the oasis - part two

So I stepped inside and the nice lady smiled at me and closed the door behind me.

Whats your name, she asked me.

Another split decision to be made; was I going to lie to this woman who just invited me in from out of the cold and give her a fake name, like that would somehow distance me from my actions? Or just own up to the fact that Im standing in a mission in downtown Morristown and give her my real name.

Barabbas, I said.

Im Susan, she replied.

And while I did not lie, the names have been changed here to protect the innocent. Everyone but me.

Well, Barabbas, have some coffee and breakfast. Weve got biscuits and sausage and some eggs over there. Help yourself.

And with that, Susan left me standing next to a long folding table that did indeed have a coffee urn and a tray of biscuit and sausage sandwiches and row after row of deviled eggs. I walked over to the coffee urn, pulling one of those little Styrofoam cups I had seen through the window and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I was shaking a cloud of powdered creamer into my cup and eyeballing the free grub, the old man in the trucker hat asked me through his broken teeth if I was going to eat a biscuit. He held up his halfgummed sandwich as if to say, See. Theyre good.

I looked at this man, as he clutched his sad little breakfast, and realized that I couldnt eat anything.

No, no. I couldnt possibly eat, but thank you very much. I appreciate it, I said.

He looked at me funny, then kind of shrugged me a Suit Yourself look.

Suddenly, Susan appeared at my side.

Youre not going to have a breakfast, Barabbas?

Apparently she was the breakfast closer.

No, I cant. But thank you very much, I said.

The terrible truth is, though, I wanted to chow down on the spread, I really did. But even in the few minutes I had been standing there, I began to feel like a terrible thief. I didnt need free coffee and I certainly didnt need a free breakfast. I mean, I was standing there, in the middle of this room where truly hungry people were eating, where people who truly had nowhere else to go were sitting in small groups with their kids. And here I was, with my rental Camry parked up the street, wearing a backpack that had my laptop, iPod and cell phone in it; and I was seriously considering eating a handful of free deviled eggs. Everything about me came screaming into focus; my vague, middle class upbringing, my warped sense of entitlement, the fact that I would willingly eat free food intended for homeless people.

And in short, I was ashamed.

So, with that shame in mind, I promised to steal only one cup off coffee and leave right after that.

I walked over and sat down at a table with a kid who looked to be about twenty and he may have been tweaking because he wouldnt sit still and wouldnt stop spinning a Coke bottle on the table. He was working feverishly on his Coke bottle and couldnt have cared less that he had company. I looked around me, at the solemn, bearded face of Jesus gazing down at me, at the kids playing in the other room, at the young mothers praying together. And none of them looked at me. To them, I was just another guy in a wool coat getting in from out of the cold. It didn't matter to them why I was there. We all needed something. But I knew that I needed something other than a free cup of coffee.

Half way through my coffee, Susan said it was time for some singing and invited one of the young mothers over to the mic and boom box that was set up just to the right of the buffet. The young mother selected The Beautiful Star Of Bethlehem and began to sing. No one else seemed interested and since I still felt like I had to give something back for the cup of coffee I was drinking, I began to kind of hum along. I didnt know the lyrics, but I smiled and swayed and tossed in words when I could figure them out. When this song ended, she launched into The Gift Goes On; a song I knew. So I sang along to that one, belting out the chorus I leaned as a young boy.

After the second song, I had finished my coffee and needed to make good on my promise of leaving after the one cup. I found Susan and thanked her for her hospitality. She told me the missions hours of operation and when I could attend services. I thanked her again and walked back out into the cold.

As soon as I was back outside, I saw the real coffee shop (Java House? Java The Hut?) and went over and bought a cup of coffee. Im not sure why I did and I instantly regretted it and hoped that no one from the mission would see me sipping coffee from a tall paper cup with a java jacket on it. I walked back up Main Street (steering clear of the elevated sidewalks) and went back up to Jazzercise. My wife and her friends and all their kids where there, laughing and talking and enjoying the afterglow of some good old fashioned exercise. It was warm in there and I was comfortable and my wife smiled at me and asked me how the coffee shop was.

I said it was fine.

So, Morristown, I guess what I needed was to feel welcome and you certainly gave me that. Thank you for your hospitality. All are welcome at The Oasis.

And thats pretty cool.

The Oasis - Part One

Okay, so here's something weird that happened to me while I was in Morristown. And while it may be weird, it certainly was something I brought upon myself.

So my wife had plans to take a Jazzercize class with some old friends in downtown Morristown. This was something that had been planned over the last two months with what seemed like endless phone calls between Los Angeles and Florida because there was a very narrow window of time for this plan to work. And while I wasn't going to take the class, my wife was going to drop me off at the coffee shop where I would read a book and do whatever while she and her friends danced the pounds away. But a funny thing happened on the way to downtown Morristown (something that is better left unsaid) and we were running really late. And suddenly things became: 'rather than dropping off LA Barabbas at the coffee shop, we'll just point it out as we blow by it at top speed and you can walk back to it.'

So that became the new plan.

My wife pointed out the window and said:

"That's the place right there."
"Where those two guys are smoking," I asked.
"Yeah."

So I made a mental note as we passed and turned left and drove down to the end of Main Street. We parked the car and I walked my wife up to those crazy elevated sidewalks and kissed her goodbye as she tried to duck as inconspicuously as possible into the back of the class that was already well under way.

And now I was faced with trying to find my way back to the coffee shop.

So after I navigated my way off those floating walkways (there's lots of deadends up there), I made my way back up Main Street, past all those closed antique shops until I found the guitar store and I turned right, back up the way we had driven in. I walked up the street, past a glass window with 'The Oasis' painted on it and I kind of looked in, but it didn't quite look like a coffee shop. I mean, there were a couple of tables and people seemed to be drinking coffee, but there was just something that wasn't quite right. So I walked past it, but was then at the end of the street and realized there was nothing else so it seemed that this place, The Oasis, had to be the coffee shop that we drove past as we came into town. It had to be the place. I mean, the only other places around were an insurance place, an old furniture store and some doors that looked like they led to store front churches.

So I went back.

I pushed the door open and stuck my head inside and realized that there were indeed people sitting at tables drinking coffee but they were 80 year old men sitting in small clusters and the coffee was apparently being served in small, Styrofoam cups. The walls were covered with big vertical banners that were covered in biblical verses and scenarios depicted in colorful felt and I just had this feeling that something wasn't right. I mean, was this where the hipsters of Morristown hung out? Was this were all the cool kids sat and drank their coffee, surrounded by old men with "Be Patient - God Isn't Finished With Me Yet" on their trucker hats under the ever-vigilant gaze of a felt Jesus clutching a cotton ball lamb? Was this the new ironic? Was I this far behind the time? I was this old?

But before I had a chance to really process all of these deep thoughts, I was approached by a grey-haired old lady in a blue denim jumper who smiled at me.

"Welcome. May I help you?"
"Is this the coffee shop," I asked.
"Well, it's a coffee shop slash mission. Why don't you come inside from the cold and let me close the door behind you.

And at that moment I knew I had a decision to make - either own up to the fact that I can afford to pay for a two dollar cup of coffee or give myself over to this and see what happens next.

And I decided to see what happens next.

To Be Continued, I Suppose...

Darkness Creeps

Okay, fine. Yesterday's post was supposed to set a mood, you know, a man wakes up, there's blood on his shirt only he doesn't know where it came from. So he tries to wash it off, but it won't come clean and he knows it's going to be a long night as he attempts to reconstruct the events blah blah blah. I thought I would write this blog as one long piece of fiction, you know?

But maybe I won't do that after all.

The Beginning Of The End

It's dark outside and it's late. My shirt is wet, but only because I tried to clean it earlier. I'm not quite sure where the stain came from in the first place, but it's there just the same, just as I saw it as I stared at myself in the mirror a few minutes ago.

And I know this isn't good.

And my collar is open and my brown shirt is damp just over my right breast and I know that I won't be getting much sleep tonight.