Denver: a short story

Oct 24, 2024

Thought I’d share this heartwarming little tale–a true story I wrote when I was still in college–while I continue to work on some new pieces.

I’m sitting on the curb of a gas station parking lot in some suburb on the south side of Denver. I just purchased a bottle of water, a candy bar, and a little notebook I am writing my thoughts in as I wait. I wait for three friends who are driving almost two hours from Colorado Springs to rescue me.

One mile away on I-25 my car has died and rests on the gravel shoulder. As I was driving back to camp all of my car’s electrical systems stopped working. Alternator. Energy had slowly drained from the battery until I was forced to exit the flow of traffic. As the car came to a stop a very bitter, sarcastic “Thanks a lot, God,” left my mouth. I immediately felt guilty.

I walked back along the highway, headlights screaming by me, and reached Lincoln Avenue. I followed Lincoln to reach this gas station I am now waiting at. The impromptu mile long hike gave my childish tantrum time to subside. I began to try to praise God instead of blaming him–my desire to walk in faith pulling against my anxiety and desperation. I made up a bluesy song as I walked. I praise you God even though my car is dead. I trust you God even though I’m broke.

There are many more “even thoughs” and I make a mental list as I wait for my friends to arrive. I really need that vehicle for school this fall. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I don’t have the money to repair the car, whatever the problem is. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I look up into the sky which I know must be starry but is washed with city light and I hope to hear God tell me how he will take care of me.

I arrived in Denver last night. As soon as I finished work I got in my car with a backpack and a guitar. I drove down from the mountain camp where I’ve been living and working all summer and headed north. I visited my friend Aaron who also lives where he works at a drop-in center called Sox Place in downtown Denver. Sox Place is a refuge for druggies, homeless people, anyone who needs food and a safe place to hang out. Aaron’s job is to serve the people who come to Sox Place.

Sox Place is essentially a large garage with a few rooms attached. In the main area there are a couple TVs, several couches, a pool table, some tables and chairs where food is served. Adjoining there is a kitchen, an office, and bathrooms. Every wall at Sox Place is covered in graffiti. There are large works of art in the lounge area and hundreds of scrawlings on the walls of the hallway. Some of the writings are hopeful and poetic. Some are despairing and poetic. There are eulogies written to deceased friends, a few Bible verses, and proclamations of self-affirmation that all, in essence, say, “I exist.”

Sox Place was closed by the time I arrived so Aaron was the only one there. We spent the evening walking around the city. On the 16th Street Mall we met a few of the friends he’s made this summer. One man was missing most of his teeth and had a large hiking pack with grocery bags tied to it for extra storage. He held a large Chow dog on a leash. The man and the dog both had similarly matted hair. Later, after playing guitar together for awhile, Aaron and I bunked down for the night in the lounge area of Sox Place. I slept on a couch and Aaron made a bed of cushions on the ground.

We woke up late in the morning when two of Aaron’s coworkers, David and Lee opened the garage door and came in. David had a large ring in his nose like you might see in a bull’s snout. David was bouncing around the room and I quickly got the impression that he would be a teacher’s worst nightmare and a child’s best friend. Lee was quiet and exuded an aura of violent capability. He had a tattoo on his neck. My first thought was that I would not like to fight Lee.

A mother and her two teenage sons showed up with a minivan full of groceries. I helped them carry the food to the kitchen and introduced myself to the boys. I tried to make small talk but they seemed shy. The mom was one of those women who never departs from her role and she talked to me like I was one of her sons. The family was there to prepare lunch for the people who would come to Sox Place that afternoon.

As I talked to the family I found myself slipping little pieces of information into the conversation like where I go to college and giving little explanations for why I was at Sox Place. I felt anxiety that someone might think I was the one who needed help. I thought about how Jesus would not have felt the need to differentiate himself from the people he loved in order to make sure everyone knew he was better than them.

The volunteer family made burritos and the building filled with smells that made my mouth water. A few people were waiting outside when the garage doors opened. At first they trickled in and later guests began to arrive in larger numbers. They got in line for the food and began to eat. I sat on a couch at the end of the room and played my guitar.

I saw lots of tattoos, piercings, unusual haircuts. I could detect the unmistakable signs of drug abuse in many of their demeanors and conversation styles. I used to be a druggie myself but in all my time spent in that world, I was never fully exposed to the life these people were living. I never lived on the streets. My stint with substance abuse lasted less than three years but many of these people had grown up in a culture of drugs and poverty.

A guy sat down next to me and asked the questions that a guitarist asks another guitarist: What kind of guitar is that? How long have you played? Another guitarist will always give himself away by watching your hands as you play. I offered him the instrument and he excitedly accepted. His head was shaved and he looked like he was in his late twenties. His name was Chris. Chris was good. He played a unique fingerstyle full of blues and soul. His talent was raw and passionate.

Chris asked if there were any other guitars around so that we could play together. I left my guitar with him and went to get Aaron’s guitar out of the office. When I got back, Chris and my guitar were missing. My alarm grew as I began to search the room. I thought, I should have known better. I found Aaron and told him what had happened. It may have just been my conscience but Aaron seemed a little disappointed as he turned and pointed at the garage door. There were several people sitting in chairs and smoking cigarettes just outside the door and Chris was with them, playing my guitar. After borrowing a pick from David, I joined Chris outside with Aaron’s guitar and a stomach full of guilt.

We jammed for a long time. I played rhythm while Chris played lead with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I played a few songs that I had written and then began improvising some blues riffs for Chris to play around. Making good music with other people gives me this feeling of euphoria that climbs up my back and the back of my neck and fills my chest. Chris and I played until it was time for Sox Place to close. David and Lee began yelling for everyone to leave. I shook Chris’s hand and tried unsuccessfully to communicate how grateful I was for the experience and then he was gone.

I put the guitars away, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping. Everyone but the staff members left the building. Eventually I said goodbye to Aaron and departed on a drive south that would be unexpectedly short.

When I fished in my pocket for change to call for help I realized I still had the guitar pick I borrowed from David. I’m under no illusions that my contributions to Sox Place were significant. I helped out as much as I could but they didn’t need my help. In transactional terms I swept the floor in exchange for a place to sleep, a burrito, and a guitar pick.

In this moment I feel homeless and needy. I watch every pick-up truck that drives by hoping it is the one I’m waiting for. SUVs and luxury sedans drive through the station and fill their tanks with fuel.

I am surrounded by affluence and I worry about what these people think of me; these people who I’ll never see again and who glance at me as they walk in and out of the convenience store. Earlier, I used a pay-phone to call Luke for a ride because I don’t own a cell phone. Now I sit on the curb like a bum. I distill my many irrational thoughts into a single fear. What if these people think my life is going nowhere? I look deeper and find the true fear. What if my life is going nowhere?

An old, weathered car parks at a pump. A teenager rolls down his window and reaches out to open his door from the outside. My car has a door just like that. I feel an instant camaraderie with this guy. Stay strong brother.

Luke and the others finally arrive in Luke’s silver truck and I breathe a long sigh. I jog up to the truck and when Luke gets out I give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He tells me to take it easy cowboy and I laugh. Cammie and Richard say a quick hello and then rush inside the convenience store to use the restroom. It amuses me that they came along for the heck of it. When they return, we all cram into the cab. Cammie and I face each other in the back with our knees staggered. Conversation is minimal and we all stare out our respective windows as we drive south. When we pass it, I turn to watch my lonely, broken car fade into the night behind us.

I am in a diesel truck with Luke, Keith the camp director, two ratcheting cable pullers, four blocks of wood, a flatbed trailer, and three cans of soda. We are driving north once again. Keith and Luke are relaxed while I am anxious. I left my car on the side of the highway five days ago and it may have been towed. Keith talks about what God has been doing in his and his wife’s lives recently.

I’m getting tired of being grateful to people. That Keith would take half a day to help me and provide the truck and trailer is a huge gift. He even bought me a soda. Then there is Luke who drove four hours in the night to rescue me and now returns to help get my car. There is a guest of the camp we work at who donated enough money so all the camp staff got a one-hundred dollar bonus. That bonus raises my cash assets to one-hundred dollars. There is a very long list of others to whom I owe thanks.

We near the place where my car died and I strain forward in my seatbelt saying a silent prayer. If my car has been towed away I don’t have the money to reclaim it. I see a lonely maroon spot on the side of the highway and I give a loud shout for joy that makes Luke jump.

We take the exit and pass over the highway to turn south again. I have the irrational fear that a tow truck is going to arrive and try to take my car just before we get there. Keith pulls onto the shoulder in front of my car and lines the trailer up with the headlights. Luke and I jump out and grab the ramps and hook them to the end of the trailer. Keith grabs the cables and ratchets and begins to attach them to the frame of my car and then to the front of the trailer. The sun is hot today and it feels good to be outside.

Cars roar by. A few hundred yards behind us I notice a man approaching on a bicycle. As the man approaches I see him more clearly. He wears glasses, a pair of cut-off jean shorts, brown leather loafers, and white socks that go halfway up his calves. His chest is bare and he is very tan. He appears to be in his late forties or early fifties and he is covered in sweat. He pauses to assess our work.

“Where you boys headed?” he asks.

“The Springs.” I answer.

“You care if I throw my bike in the back of your truck and ride along? It’s damn hot out here and I’m getting tired.” Luke and I look at Keith.

“What’s your name?” Keith asks.

“Leland,” he says.

“Where you headed?” Keith asks.

“I’m on my way down to Cañon City. This is my daughter’s bicycle and I need to give it back to her. After that, I’m taking a bus down to New Mexico to pick up some paperwork.”

“You been down on your luck?” Keith asks.

“Yes sir, life’s been hard for a few years now.”

“What’s your story?” Keith asks.

Leland recounts a story I don’t fully understand but it involves a wife-slash-business partner who laundered him into poverty and IRS trouble. Leland tells his story without bitterness or blame.

“I still love her but she’s just not a good person,” he says. His shoulders curve and his back bends as he speaks of the great failure of his life. At this point, Keith, Luke and I have stopped messing with the car and are listening intently. Leland takes off his glasses and wipes the sweat from his face.

Keith speaks, “Leland, me and these men are Christians and we’d like to pray for you if you don’t mind.” I cringe and smile.

“Yeah, yeah I’d like that,” says Leland.

“You got anything specific you’d like us to pray about?”

“You can pray for my family—that they’d be okay and just live a good life.” He pauses.

“There’s a bunch of people up there in Denver you can pray for too. I just left Denver and there’s a bunch of people there who are hurting and need help. They’ve just got nothing.” Leland suddenly gets tears in his eyes. He lowers his head and breathes deeply. His voice shakes.

We each put a hand firmly on Leland’s shoulder and Keith prays aloud for him.

“God, we thank you for connecting us with Leland today. He’s had a rough go of it for awhile and he needs your help. We just pray that you’d meet him where he’s at and show him how good you are. We pray for Leland’s family, that you’d bring your healing, forgiveness and redemption into their relationships. Finally, we do pray for the city of Denver and ask that you’d energize your people there to love those who are in need. Amen.” We all echo the amen.

When Keith finishes, Leland thanks us and then we all get to work on my car. Leland cranks the ratchet while Keith steers. Luke and I dig our heels in behind the car and push. Leland works the cable puller, throwing his body into the press and pull. I can tell he’s a man who knows how to work hard and I like him for that. Inch by inch, the car climbs the ramp. Once the front wheels are on the bed things get easier and finally the car is in place. We use straps and blocks to keep the car in place and I double check the parking break. Leland seems really excited to have been of help.

The three of us climb inside the truck and Leland jumps in the bed. Keith starts the engine but I tell him to wait. I want Leland to ride inside so he and Keith can talk more. I jump back out of the truck.

“Leland, why don’t you ride inside?” He looks surprised.

“I appreciate it but I’m alright brother—I’ll be okay.”

“Leland, it’s not fair for you to be the only one to work on his tan today. Don’t hog the sun. There’s some water in there for you and a nice, cold AC.”

“Well thanks man, I really appreciate that.”

Leland hops out of the bed and gets into the cab. I get in and take off my shirt and use it for a pillow. The truck starts and we begin to drive. The wind catches some dirt in the bed and I close my eyes. We accelerate and I’m surprised by how comfortable I am. I cross my arms beneath my head. A hawk passes by. I start to talk to God. I feel helpless and strong at the same time. I stretch out and feel the heat of the sun and watch the clouds pass beneath an infinite sky.