As he took stock of himself he was repulsed by what he saw. His clothes were filthy and he stunk like he had not had a bath in a year. His pants were wet as though he had relieved himself in his sleep and smelled like this wasn't the first time it had happened. The pungent odor arose from his wet crotch like an overripe cheese on a hot close day. His hair and beard were long and matted. He had a tattoo on his forearm that said 'Born to Run' and another on his bicep that said 'Hazel'. The Hazel tattoo looked homemade and he shuttered to think who Hazel might be. On his left hand, his ring finger was missing as though somebody had cut it off years ago in order to steal his wedding band. He was alone in a small cell with only a stainless steel bench that he had been sleeping on and a drain in the middle of the floor. The past decade was a blur, an alcoholic haze. But in some ways the cheap wine that he had been living off of was merciful. He really didn't want to remember what he had been through.
"Hey, guard," he screamed, "what am I doing in there."
A guard came from around the corner and looked in the cell with amusement. "We put you in the hosin' cell because the other prisoners were complaining that you stank too bad to be around them. They said it was cruel and unusual punishment." The guard laughed at both his humor and his constitutional scholarship.
"The hosin' cell?" Barney repeated. "What is the hosin' cell?" He thought maybe the guard meant 'holdin' cell and it was his weird Midwestern accent that made it come out hosin'.
Just then the guard reappeared with a fire hose, which he held under his arm with the nozzle against the inside of his forearm. He pulled back a lever and a stream of water two or three inches in diameter hit Barney squarely in the chest and knocked him off his feet.
"You come in here stinkin' the way you do," said the guard, "we gotta hose you off. I don't know how you lowlifes can stand yourselves."
Barney tried to get back up on his feet, but against the slippery floor and overpowering jet of water he kept falling back down and sliding toward the drain. It was a tragic comedy; a slapstick version of the Myth of Sisyphus.
"Who are you calling a lowlife?" he demanded, from the floor of the cell.
The guard pushed the lever forward stopping the water and looked at Barney with great curiosity. "Look at yourself," he said, "if you aren't a lowlife, what would you call yourself."
Barney looked down at his ragged filthy clothes. He didn't smell quite as bad now, but his hair and beard were still matted. He was wearing two pairs of pants, only one sock and his shoes didn't match. One was a Nike running shoe; the other was a brown tie shoe. Both were left feet. The outer pair of pants had once been a red plaid. But with the dirt and grease that were caked on them, it was hard to tell if they were ever anything but plain black.
"How did I ever sink this low?" he wondered to himself. "How did I ever let this happen?"
After he dried off and didn't smell so bad any more, the guard let Barney back in the main cell with the other prisoners.
There were seven other people in the larger cell and Barney eyed them all with suspicion. These people were not in jail for good behavior and there was no telling what any of them might try. A clean looking, very large and slightly overweight man in late thirties stood up and offered Barney his hand.
"Bartholomew Vanderburgh is the name," he chimed, "but people just call me The Preacher."
"Wadda ya want?" Barney asked, "I ain't got no money. Leave me alone."
"Why, I don't want no money," Bartholomew piped in a thundering basso voice that sounding like God speaking from the heavens. "If I can say a few words that help you turn your life around, then that's all I want from anybody."
"Nobody can help me," Barney replied with cold resignation. "I'm so far adrift that I don't even remember what I'm drifting from."
"Sure you do," Bartholomew countered. "There was some event that occurred somewhere in your life and you made a wrong decision. You ran away from it. You shouldda just met it head on, but you ran instead. As soon as you ran, your problems were compounded. Not only did you have the original problem to deal with, but now you have to deal with the fact that you ran away. Over the course of years, you made one bad decision after another trying to cover for the last bad decision until it seems like your life was nothing more than a bunch of bad decisions. You add up all those bad decisions and you become a bad person. But you're not a bad person. You're a good person who made a bad decision and as soon as you come to grips with that first bad decision you can get your life back on track."
With that the large man nodded, smiled and crossed his arms. Barney looked up at this mountain of a man who looked like he knew the past and the future of every wretched looser like himself. Barney felt small and insignificant in the man's presence. He was going to offer his hand, but his hand was still wet from the hosing. He started to wipe his hand on his pants, but realized that would just make things worse. Before Barney could figure out what to do about his hand, the large man reached down and grabbed it.
"Don't worry about what's on your hand," the huge man boomed, pumping Barney's arm. "It's what's in your heart that counts."
Barney's hand disappeared in the huge man's paw. For a moment he felt like pulling it back lest he never see his hand again. But, once his immediate fear passed, he felt comfort in the big man's hand. He felt as though he could trust this booming man.
"Barney Milford's the name," Barney managed with as much dignity as he could muster. "I hail from Jacksonville Florida although, at the moment, I don't remember much about it."
The big man beamed with pleasure as though Barney were introducing himself as a representative of some royal family.
"What you were sayin' about a bad decision," Barney continued, "makes a lot of sense. I'll have to think about that once my head clears up."
"Well, take your time and do your thinkin'," the large man piped. "If you feel that you're ready to confront that first mistake, you can find me at The Last Chance Mission over on Rampart Street."
With that he handed Barney a card.
"Just show this to the guard when they let you out," Bartholomew continued. "They'll call me and I'll sent someone over to pick you up. We'll give you a place to sleep, something to eat and some help to get back on track again."
"What's the catch?" Barney asked, wary of anything that appeared to be free.
"The catch is that you have to be ready to help yourself or there's nothing we can do for you," Bartholomew said smiling.
"How do you know I won't just eat your food, use your hospitality and then be on my way?" Barney asked, still trying to figure out the man's angle.
"If you leave without helping yourself," the big man replied pleasantly, "then we are out some food, but the only one cheated is yourself."
Barney sat back down on the wooden bench and tried to think back to the first bad decision. It was all very hazy. Occasionally, he would look up at the card, which he held between his thumb and index finger. He did not want to smear the information on the card with his dirty hands. He was fairly sure that he was ready to ask for help, but he still could not remember how he had gotten there.