Birmingham
(an excerpt from the novella "Simmer Heads Out")

by M. Blake

He spent one day getting acquainted with the downtown area, which, for him, meant finding where the missions and food lines were. His second morning in town Simmer went to a labor pool and noticed on a memo board that the place would be sending out fifty men at a time to Talledega. That's just what he was looking for. He had heard men talking about what an easy work ticket it was, walking around the track grounds, picking up garbage, but, for the most part, not doing much of anything. A worker just blended in with the crowd and watched the race. Also, you kept your eyes open for money on the ground (there were plenty of sloppy drunks around) and graciously accepted beers when people offered them.

Simmer was a little excited by the time he stepped to the counter to get an application. He had never been to a big stock car race like this, and he figured it would be a big dose of southern culture besides. He would get a story or two out of it for sure.

Yet it wasn't to be. The guy behind the counter made a big deal about not being able to read the expiration date on Simmer's ID. He knew it was a valid state ID, but he had to see an expiration date. Did Simmer have another form of picture ID?

Simmer walked out, disgusted. Usually, these places were glad to have a man standing at the counter looking for work; they accepted anything with a picture on it along with a social security card.

Simmer went to another labor pool that day, and this place accepted his ID, but only after he took a multiple-choice test concerning safety regulations on the job site. To prepare for the test he had to read through a twenty-page booklet that dealt with proper, on the job safety procedures, the proper equipment required, hazards to avoid and correct emergency responses. Simmer, knowing the kind of menial drudgery he'd be performing, skimmed through this illustrated booklet and quickly marked his answers. He got three wrong, and the woman behind the counter, bored, told him the correct answers to mark. Then he signed his name on a few forms and was given a worker ID card, which he needed to present to the dispatcher every morning.

He walked out of the place laughing to himself. The labor pools had really gotten "official" these days. The government must have come down hard on them in recent years. The place he had just signed up at gave breathalyzer tests also before you went out on a job, and random urine tests were given. This policy must have greatly reduced the amount of people that walked in off the street, for most people living on the street drank or used drugs, or both. And, after all, it was usually the down and out, transients, or currently unemployed who filled the waiting rooms of the labor pools. It wasn't unusual to see people sitting there with a glow on still from the previous night, and it was no surprise even to see a man toking on a joint or chugging a beer outside the place.

Simmer had run out of money to drink, so he didn't have to worry about failing the breath test the next morning. He was the fourth person in line to sign in for work, and thus, when someone failed to show up on a repeat ticket, he was called on to fill in.

He got in the large, new looking white company van with eight or nine others, and they were driven out of town to a small community on the outskirts of the city, to an industrial park and the warehouse where they would work. The warehouse belonged to a spice company, which apparently was entering its busiest time of the year and needed to take on extra help. The regulars on the ticket told Simmer that it was easy work, if tedious, and that the important thing was that he look busy. Simmer knew the routine. He had been on plenty of jobs like it: you looked like you were doing something during the slack periods in the day, even though you knew you weren't doing much of anything.

On his first assignment of the day, in a brightly lit room with several wooden counters to work on, Simmer was paired up with another temp from the labor pool, to fill plastic bottles with spices and pack them in boxes for shipping. He and his partner were given disposable masks so that they didn't have to breathe in the stronger spices like pepper, sage and a special Cajun mix. The powdered spice flew everywhere and they were soon covered with a fine coating and rubbing at their watery eyes.

Some containers held a pound of spice, some half a pound. The contents were weighed on a little scale on the counter, and then the container was capped and placed in a cardboard box with others. When the box was full, it was taped up and placed on a nearby pallet. When there was a full load on the pallet, the two men wrapped it with heavy-duty cellophane-like sheeting good and tight for the forklift to take it away.

It was tedious, but the two men settled into the routine and soon had a fast pace going. The supervisor, a young woman who didn't look too long out of high school, saw that they were doing the work well and seldom interrupted. She stayed over on the other side of the room and talked and laughed with some of the women temps. Listening to the women gab, Simmer and his partner exchanged knowing looks and shook their heads.

They were working on their third pallet when they were called away from that job and given another at a boxing machine. This long contraption was fed at one end with the pieces of colored cardboard for the boxes, along with the packets of spices to go in them. As the cardboard and packets moved along the belt, the machine closed the cardboard around the product and sealed it, so that when the packages came out the other end (where Simmer and his partner waited) they were ready to be packed in boxes, assembly line fashion. When it worked right, the machine pushed the boxes out fast and the two men were kept busy packing. Another man, at the very end of the belt, pushed the filled cartons through the taping machine and they were ready to be stacked on a pallet. 

  The work reminded Simmer of factory jobs he'd had in the past and the repetitive tasks alongside a conveyor belt, during which you let your mind wander off to the constant noise of the machinery, taking you somewhere else while your body went through the motions. But his mind didn't get a chance to drift off on this day because it wasn't long before he was transferred to another machine, where he had to quickly place stickers on packages that came shooting at him from a "sealer". Again, he just had to work at a fast, steady pace.

And then it was lunchtime. Simmer, like some of the other temps, didn't have money for lunch, but he was content to sit outside in the warm sunshine and think about his plans for that night, when he would have money. Already he could taste the first cold beer that would wash the spice dust out of his throat (he had given up on the mask that was too hot and sweaty on his face). A couple of guys laughed and agreed with him when he told them that.

Some of the guys were crack skinny and Simmer knew what they would be going after that evening. He reminded himself to be careful after cashing his check, for there were always street characters hanging around a labor pool, watching who got out of the work van at the end of the day. He'd heard plenty of stories of guys getting robbed of their pay a couple blocks from where they cashed their checks, and these stories weren't surprising in the least, for the labor pools were usually located in poor, rundown neighborhoods full of desperate people.

In the afternoon, Simmer was put on the boxing machine again for a couple hours, and then he was finally moved to yet another machine to finish the day. This last machine sealed the little plastic shakers of spice commonly seen in kitchen racks. It was smaller and slower than the boxing machine but it worked by the same process.

Whenever there was a slow time between orders, or if one of the machines had a problem, Simmer grabbed a broom and dustpan so he wasn't seen with his hands in his pockets.

At the end of the shift, one of the supervisors signed their work slips for them and wrote "repeat" on them. He wanted them all back the next day, which put smiles on every face as they climbed into the van again.

Simmer didn't mind the fact that he smelled like garlic and other spices; he could wash up in a bathroom somewhere and put a clean shirt on. Or perhaps he'd stay at the mission downtown, or the Salvation Army, and get a shower. He hadn't had one since he left home, though he had taken several baths in streams and rivers along the way. The only thing about the shelters he didn't like was that you had to be in by a certain time, and had to listen to a sermon on top of that. Simmer felt like having a few beers and finding a place to relax and read for a while. If he didn't make the shelter curfew, he could find a place to sleep for the night close to the labor pool. He could get to the place early again the next morning.

The one important thing he had to remember was that he couldn't drink all night and hope to pass the breath test. He had to cut himself off, even if it did get chilly in the early morning hours.

Simmer did get sent to the spice factory again the next day, but the crew only got half a day's work. A couple of the machines broke down, so there was very little production scheduled for the afternoon. The supervisor told them that he would be in touch with the labor pool the next morning, to let them know one way or the other if there would be work.

Needless to say, the temps weren't happy with these developments. The day before, it looked like they would all be on a steady ticket for a while - perhaps a couple months worth of work - and now the day after they didn't know if they would work the rest of that week.

And so it goes in the labor pool business, Simmer thought. You could never count on anything. That's why they called it temporary work.

That night, Simmer stayed at the downtown mission, where supper was a large bowl of delicious chicken soup, with plenty of chicken and rice, and thick enough to fill him. With it came bread, and cake for dessert. He could have gotten in line for seconds, but he was satisfied. What he really wanted was a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

But first, the hour-long church service. He and the fifty or so other guys were herded into the large chapel room, to sit on the hard wooden pews and await the visiting church group for that night. Simmer heard other guys groaning about this particular group.

"They always run long," he heard one man say.

"That's because they all got to take a turn talking," another added.

"Yeah, and all they tell you is the same thing."

"That's all it is, brother. The same old stuff, no matter what town you're in."

"I don't mind it when they play music," another added. "That can make you feel a little better."

Others agreed.

"I grew up with all of them church songs," one man said. "I don't need that song book." He referred to the hymnbooks that were sometimes passed out during services.

"Hell no," another said. "I grew up in the church. I know just as much about the Bible as any of these preachers."

"You got that right."

Simmer opened his poetry book, for when people got onto the subject of the Bible and church, he stayed out of it. He had heard too many arguments arise (sometimes to the point of near violence) in shelters like this across the country; men spoiling for a fight of some kind and letting steam off through the topic at hand, which, in these circumstances, was invariably the Good Book and its different versions, or just religion in general. Men, practically dripping venom, talking about God and what was wrong with the world, and, for moments, acting as if they had an important answer or two, but finally resigned to just a frustrated shake of the head while mumbling to themselves. Insane or not, who could say? Who was right or wrong when it came to God?

The church group arrived, about ten people in all, men and women, smiling at everybody and glowing with Good Feeling. It always amused Simmer to see how the presentation was going to be made by a particular group. Each one had its own style, or something unique to separate it from the rest. Usually. And if the "lost souls" gathered there that night wanted something different, then they were going to get it.

A man stood up in front of them and quoted something Jesus supposedly said about washing a man's feet, and how that man would be cleansed of sin with just his feet washed. And this church group was ready, literally, to wash some feet that night. They were asking anyone who wanted to give themselves to Jesus that night to step forward to where the church members were lined up with pails of water, brushes and soap. They were interested in talking to anyone who wanted to change their lives for the better.

The church group may have gotten a handful of men to actually go to the front of the room and stick their feet in a pail of water, if it wasn't for the fact that they were handing out new pairs of sneakers to every man who stepped up there. That put a different light on the picture, so to speak, and when the men in the pews got a look at the new shoes, a long line soon formed. Most of them were going in Jesus' direction then.

As the men took their seats before the church members, prepared to play the game for their new shoes, a woman played the piano and a man strummed a guitar. They asked people to join them on the songs. Some of the men boldly sang out, feeling good now that the night had taken an unexpectedly pleasant turn.

Simmer tried to concentrate on his book. He sat in the last pew of one row, thinking about the shower and bed. The two men next to him hadn't bothered to get in line either.

"They'll run out of them before we get up there," one said.

"Hell, don't you want to go up there and get those dogs washed anyway?" the other said, smiling.

"Shit, I'll wash my feet myself upstairs."

"Yeah, but that water up there ain't like this water down here. This water's been blessed."

The two of them laughed at that, and Simmer had to smile.

"The thing is," one said, "I could use a new pair of sneakers. Look at these."

They could see the guy's toes sticking out of the rotting shoes.

"Go up and get you a pair then," the other said. "Hell, man, it's gonna get cold here pretty soon and those ain't gonna do you any good."

"Maybe I should."

"Sure you should. Get up there before they run out."

And that's what the one man did.

"What he's got on now ain't shoes anymore, they're sandals," the man next to Simmer said, chuckling. He looked down at Simmer's feet. "You ought to go get you a pair, dude. It looks like they've seen some miles."

It was true. These sneakers had seen better days, though they were comfortable and still had some use left in them. Yet what finally decided Simmer on going through the act was that these sneakers had begun to stink. They had gotten wet too many times.

"Go on, man, don't be shy," the guy next to him said. "It looks like they got plenty. I'd be up there myself except I wear boots."

When it was his turn, Simmer seated himself in front of a man who introduced himself as Dick somebody (Simmer didn't catch the last name over the singing). The man was balding, with little sideburns and a mustache, and though he smiled at Simmer, his light blue eyes were serious, showing determination.

"I should warn you before you take them off," Simmer said with a little smile, as the man grabbed one of his feet.

"That's okay," the man said, and off came the dirty sneaker and the equally dirty sock after it. The same with the other foot.   

Then Simmer had his smelly dogs in the pail of warm, sudsy water, and the man rubbed them with his thick fingers, while looking up at Simmer. Here it comes, Simmer thought.

"Let me ask you something, Henry," Dick said. "What's the most important thing for you tonight? What would you say is the most important thing in your life right now above all else?" Dick wasn't smiling now, and Simmer hesitated, not knowing how to answer.

"Would it be to go to heaven?" Dick asked, putting the scrub brush to Simmer's feet.

"That would be nice," Simmer said, relieved that he didn't have to come up with something.

"It would be very nice, wouldn't it?"

Simmer nodded his head earnestly, and Dick nodded his head.

"Well, the good news is, Henry, that you can. You may have thought that you had no chance, that what you've been doing with your life made you a hopeless case. But that isn't so, Henry. There is a way to change your life. We've all made mistakes. Lord knows I've made my share, and so has every one here with me." He made a sweeping gesture with his wet hand. "It's only human. But Jesus paid for our sins when he was up there on that cross. He wiped 'em all out. And all he asked was for you to believe in Him."

Dick then quoted something from the Bible, words that Jesus supposedly uttered to somebody. Simmer nodded his head, though he recalled someone once telling him that there were only half a dozen words or so that could actually be attributed to Jesus, one actual quote. Also, there was that question, posed by some, of whether Jesus ever really existed, or if he was just someone's fictional creation. Simmer had once seen a quote from a famous writer calling the Bible stories part of a collective fairy tale.

But now wouldn't be the time to say something like that - not if he wanted new sneakers. So Simmer let the man hold his hand and he repeated, after Dick, the lines of a prayer, as solemnly as he could manage it, asking Jesus to come into his life. Dick grasped his hand for what seemed like a long minute and gave Simmer his warmest smile. He called another man over, and that man bent over Simmer to hear the good news.

"Henry, here, has just given his life to Jesus," Dick said.

"That is good news," the man said, patting Simmer on the back. "I guess I'll see you in heaven then." He laughed and Simmer smiled, thinking that the man reminded him of a little league coach he'd had for a couple years, a man who had natural enthusiasm and liked to give pep talks and pat you on the back, his message always being: see that, we've worked it all out. We're ready to go now, right partner?

"What's your name?" the man standing over him asked. He had a pad and pen ready.

Simmer immediately wondered if he were going to be put on some kind of mailing list or something, and didn't like the idea at all. He thought of giving them a phony name, but what came to mind as a last name was Sinner, and that was too much to be believed. He almost laughed when it came to him, but then he gave them his real name.

Dick toweled Simmer's feet off and asked him what size shoe he took. Simmer told him, and within a minute or so a woman came from another room with a pair of white size tens. Dick slipped some new socks on the clean feet (the man was adept at the procedure, Simmer had to give him that).

"You gonna get you a job, Henry?" Dick asked as he put the sneakers on.

"Hopefully I'll have one out of the labor pool tomorrow morning."

"Well, let's pray for that." And Dick grabbed his hand again, closed his eyes and bowed his head. He said another prayer, asking Jesus to bless Henry Simmer with his job search the following morning.

When Simmer returned to his pew, the other two guys were smiling and shaking their heads.

"Damn, they had you up there for a long time," one said to him.

"Hell, I didn't think I'd ever get my hand back," Simmer said, and the three of them laughed.

Before they were allowed to go upstairs, the leader of the church group called for their attention. He had a piece of paper in his hand.

"We're very happy to say that thirteen men here tonight - thirteen men - have given their lives to Jesus."

Clapping from the rest of the group and smiles all around. Simmer had to admit, as he went up the stairway to the dorm room, that the sneakers fit pretty well, they had some bounce in them.

What made the men laugh as they lay in their beds afterwards was that some of the "lost souls" had immediately left the shelter after getting their new shoes. According to some, they were off to the dope man to trade the new shoes in for crack.

God bless the drunks and druggies, Simmer thought, laughing to himself.

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