                                  T H E

                               Z E P H Y R

                      __     M A G A Z I N E
                     {__]++++++++++++++++++++++++++[]
                     Issue #28                10-1-86

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
                            THE ZEPHYR II BBS
                        (Mesa, AZ - 602-894-6526)
                    owned and operated by T. H. Smith

                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

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                                (c) 1986

    THIS ISSUE:

       We have another guest issue for you this time around - written
    by one of our users, John Arbon. Hope you all like it.

                          Rich Man - Poor Man

                              by John Arbon

       The city lay sprawled under the golden morning sun.  The
    skyscrapers gradually materialized as sunlight caressed down
    their length.  Down on the busy street people emerged from
    buildings and hurried off to destinations know only to
    themselves.  The effect was one of an anthill, orginzed
    confusion.
       The light fell upon the face of a bum that had fallen
    asleep on a bench in the middle of a park.  As the rays of
    sunlight warmed the old man, he woke, sat up, and rubbed the
    sleep out of his eyes.  The newspapers he had placed around
    himself for warmth, slid off his ill-clothed body with a
    slight rustle.  A policeman walking by noticed him there.
       "Hey, this ain't no hotel, get out!  Go back to the streets
    where you belong," he said as he watched the old man get up
    and walk out of the park.
       At the corner people jostled him to one side or the other
    as they passed, keeping their eyes averted.  Spying a coffee
    shop down the block he turned toward it only to knock down a
    lady carrying groceries.  "Oh, I'm terribly sorry.  Here let
    me help you," he apologized as he bent to pick up a can that
    had rolled into his foot.
       "No!  Thank you, I can do it myself.  Just go away," she
    kept her eyes on the fallen good whe she spoke.
       "It's OK.  I've got nothing better to do."
       "No!  Just go away and let me do this myself!"  She still
    kept her eyes on the food, as if he would go away if she did
    not look at him.
       The passing people threw disgusted looks their way as they
    walked by.  No one stopped to help.  He stood, and with a face
    carved of stone he faced the people and started toward the
    coffee shop again.  As he stepped inside he became acutely
    aware of the torn and ragged overcoat, the wide holes in his
    shoes and the dumpy hat that rested with a resigned sigh upon
    his head.
       The man at the counter looked up from the magazine he was
    reading and said, "The restroom's in the back."
       Surprised the bum answered, "I don't need the restroom, I
    came to buy a cup of coffee and a sandwich."
       "We don't serve your kind here," the man said rather
    rudely.
       The bum retorted, "Look!  This is a free country.  I
    deserve to be served anywhere I darn well please!  Just
    because I don't have the means to dress as neatly as some of
    your other customers doesn't mean that I can't demand the same
    respect and service that you give someone else!"  Everyone in
    the shop stopped eating and turned to look at the two.
       Undaunted, the man at the counter said, "You're evidently
    new here, so let me tell you something.  You and your kind can
    go to hell for all I care.  I used to serve your kind here.
    Do you want to know what happened?!  I was nearly put under by
    the health department!  And do you know why?!  Because you and
    your kind violate nearly all the health codes ever written and
    damn near all the ones that have been thought of!  Now, get
    out!  Because I don't want to hear about the freedom of this
    country when it damn near puts me out of business!"
       Taken back, and quite shaken, the old man stumbled out to
    the sidewalk, and was quickly lost in the turbulent tide of
    people.
       Two hours later, after being ignored, hassled, and avoided,
    he finally found himself at a shelter for the homeless.  His
    stomach, twisting and squeezing its emptiness forced him to
    enter the bleak building that he faced.
       The door squeaked on aged hinges as he push it open.  He
    was greeted by colorless walls, a battered desk, and an
    unsmiling face that belched out the words its mind force-fed
    it.
       "Name?"
       "Huh?  Oh, Mike."
       Some scribbling, then, "How long have you been in this area?"
       "Two days."
       More scribbling.  "How many times have you been to this
    shelter in that time?"
       "None.  This is my first."
       Scribble.  "Do you plan on spending the night?"
       "No."
       "Why are you here?"
       "To eat."
       She made a check on the sheet in front of her, then pointed
    to the hall on her right.  "Down that way."
       Mike turned and walked down the hall she'd indicated.  Near
    the end of it he was met by another stone faced worker, who
    directed him into a large room that had been converted into a
    cafeteria.  He found his way to the end of the line and
    waited.
       A small, shriveled old man in front of him turned around to
    see who was behind him.  He stared for a while as if trying to
    make a decision.  Then, squinting up into Mike's face he said,
    "You're new to these parts.  Aren't cha'?"
       "Yes, two days to be exact."
       "I'm not talking exact.  I'm talk'n about over twenty years
    of livin' on the streets.  You shouldn't look so shocked!
    I've been here near thirty years now, and ya' know, it'll add
    years to your life that you've never lived.  How old would you
    guess me to be?"
       Mike pondered for a moment then said, "I'd say you're about
    seventy years old."
       "Wrong!" the old man cried triumphantly, "I'm fifty-two
    years old to be exact.  Now, can you tell me where I missed
    twenty years of my life?  No, you can't and neither can
    anybody else.
       "My body says to me, 'I'm seventy years old.  It's time for
    me to quit and go on to another life.' And my spirit says,
    'I'm only fifty-two.  I'm not ready to die.' I tell ya' it's a
    constant battle between my body and my spirit and it's wearin'
    me down.
       "One day my body will win and go back to the earth where it
    came from.  And years from the day it returns to the ground it
    will be living again by taking part in the construction of
    thousands of living bodies.  In every one of those bodies will
    be a part of mine and my body will go on living long after it
    died.
       "Now there's an interesting thought.  If my body is going
    to be parts of future bodies, then how many bodies of the past
    make up mine.  Just think of parts of me as George Washington
    or Ulysses S.  Grant or Robert E.  Lee or Abraham Lincoln or
    John Booth.  Now that would be some combination, Ulysses Grant
    and Robert Lee.  Two parts of my body at war with each other.
    Maybe that is why I have trouble with my kidneys.
       "And that streak of rebelion in me could be from John
    Booth, my compassion from a piece of Clara Barton, my
    toughness from Daniel Boone or Chief Sitting Bull.  Maybe my
    concern for others comes from a piece of Harriet Tubman, and
    the authoritarian part of me from Stalin of Attila the Hun.
       "And think of those pieces of others that made up their
    bodies.  People back in Christ's time and beyond.  Now it
    really gets complicated, so I'll stop before I blow a fuse.
       "And my spirit," he said back on track, "I don't know where
    my spirit will go."  His face took on a wistful look as he
    turned to catch up to the end of the line.
       "You said I was new here.  How did you know that?" Mike
    asked, changing the subject.
       The old man turned around and said, "I know everyone here.
    I know their age, I know where they live, and I know their story."
       "Their story?"
       "Their story about how they came to the streets.  Ya' know
    most of us don't even want to be here, and most of us don't
    even have a choice."
       They stopped talking and the cafeteria closed in around
    them, smothering them with the sounds of banging trays,
    clanking silverware, and murmuring voices.  Food was plopped,
    smeared, and practically thrown on their trays as they made
    their way through the line.
       "Doesn't look very appetizing, does it," Mike observed.
       "No, it doesn't.  But, after near thirty years of a two
    star garbage can this is a seven course meal."
       They found an empty space on one of the tables and sat down
    to eat.
       Mike was looking at the assortment of people around him,
    when he saw a young man about nineteen, not far away.  "Who is
    that?" he asked pointing.
       The old bum he sat with turned and said, "Oh, him.  He's
    Jerry Farmer."  He turned back to his tray.
       "What's his story?"
       "You don't want to know."
       "Yes, I believe I would," Mike persisted
       "Very well then.  He was kicked out of the house by his
    parents about a year ago.  They told him to go out into the
    REAL world and be somebody.  Well, he's somebody now, only
    nobody knows him."
       "Who's that older fellow at his side?"
       "That," he explained with a sigh, "is Lon Clayman.  He was
    at one time president of Clayman Executive Travel.
       "His wife wanted a divorce, he didn't.  She went through
    with it and along with half his company she was also given
    custody of their kids.
       "He became an alcoholic, and in a drunken stupor he signed
    the other half of the company to her.  She said something to
    the affect of 'I'll remarry you and love you forever if you
    just sign this paper.' and he did.
       "When he became sober enough to realize what he had done,
    he tried to commit suicide.  He wasn't very successful as you
    can see, but had permanently damaged his brain.  Not a lot,
    mind you, but enough to need someone to watch over him.
       "Those two have basically adopted each other.  Lon for two
    reasons:  one, he needs someone to take care of him.  And two,
    he has no children anymore.  Jerry has one reason:  because he
    needs to be wanted.  Those two belong to each other."
       They finished their meal in silence.
       As they walked across the cafeteria floor, Mike had a
    sudden thought, "You know, I don't know your name.  Mine's
    Mike," he put out his hand.
       The old bum took it, "I'm Jorimha Golle.  My friends call
    me 'Joe', you can too if you'd like."
       "Thanks, I will.  Can I find you here most of the time?"
       "Yeah.  I'm usually around."
       "Thanks again, Joe."
       "No problem."
       They shook hands once more and went their separate ways.

       Mike spent the next hour and a half wandering around,
    looking at the sights, smelling the scents, and hearing the
    sounds of the city.  It all seemed to end too soon when he
    found himself at the place that it had started.
       He rounded the corner and stopped to look at the limousines
    waiting there.  "Sir, I believe it is over," said a gentle
    voice behind him.
       Startled he turned around and said to the familiar face
    looking at him, "Johnson, Johnson.  How good it is to see you
    again."  He shrugged on the heavy coat his chauffeur handed
    him.
       As he turned again, Mr.  Huxlen saw the rest of his
    friends.  They were already changed and waiting.  It seemed he
    was the last to return.
       "You're late," said Joseph Biltoy.
       "I had quite a ways to walk," Michel Huxlen answered,
    then with some alarm, "What happened to you?"
       "Some hoods decided I would make a good punching bag.
    After a few rounds they changed their minds.  But, they did
    get in a few lucky throws. However, when the odds are five to
    one, I think I pulled out quite nicely."
       Gregory Jackson stood and said, "How was your vacation,
    Mike?"
      "Vacation?  I'd call it more of an education than a
    vacation.  How about you?"
       "Me?  All I want to do now is something easy, like playing
    the stock market.  But, you're right it was quite an
    experience."
       "Well, I'd dare say that right now I'm interested in a hot
    bath and about twelve hours of sleep."
       Silent and weary they entered their limos.  The chauffeurs
    closed their doors, started the engines and made themselves
    scarce by mingling with the flooding traffic.

    Until Next Time

       Keep in mind, *I* didn't write this story. If you wish to
    compliment the author, or have comments, leave them here on the
    magazine board. (John goes by a different name on the board, so
    you can't leave him mail.)
       Now - would anyone else care to contribute to the magazine?
    If so, download ISH.27 (last time's issue) for all the details
    on how to do this.
       Your contribution can be fiction or nonfiction. That's up to
    you. If I can help you develop the idea, or can answer any
    questions, feel free to leave me mail.

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.