I slept against the wall in the dark hallway with a few other guys wrapped in blankets. They snored, moaned, and jerked. In a far off corner of the old mansion, a tenor saxophone whaled. The notes brought back memories of saying goodbye to somebody you love for the last time. I felt privileged to hear such beauty in desolation. When the tenor sax stopped, the musician, who sounded like Samuel, recited the following:
Come out bright, lonely, little star.
Don’t fear the dark clouds, the cold of winter, or the pain below you.
Bless us with your divine rays of hope, warm our spirits, and guide us to a peaceful world where every man, woman, child, and animal lives in dignity and happiness.
Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t be shy. We’ll accept you as you are and take you into our hearts.
I drifted into a deep sleep as if being read a lullaby. I awoke to an obese, seventy-something-year-old black woman extending a cup of coffee to me. “Hello lodger, I’m Queenie,” she said. Follow me down to the kitchen and let’s talk.”
I followed the old woman and noticed she had difficulty walking. Her feet were swollen and I suspected she suffered from diabetes given her age and weight. We entered a big kitchen, the type found only in mansions staffed with butlers and maids. It was spotless and hadn’t changed since its construction sometime in the early twentieth century. Its walls were lined with sparkling lime green tiles, matching counter tops, butcher block tables, and vintage kitchen appliances with manufacturer’s labels marked, “Dutiful Brand”.
There was a breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen where Samuel was sitting, smoking a cigarette, and sipping coffee. I was invited to sit by Queenie who struggled to sit. Samuel rose like a gentleman and aided her. Queenie reached for my arms and examined each for needle punctures. “You’re not a user are you?” I nodded in agreement saying, “No ma’am. I’m not.” Samuel took a drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke into the air, and agreed, “Yeah, his eyes are clear and he doesn’t have the shakes. He looks clean to me. What’s your game young man?” “I’m down on my luck and I’m just looking for a roof over my head for Christmas, Sir.” I replied nervously. I heard somebody walking swiftly down the hallway and a young man entered the kitchen pulling up a chair. Queenie sternly remarked, “What do you say first thing in the morning, Rascal?” The young man replied respectfully, “Good morning”. Queenie smiled like a proud grandmother.
“That’s a proper mornin’ greeting. Let me get ya’ all some oatmeal. “Rascal was a white dude in his early twenties, he was about six feet tall, thin, tatted up and pierced, and missing some front teeth. His face was showing the ravages of meth use. He was wearing low hanging faded jeans, old sneakers, and a “Red Wings” hockey hoody. Rascal extended his hand to me and we shook. Samuel looked Rascal up and down like a grandfather and scolded him, “Pull your britches up boy! Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself.” Like a doting grandmother, Queenie defended Rascal, “Leave him alone, old man! Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself playing that old sax for big dollars at weddings and Bar Mitzvah’s instead of busking on dirty, cold sidewalks. You still got it, old man. Use it!” Samuel stared at the ceiling as if looking into the past, and angrily replied, “Stay out of my business, woman.”
Queenie gave each of us a piping hot bowl of oatmeal she prepared atop a butane-fuelled hotplate. Rascal immediately rose to help her sit. Then he sat, devouring his oatmeal, washing each mouthful down with a glass of milk. Queenie finished a silent prayer and began eating her oatmeal with etiquette that seemed out of place- considering her present situation in life. It made me curious about her background. She spoke and reverenced Samuel, “Back in the day, Samuel was kickin’ it with the likes of Duke, Ella, Basie, Miles, and workin’ the best clubs in the Country. Show ‘em that Downbeat Magazine cover with you on it, Samuel!” Samuel shook his head as he slowly ate his oatmeal, his hands trembling from the effects of alcoholism, and old age. Rascal finished his oatmeal, wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve when Queenie was not looking his way. He rose from the table, and placed his arms around Samuel, boasting, “It’s true, man. I saw the magazine cover.
Samuel was a cool young dude on the cover of a sixties Downbeat Magazine. In big letters above his photo, it say’s, New Tenor Sax Virtuoso Makes the Scene. All right folks, got to start my day dumpster divin’. Nice to meet you, Sir.” I was impressed with Rascal’s manners and replied, “My pleasure to meet you Rascal. Good luck out there!” Rascal kissed Queenie on the cheek before exiting the kitchen from the boarded up service entrance. I caught a glimpse of him retrieve a shopping cart hidden behind the bushes. In a hushed voice, Queenie remarked, “Rascal was thrown out on the streets by his folks. He comes from a good family with parental expectations he couldn’t live up to, he seldom talks about his family. I treat him like my grandson. He has a sweet temperament but slips into a dark hole of depression, so he self medicates by shooting up. If only he could kick the junk, he still has time to make somethin’ of himself.”
Queenie slowly rose from her chair, gathered the bowls and cups, and rinsed them in a bucket. She placed them in a dish rack to dry, took a deep sigh, and said, “Well, it’s time to start my day. I got to hit the food pantries first thing this mornin’. Between Rascal and me, we’ll gather all the fixings for a proper Christmas Dinner. Pay your $5 dollars a day and board, lodger. Leave the money with Samuel. If there’s anything else you need to know, just ask him.” Queenie reached for her winter coat hanging on a hook, draped it on, grabbed her handbag, and headed for the door. Queenie dressed nicely for a homeless woman. My heart was heavy as I watched her walk slowly up the sidewalk, her feet swollen, and her joints aching.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar bill, handed it to Samuel, and said, “It’s the 24th today. I’ll be out on the 26th. Keep the ten dollars change. I’m certain the house can use it.” Samuel rose from his seat and placed the twenty dollar bill into a drawer and said, “Thank you, young lodger. This ‘ol man got to get some sleep before headin’ out tonight but maybe you can help me with a chore, first?”
Samuel reached for his tattered pea coat and struggled to get into it. “I’ll be glad to help you with the chore,” I said as I helped him get into his coat. We exited the kitchen through the boarded up service entrance out into the cold, sunny daylight. I followed him into the expansive back yard of the mansion, now overgrown with weed, shrubs, and tree branches. He led me to a baby Christmas tree about three feet tall, it was standing alone in the corner of the backyard. He knelt next to it as if it were a child, “This little tree sprung up out of the ground last spring. I saw it grow inch by inch throughout the springtime. I wanted it to survive even amongst all this squalor, so I started to water it and it grew so fast. It withstood the scorching heat and humidity of summer, the chill of autumn, and here it is in the dead of an icy winter, still alive. It ain’t a big tree but it will make a fine Christmas tree. I’d like you to help me dig it up, pot it, take it inside, and we’ll give it a home for Christmas. It won’t end up on the trash heap like the others. No, Sir! After Christmas, I’ll plant it a couple of blocks away in the City Park so if this old house gets bulldozed, this tree will survive. Will you help me?” He asked. “Of course I will, Samuel”, I answered. Samuel retrieved an old spade, pick axe, and a pot filled with fresh potting soil. We carefully dug around the roots of the tree. “What’s Queenie’s story?” I asked.
Samuel turned towards the mansion, pointing at it with the spade, “Queenie was the maid for the family who owned the mansion. She lost her son in Vietnam and her job when the owners of the house moved away in the seventies. She drowned her pain with alcohol, struggled as a hotel maid, but she couldn’t keep it together as she got older, and ended up on the streets. Even though she’s a big woman and sick with diabetes, she has the grit and determination to be the first in line at the food pantries, walkin’ on those frozen, swollen feet.”
We managed to carefully remove the small tree from the frozen ground. Samuel placed it in the pot and ensured the roots were securely planted. As we walked back into the mansion with the tree, Samuel continued, “Queenie reveres the old mansion like it’s hers. It was owned by a fine family, they were manufacturers of durable kitchen appliances used in the finest homes, restaurants, and hotels. The company was called Dutiful Manufacturing and their blenders, mixers, and toasters were called Dutiful Brand. Check the library upstairs and you’ll find a stack of old catalogues showing the history of the brand. Start from the bottom of the stack and you can read it like a history book.”
We entered the kitchen, removed our coats, and Samuel sprayed a bottle of water to tenderly irrigate the potted tree. “Why did the home fall into disarray?” I asked. “The business was handed to a no good son who succumbed to thieving Wall Street bankers who convinced him he could make more money by manufacturing with less steel and more plastic. The appliances became shoddy and less reliable. Sales plummeted and the once proud company became tarnished. The only people who made more money were the Wall Street snakes. When the company went bankrupt, only the brand name had value, it was sold to a company in China who never used it. The patriarch of the family, and founder of the business, died from a heart attack in the library when he learned his son bankrupted the company. The family history mirrored the history of Detroit. With each decade, the Dutiful family and Detroit’s manufacturing jobs grew smaller, eventually to the point of extinction. Our little family and these blighted neighborhoods is like the Dutiful Company. We’re threatened with eventual extinction. Those large red Xs spray painted on the houses signify they’re scheduled for demolition. Every day, I see more red in the neighborhood and know it’s a matter of time before we’re extinct!”
