16 / CHRONICLESnwhere I slept three weeks earlier. Also, a ferocious knife fightntook place on the steps of the Mission while I was standingnthere. My notes of the brawl say that the brawlers were toondrunk to fight dangerously but not too drunk to kill eachnother with knives (that is, unknowingly).nStreetniks are also doing time — they have to becomenskilled at doing nothing, all day, every day. The vast majoritynsmoke, and cough. While you will see a fat one every nownand then, most are lank if not thin. The only really skinnynones I saw were mental cases.nIt was about 9:00 on Saturday night, and I was huddled inna corner of the chapel at the Mission, on the tile floor,nwrapped in a scratchy blanket I got with my attendance atnthe “service.” Three preachers preach and lead singing ofnhymns from the songbooks that are passed out at thenbeginning of each service. For that you get supper and anplace to lie down — sleeping is another matter. The smellnand the sounds kept me fully awake most of the night. I can’tndescribe either because I have no comparison to make. Incannot exactly remember the smells and sounds of barracksnfull of sailors and marines a third of a century ago, but theyncould have been nothing like these smells and these soundsnor I would have lost my mind—or gone ,/WOL.nIt was like one large animal made up of many small parts;nall of them were constantly moving and making noises,nranging from soft and smooth to sharp and grating.nThe smell was sickening; luckily it diminished in force. Incould taste the air as I have tasted the smells on the street ofnMexico City—there, a mixture of exhaust fumes and tacos.nAround daybreak I dozed off for a while; then it was time tonclear the chapel. We put the chairs back in rows and gotnready for breakfast.nIt’s exactly one block to “Sally” (the Salvation Army).nBreakfast starts at 7:30. It was 28 degrees with a light fog andnlow-lying clouds hiding the top of L&C tower. Willie,nhowever, didn’t notice. He was intent on getting in line andneating. He walked with that characteristic shuffle — headnslightly bowed, shoulders sagging, and feet barely clearingnthe pavement.nWillie had drunk two pints of Thunderbird late yesterdaynevening and felt bad, plagued by diarrhea, a commonnby-product of fortified wine. Music City Liquor Store is thenattraction of Lower Broad to Willie, its proximity to historicnRyman Auditorium notwithstanding. The store specializesnin fortified wine at $1.25 a pint with 20 percent alcohol.nWillie would have to drink over five cans of beer at $1.00 anwhack to get the 3.2 ounces of pure alcohol they pour into anpint of cheap wine produced expressly for Streetniks.nThere were 22 in line when Willie got there. They allnlooked a great deal like him. Breakfast. There are only twonworkers this morning — one. Pop, a regular employee ofnSally who came off the street for the job some time ago. Popnwas putting two pieces of white bread on a rather flimsynpaper plate, spooning gravy over them and handing thenplate to the men. Willie got his own plastic fork. The othernworker beside Pop was partly, and sloppily, filling styrofoamncups with coffee from a big thermos and handing each manna doughnut. Willie and the others were eating in an annexnthe Army had acquired to meet the needs of the burgeoningncrowd. Long temporary tables were covered with paperntablecloths, overlapped to cover the tables completely.nnnChairs were at a premium, and pew-like benches were usednfor one side of the back two tables.nIt wasn’t too bad for Willie. The gravy was pretty warmnand went down smooth compared to the Thunderbird.nThere were no napkins, but if there had been, Willie wouldnnot have used them to wipe the spots of gravy off hisnuntrimmed beard. In a swiping motion, he used the palm ofnhis hand, which he then wiped on his pants leg. Not a wordnpassed between Willie and his breakfast companions. He ateneverything on his plate, put his doughnut in his jacketnpocket, picked up his plate and empty coffee cup, droppednthem in the garbage can by the door, and hit the streets.nAgain. Long time till 11:30.nAs he walked up Demonbreaun Street and then over tonBroadway, Willie was unaware that the fog had lifted, thatnthe tops of the downtown buildings were visible, or that thensun was shining.nStorefront Ministry was open, but Willie couldn’t get in.nBecause of nice weather they were going to give out thenlunch tickets on the sidewalk in front, so he waited somenmore. He had spent a lot of time in SFM last week, waitingnfor clothes, talking and smoking, until they put up that nonsmoking sign.nHere they come with the tickets. Even though they givenout tickets, Willie had never seen anyone turned away. Thenline snaked up Eighth Avenue, turned left, went down anblock, came in the basement of the parish hall at ChristnChurch Episcopal. There they took WilUe’s ticket, handednhim a bag lunch, and he sat down. There was a cup of hotnchocolate by each place. In the bag: a styrofoam bowl ofnveggie soup, chicken salad on light bread, banana, andnchocolate cake. Just as Willie began eating, a big black mannsaid, “Let us return thanks.” So Willie stopped (but did notntake his stocking cap off, neither did anyone else, since “thenman” did not tell them to) and then commenced eatingnagain.nFinished, Willie got extra hot chocolate. He put hisnbanana and a piece of chocolate cake he picked up from thentable in his jacket pocket for later. On the steps leading fromnthe basement back to the street, there was a nicely dressednman in an overcoat shaking everybody’s hand and sayingn”Merry Christmas.”nSince it was only 12:00, Willie went back into the chapel.nHe pulled four chairs together and snoozed a while. (Manynothers did the same thing.) The noise didn’t bother himnmuch, and he slept till about 3:30. There is no moochingnmoney to be had on Broadway — too much competition andntoo much resistance. He wandered over to Church andnSecond last week, made a killing off those folks in the fancyndistrict, but was run off by the bulls. They said, “Hey fellow,nget over there on Broadway where you belong.”nSupper was soup, as he knew it would be. A soup line,nthat’s what it was. But the soup was not bad. It was tasty hotnonion soup. And light bread. Always light bread. Never anynother kind. But that’s the only bread fit to eat, anyway. Annapple for later.nWillie lucked out tonight. He had drawn the last bunknupstairs. Before he went to bed upstairs in the Mission, thenbest place to be because of the soft double-bunks withnsheets, Willie ate his banana and chocolate cake and apple.nAnd thus Willie finished his menu for the day. Aboutn