Angels
House
© 2007 by Tony Hearn
Chapter Nine
With a leap of faith, I gave $500 to Mrs. Amelia Perez
of 1307 Canterbury Street on Austin's East Side for the first month's rent of
the dilapidated old taco restaurant at 908 East 1st Street. I also signed a
lease and purchase option for the property. In the agreement, dated August 1,
1983, I promised to pay $500 a month rent and to buy the property within six
months for $80,000. Mrs. Perez (no relation to Cynthia) at last gave me
possession of the key to the new Angels House. The lady had difficulty
persuading other members of her family to enter the agreement. I waited while
they made up their minds to relinquish the property where she had labored for
years, making and selling tacos, to support her family, sending all her
children eventually to college. Her husband was crippled.
During June and July, I waited to learn the
decision. Nothing came easily, it seemed. The memory of those long summer days
and nights of waiting is blurred. I was struggling to survive financially. By
God's providence, I had several loyal friends from The Open Door days who stood
by me, helping me through the time of waiting. The day arrived when I called
Mrs. Perez for her answer to my question, "May I rent the place?" She
finally said, "Yes, you can have the key!" I immediately walked over
from the Bluffs of Barton to her home, deep into the East Side. I carried with
me a cashier's check for the first month's rent. Frankly, I didn't know how I
would meet the next month's rent. But I had faith the money would come in.
While the old, deserted taco place had been crawling
with every variety of varmints for at least two years, on August 1 a small army
of my friends and I swooped in bearing brooms, mops, vacuum cleaners and other
cleaning instruments. Where disorder had reigned, its enemy took control. The
place began to shine. One of my first acts was to screw into the wood outside
the front door a small brass plaque with a symbol of Christianity, an iconic
fish. I also hung a crucifix on the wall of the main room where Mrs. Perez had
served her tacos to customers for years and years earlier. The kitchen was
being transformed though layer upon layer of old cooking grease was caked on
the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.
Though there were many volunteering to clean, the
names of two persons stand out in my memory: Bob Conklin, an old college friend
of mine who was also a member of Saint David's Church, and Pastor Reinhard Wuensche
of Hope Lutheran Church. Pastor Wuensche was also a skilled carpenter. Bob
attacked the overlaying filth and Pastor Wuensche attacked the underlying
structure of the building. I can't recall the names of those who helped during
those days of early August. I remember there was one married couple who
contributed the first hundred-pound sack of pinto beans. God bless them! They
soon experienced very hard times, but I won't describe their domestic
tribulations. The wife soon became an in-patient of an Austin mental hospital.
And, of course, there was always Martha, praying that all would go well, or at
least all would end well.
The race was on to resume the feeding of the poor
that had been interrupted when The Open Door closed. I believe that occurred by
the beginning of the next week in August. John Kelso, the columnist at the
Austin American-Statesman newspaper, arrived to take notes he used for a
column for the paper.
To say the least, I was busy, again, attempting to
accomplish what I believed to be
"doing good!" A large number of homeless persons began to gather
outside the new Angels House soup kitchen. For hours before the meal was served
beginning at noon, "indigents" waited, or, maybe,
"loitered," at the door. Some began to push or shove their
"brothers" as they waited to get free food. Some order had to be
established outside the soup kitchen as it had been "inflicted" upon
the mess inside. I became known as Brother "Tough Love" Tony.
One day out front, I made an announcement to those
who were congregated at the door. "From now on, no one will be allowed to
wait anywhere on this block. You have to wait on the other side of I-35 until
noontime or out of my sight on this side of the Interstate."
I don't know about whether I was violating anyone's
civil liberties, but I do know the people who had begun to hang around Angels
House were violating my notion of tidiness. Cigarette butts littered the ground
in the proximity of Angels House. I suppose I was within my rights to enforce
the terms of my announcement. I was the cook. No one would be served free food
if he (or she) violated my edict, and I wore binoculars to spot non-compliance.
In the first few months following the opening of Angels
House soup kitchen in about the middle of August through January of 1984 the
daily noon meal was served just like at a regular restaurant, by wait persons
to "customers" seated at tables and chairs in the front room of the
building. The difference was that wait persons were volunteers, taking no tips,
and the food was free. The menu varied little. The fare was basically stew,
with the standard ingredient beans. Occasionally there was rice or potatoes.
Always, though, I tried to provide a piece of fresh fruit the
"guests" were "encouraged" to take with them. The place
could only accommodate a dozen or so persons inside at a time, with a line
reaching up to a hundred forming outside the front door. To keep order, I, or a
seasoned volunteer, stood at the door to let into the dining area new
"eaters" and to wish those who had finished their meal "God's
speed" for the balance of the day and the coming night.
"Honest!" I tried to maintain a positive
attitude. "I believed I was doing God's work. Even God's only son,
however, took to the hills occasionally, probably when Jesus needed to let off
steam." At that time, I could not get away from the ministry I had
embraced. I recall losing my cool from time to time when one of our guests
tested my patience. One day, one of the eaters challenged me about the quality
of the food. "This stuff ain't no good!" he sneered toward me.
"No one 'ain't' forcing you to eat it either!" I retorted.
"Ain't you got no butter for the bread?" he rejoined. I went into the
kitchen and brought back a bowl filled with fat. "This is all we've got.
Use this!" We tried to be accommodating even to those who griped about the
service.
Rainy days that Fall and Winter were a real test of
faith and endurance, especially for the guests at Angels House. The volunteers
inside had to mop the floor of the front room constantly to keep guests from
slipping and taking a tumble on the aged linoleum floor. Our guests got soaked
from the water coming down from above. Inside the restaurant reeked of the aroma
of mildewing people and their possessions. The smell was pungent. I reasoned to
myself, after many days serving the homeless, there must be degrees of sweat. I
reckoned at least 12 levels. The first level was basic body odor. The final
degree I called "musk," like the finest of incense. In defense, I
learned to breathe in deeply. "Take a good whiff! Fill the lungs and get
over being offended, sort of like Saint Francis sucking the pus from another
person's wounds," I would tell a new volunteer coming on line at the soup
kitchen.
I had to be tough, including managing the crowds
coming to Angels House. I usually stood at the door. I never shall forget one
day. "Sir, you have to wait outside, until you are permitted to come in,
just like everyone else!" I had noticed the older man arrive. It was
raining. He waited in line for a time and then he got out of line and tried to
come inside. "I'm sorry! I just want to give you this!" the man said
as he handed me an envelope. I opened it and saw money inside. I noticed a
hundred dollar bill.
"Damn!" I remember muttering to myself.
"Come right in!" I said, biting my lip as I realized I was
"preferring" one man to another. "Thank you," I said.
"Donors usually come in our back door," I said. He was a religious
from Saint Edward's University, a Holy Cross brother. "We like what you
and your volunteers are doing," he said. Money became to flow in as the
expense of running Angels House increased. There was always just enough!
Occasionally there was more to balance when times were tight.
The memories flood in as I write this memoir. They
flow in and flow out of my mind, like the people who came and went through the
door, in front and in back. I posted a sign over the back door. "Through
this door pass servants of the poor!" Some did it with the grace of God's
anointed. I had to keep my eye on those who sought to volunteer at Angels
House. I hate to relate that some thought the place was a "meat
market." They were there to meet other volunteers, particularly one of our
sharper women workers, for some were "real lookers."
One night, I'm certain, I offended the Blessed Lord.
It happened to be Christmas Eve. I had gone back to Angels House to retrieve
something I left behind. I noticed the side door was ajar. I tried to secure
all possible ways anyone might try to enter the building. Someone had entered.
I went in. I discovered one of the homeless men inside. The man was asleep,
sacked out on his tattered possessions, his head resting on a filthy bag. I
recognized him immediately. He always gave the appearance of a river rat.
"You're not supposed to be in here!" I
gave him what was the equivalent of "the bum's rush" out the side
door! He left, moving into the night, Christmas Eve night. And then it hit me!
"You stinking imposter!" the interior voice spoke harshly to me.
"You just ushered out from Angels House the blessed Christ Child
himself!" My Christmas was ruined. I had failed yet another test. Me and
my mania for tidiness and "order!"
I left, disgusted with myself, and went home to my warm bed.