixty dressed in a sun dress and knee high wool socks with an over-sized black and red checkered hunting type coat and a hat with ear flaps covering her white hair.

“Yeah, Santa, Santa, I got to remember that word, Santa” and she wandered off mumbling to herself and soon got swallowed in the sea of people roaming around.

“Okay Einstein, what's her problem?” asked Blackie.

“Oh, she had a stroke and with good reason. I heard she took a trip from Las Vegas to a small town in Eastern Washington to see her elderly parents and after driving two days showed up to a heap of still smoldering embers from a fire that had burned down her parents' home and killed them both. She fell over on the spot. “

“Sad songs don't play too well on broken radios. That's a hell of a thing to happen. But I have a question : “Are you still fucking her?'

“God damn, Blackie, that ain't even slightly funny.”

“Is too! Hey, I gotta go find my friend, I know he's up here someplace. See you later, Santa.”

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The place was teeming with activity and people. It took Blackie a while before he located him. He actually heard him first, his guitar playing was special and he headed toward the sound. There sat a handsome, healthy looking elderly Black man singing Christmas carols and strumming his guitar with his skilled fingers. His open case had many dollars and lots of change in it today.

“Hey, don't you know any better songs than that?” Blackie spoke.

“My, God, it lives, the infamous Blackie man.”

“How you doing Kool-Aid? Looks like a good day.”

“Just singing some tunes and feeling the love today my brother.”

Blackie and Kool-Aid circulated in different worlds now blocks apart but had known each other for years. Both were well-known and confirmed streeters. Blackie thought back to their first meeting.

“Why do they call you Kool-Aid, “ he had asked.

“Because I'm sweet and refreshing,”  was his answer.

The two of them had shared many adventures and more than a little wine over the years. Blackie listened for a few songs before saying: " Let's go to lunch, Kool-Aid."

“Nah, no can do, gotta keep playing tunes for the folks.”

“Come on you can take a little break, it will be my treat.”

“What? You have money, whose mother did you steal it from?'

“Nobody's mother and does this count as money?"

Blackie showed him a handful of bills which got Kool Aid's undivided attention.

“Let's go” and the guitar case was shut and  in his hand in a flash.

They walked up the street the two blocks to Blackstone's Restaurant and Bar. They walked in and took one of the few remaining seats. They were sipping on a glass of beer and waiting for burgers when the owner, Big Al, approached them with none too much Christmas cheer.

“Blackie, what are you doing in here? You better have cash and don't start no trouble or Christmas or no Christmas, I will gladly throw your ass out in the street.”

“I've got cash,” Blackie said and flashed the bills to him. “And Merry Christmas to you to man.”

The two streeters shared their food and the latest stories. The first couple of shots of whiskey went down smoothly so they had a couple more. Kool Aid left after the fourth shot but Blackie was on a roll and bought drinks until he was left with just two bucks, all in change. He got kicked out of the Blackstone and it was dark as he walked back the twenty blocks to his hideout.

Blackie was now in a foul mood and way more intoxicated than he ever liked to be. He just wanted to sleep it off. He struggled with his balance for the last three blocks but made it to his safe, dry hideout. He was always alert, even when drunk. He heard something at the top of the stairs that didn't fit.

“Shit, someone's in my hideout, goddammit.” Now he was ready to fight. He exploded down the five stairs and was about to start swinging when he noticed some bright blue eyes.

“Hi, mister,” the ten year old said.

“What are you doing here? This is my spot and everyone knows it.”

“We meant no harm, we just had no place to go and I can't go back to that mission.” said the man from the ferry in  a thick southern accent.

Blackie was confused and still fired up to fight but he stopped himself.

“It's okay, you can stay the night here." He went over and grabbed the bags of candy. “Here give the kids some of this but not too much. I'll be right back.”

At least three dozen streeters were standing around a small fire they had built. Blackie approached them. “Hey, you guys, I need some help. There's a family of four in my hideout that's down and out. They need some food for tonight. Here's all I got.“  He took out his now pathetic two bucks of coins. "Will you help out?" The group looked from one to another. Jerry was first, he pulled out a fist filled with a few coins and some lint. Another and another followed, thirty cents here, a quarter there until everyone except one had given. The  holdout was Bad Oliver, who said, “This better not be a scam, I was saving this for a good bottle for tomorrow." He pulled out three crumpled dollar bills and some more change. Jerry said, “There's a real family at your hideout? Let me help.”

Blackie and Jerry sat down and counted up the change together. “We got $9.43. Let's go Jerry." They went over to the 24-hour store where the two picked out a half gallon of milk, a dozen powered donuts, four apples, four corn dogs and had enough left over for two fifty cent balloons. They headed over to the hideout and passed out the gifts to the streeter's adopted family.

Jerry ran over to the Interstate Bank lot and kicked up a small evergreen tree from the landscaping and presented it to Blackie.

“Here's their Christmas tree, Blackie.”

The family started munching on the food and the young wife said: "Bless you two men for helping our family. We love you for it." This caused Jerry to begin sobbing and he ran from the scene, probably back to the safe fire.

"Did I say something wrong?" the young woman asked Blackie.

“No, Jerry is a kind, tortured soul. He used to be a fireman in a small town a couple of hours from here. One day he got a call that there was a bad accident on the highway and went racing up to the crash. When he got there he realized that it was his own wife, his teenage son and their new baby who had been hit and killed. He has never recovered.“  There was a long pause.

“Oh, that is too sad,” the young woman said with genuine compassion.

Finally, the man said:

“Sir, I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you and Jerry have done for us tonight.”

“I saw you last night and I should have helped right then. I've got to go have a smoke.”

Blackie climbed the stairs and was puffing on a Marlboro and admiring the Christmas lights nearby and on the distant skyscrapers. It had just started to rain. “I guess I am a damn do gooder after all,” he mumbled. He started humming his favorite Christmas carol his drunkenness completely butchering the tune and altering the words:

“Who blew a hundred bucks today? Blackie, blew a hundred bucks today. Who was the guy who saved the day? Blackie was the guy who saved the day. Must be Blackie, Must be Blackie, Must be Blackie, Blackie Claus.”

He didn't see the glint of the knife until it was too late.

By Bobby “Blackie” Banks *(Idaho Spud 44-Dr.Spudman)

copyright December 12, 2008

all rights reserved

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