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Seattle Blackie's WINO CHRISTMAS Greetings! Although Many Events Chronicled Here Did Indeed Happen, This Story Is a Work of Fiction

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Seattle Blackie's WINO CHRISTMAS Greetings! Although Many Events Chronicled Here Did Indeed Happen, This Story Is a Work of Fiction Seattle Blackie's WINO CHRISTMAS Greetings! Although many events chronicled here did indeed happen, this story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or deceased is coincidence. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I relished creating it. All rights are reserved and the story is copyrighted © 2016. Bobby Blackie Banks, storyteller 2 This book is dedicated to all who withhold judgments on others who are struggling. Life presents constant challenges. No person gets out of life unscathed. We need compassion, understanding, and help. 3 Table of Contents Chapter 1-Lucky Ferry Ride...........................................1 Chapter 2-Momentary Christmas Angel ..................65 Chapter 3- Weird Introductions & Secret Plans...88 Chapter 4- Cheerless Jerry.......................................114 Chapter 5 Pike Place Showdown...............................154 Chapter 6-Waterfall Park Wonders.......................175 4 Scene: The Great City of Seattle from the Seattle Center to Pioneer Square. Chapter 1-Lucky Ferry Ride Someone had shadowed him? The cautious plan had unquestionably gone haywire, for streetwise Blackie didn't believe in coincidence. “Who put the damn locks and chains on the gate? Bullshit. Been going by this corner for years. Never happened before. Just my shitty luck. Seriously, who could know?” he mumbled to himself in his low tone. This non-stop whispering aloud habit had become ingrained during his umpteen years as a confirmed Seattle drifter. Day after day of being a lonely hermit soul can cause such behaviors. The muttered suspicion wasn't merely his standard paranoia. The 1 measured—not impulsive—justification for selecting Waterfall Park to stash it had seemed flawless. His mind raced through a checklist of suspects or likely scenarios and came up blank. “Methinks, I be screwed. Must be time for a drink.” He pulled out his dented flask, took the last gulp, and flopped on the bench. The locks laughing at him were no big surprise. The last check had been childlike magical thinking, for he had strolled by three times earlier in the daylight. There had been no darkness- induced abracadabra moment. In his rowdy younger days, busting off the locks or boldly scaling the back wall would have already happened regardless of the possibility of arrest or giving away the hiding spot. He knew better now. Perhaps it was a mechanical problem, but he could see and hear the water cascading down the boulders like any other time. Yanking one of the locks with his always gloved gnarled fingers did nothing, so he flipped it away and booted the metal gate with his scuffed combat boot. 2 “Fuck it. Damn place bolted up tighter than a Baptist preacher's asshole.” Disappointment was no stranger. He shrugged off the mystery as creating a scene or encouraging suspicions had to be avoided. The expected Bainbridge Ferry's horn in the distance echoed off the Puget Sound water, which transformed his outlook. A rare smile appeared. “Okay, time for Plan B.” He made it to his hideout in five minutes. After checking around with more caution than usual, he pushed back the branches of the thriving, protecting rhododendron bush, grabbed the key hidden in the fake rock, and rushed down the seven stairs. “Mom, I'm home.” He snickered at his daily joke and prepared for a possible late night by folding up his cot, coiling up his slightly damp bedroll, and dropping them in his crude plywood supply box. He pulled out his nighttime coat along with his lucky, tattered San Francisco Giants baseball cap. 3 “Damn, I love this time of year.” He buttoned up the coat, adjusted the ball cap on his shoulder-length gray hair, and broke into an off- tune rendition of his favorite childhood carol. ♪“Must Be Santa, Must Be Santa, Must Be Santa, Santa Claus.” ♪ Fumbling in his coat pocket, he found a crumpled pack of Old Golds and checked its inventory. Six smokes left. “That will do nicely,” he said, and got one lit after trying four times with a moist book of matches. He paused and took long drags while leaning against the uneven, chipped bricks of the Cadillac Hotel, that, like Blackie, had seen better days. The half-smoked cigarette found a dirty puddle after an impulsive flick. He stretched again, adjusted his belt, and retied his combat boots. “I am ready, Freddy,” he announced. Tall and still physically fit, he scanned the world with his intimidating, hawk-like eyes. He gave off an aura of confidence, imposing strength, and potential 4 violence. This potent combination acted as his first defense. The holidays had become a favorite time for Blackie, a master of many survival tricks and skills. Seattle seemed a safe enough city. He had the touch with the mostly friendly residents and numerous tourists whom he could, on his best days, con into being generous. The cops left you alone if you behaved by not causing any public disturbances, although, on a rare occasion, a rookie cop might act all hard-ass. If you had a good hideout or two from the incessant rain, life could be almost comfortable. Blackie had weaseled his way into a near streeter penthouse, an old janitor's closet from a defunct business. It had a locked door, a luxury for a street dude. Been using it—rent free—for almost seven years. A car alarm screamed its obnoxious warning close enough to both startle and irritate him, and he took out the stress by chastising himself, another habit inherited from dear old dad. “Thought I had enough. Should have at least 5 bought a couple carton of smokes, for shit's sake. I'll get to it. Been dead broke thousands of times.” He picked up the pace by taking long strides toward the ferry dock, looking forward to pulling off one of his favorite tricks. He had scrounged up the $5.90 needed to ride the ferry back and forth for hours, warm and secure. The calendar read December 23, and he planned on celebrating the dawning of Christmas Eve by enjoying the twinkling city lights from the view on the Bainbridge Ferry. He had done it for years. “I love this time of year,” he repeated as he turned the corner, increased his pace , and headed to the waterfront. 6 ♪“Who’s gonna make some money tonight? Blackie’s gonna make some money tonight. Who’s running around with a beard so white? Blackie’s running around with a beard so white. Money tonight, beard that's white–must be Blackie, must be Blackie, Blackie Claus ♪ “Well, ain’t you a happy camper tonight. Got a smoke?” called the voice of a wheel-chaired older street guy known simply as Psycho. “Sure do, Psycho.” Blackie flipped out one of his last cigarettes. “Don’t have a light though.” “Bless you, brother. I’ve got fire.” Psycho pulled a lighter from his camouflaged Vietnam cap with the ’69 hatband. “Hey, when the hell you gonna get a new hat, for Christ's sakes?” Blackie asked. “It’s part of my street charm. Better than that lid for losers you keep wearing around. The Giants ain't been shit since Mays and McCovey. How come you 7 don't wear a military cap? You're a vet.” He twisted around in his chair and blew an impressive smoke ring. “Hey, watch your mouth. This cap matches my snappy wardrobe. And no slandering my Giants. They signed me...” “No, No, not the fucking Hank Aaron story again.” “Damn good story.” “Whatever. What you so happy about, Blackie?” “Simply a romantic, my friend. Love the holidays.” “Bullshit, you've some scam going on, don’t you?” “Why, I’m insulted. I’m an independent entrepreneur living the American dream.” “Yeah, right, and I’m the mayor in disguise. Hey, I ran into Balloon Billy. He just got out of the Vet's Hospital and they gave him a new chair. Fancy one, too.” “Hell, you could use an upgrade on that old thing you wheel around in, right? When I win the lottery, I'll get you a new one. How is old Billy boy? God, I hope 8 they gave him a bath or two and washed his damn clothes.” “Yeah, he can get pretty ripe. Seemed to be doing okay. Has he been out here on these streets longer than you?” “We started roaming around these parts about the same time. He had a way worse 'Nam experience than me. Almost as bad as yours. Fucked him up for a while. He'd get all wound up on Thunderbird, pain pills, and other shit. Get just fucking crazed and go violent once in a while. That last prison stay got him straightened out some. But he paid the price. Asshole prison guard who beat the hell out of him got off free. Billy ain't been the same since. Then he got into that balloon stuff he likes to do. Mellowed him out. Acts like a kid most of the time.” “He can make all kinds of stuff, can't he? He'd get more customers and such if he'd find a shower now and then. But, hell, don't even hint at that with him or he gets real pissy,” said Psycho as he shook his head. “Oh, I know better. Seems like a kind old geezer, 9 but he damn near knocked me out the one time I mentioned his fragrance. Gotta go, man. See you 'round.” Blackie tossed Psycho another smoke and took off toward the waterfront. His long strides got him across the street from the ferry terminal in minutes, where he could smell the saltwater air and hear the seagulls squawking.
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