The Line Chaser

Part 2

Intrigued by Loretta and the secrets she was keeping, a pattern was established. Each morning like clockwork, Shipley sauntered into Well Grounded for a pour-over and a visit with his new friend. Months later, after he felt like their relationship had long since passed the stage of awkwardness, he casually asked about her brother again.

“You ever going to let me meet the guy who built all this? He’s a phenomenal talent, and I love connecting with people who have these kinds of skills.”

Loretta’s deep sigh left him wondering if she had any oxygen left in her lungs. She would look at him, then look away. She’d done this several times before venturing, “Ship, my brother’s been such a disappointment. He’s homeless, addicted to meth, and living on the streets of who knows where. The day he and his buddies showed up here wanting to make some extra money, I was so busy trying to get my shop opened that I never bothered to ask where he got all the materials. They were stolen, I suppose. I’m embarrassed to tell you I just let him finish out my space and then paid them to go away. Once or twice I’ve tried to find him. I’ve even asked around. But no luck. This has been a recurring pattern with him for years.”

Mechanically, Shipley pulled out his Wilson Jones journal and began making notes. Notes morphed into doodling. Thoughts, ideas, and a three-dimensional riddle permeated his brain. Here was a problem, bizarre as it was, and his love of architecture demanded a solution. But what? Drawing Loretta’s brother a house wasn’t going to wish the design into existence. Far away, the genesis of something radical in his mind was interrupted by—

“Ship, Ship! What are you drawing over there? Have I lost you?” Loretta asked. “What did I say that caused your mental departure from the Well Grounded Coffee Shoppe?”

He hadn’t been this stimulated since his heart attack. And the more he thought about homelessness, the more excited he became. After all these months, was he beginning to believe there really was a God in heaven? One who was nudging him to apply his talents for the greater good of many? Chortling, he refocused on Loretta. “I’ve been searching for some time now, and this may be it! I’m sorry, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. And something you just said caused me to suddenly have an epiphany.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help, but it looks like your notebook is covered in hieroglyphics. What all does it mean?” Loretta asked.

Gathering his things, Shipley leaned across the table, framed Loretta’s face with both hands, and said, “It means I’m on to something really big. You’ve given me a fabulous idea, and I’m out the door to pull the pieces of a gigantic puzzle together and see if I can make my idea work.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’ll tell you more when I get further down the road. But suffice it to say that you’ve given me a brand-new reason to live, and I must get busy to see if this is my new calling in life.”

As he scooched out the door, he glanced back to see Loretta sitting there in total silence with a quizzical look plastered on her face as if to say, What in the world just happened?

~

It had been years since Shipley Hewitt had made a color presentation to a city council. In his early years of designing municipal structures for a huge firm out of Kansas City, many an evening had been devoted to schmoozing the salient advantages of brilliantly colored renderings to a bored and weary panel of men and women whose votes he’d need for project approval. But he’d left that firm, trading long nights of council indecision for his own firm’s highly stylized homes, and clients who almost always made decisive decisions.

Yet this was completely different. Truth be told, in part he was trading on his national reputation to hold the ragtag bunch of Grand Bend councilmembers’ attention long enough to get any kind of consideration for his proposal. He hoped a brilliantly colored four-by-six site plan mounted on foam board and resting on an easel might help them capture his vision. Though he didn’t know it at the time, they weren’t the only ones who needed to capture the vision. Three conservatively dressed “suits” slipped into the back row, anxious to see what would happen next.

Stumbling from the beginning, Shipley quickly realized he’d forgotten how to be charming. His trusty sidekick, Loretta, was in the front row to his right, willing him confidence. “What holds this little community together is the one hundred twenty acres of farmland donated by the Bureau of Land Management for this project and the access the parcel has to a small tributary of the Arkansas River. This will allow one hundred acres to be fully irrigated. The overly rich soil will be able to grow all types of crops for the Farmhouse Store, all of which will be run by men and women who will work in exchange for both their dignity and their housing.

“Speaking of housing, I’ve sourced several types of durable structures that can easily be modified for habitation. Everything from leftover highway department box culverts, abandoned ocean-going containers, even an old thirty-three by twenty-one grain storage tank, which will be cut in half and modified for living. Water from the river will be captured, filtered, and stored in underground cisterns right here, there, and over here,” Shipley added, pointing to the site plan. “These will supply fully equipped restrooms with showers for the farmhands. And we’ll use the lowlands right over here to carry off waste into a septic field.

“The Department of Housing and Urban Development has already earmarked part of their budget for construction. As you can see, we’re currently working with several federal agencies to make this a viable prototype for use in other parts of the country. The Farm, located about ten miles outside of Grand Bend, will be the first of its kind in the United States. Rather than drone on about the virtues of our design, let me open up the floor for questions.”

Shipley looked at the faces of councilmembers seated around the horseshoe-shaped chamber table, noticing each was looking to the other as they tried to figure out who would speak first. A fluorescent light fixture above the chairman began flickering. Shipley wondered if this was an omen. The chairman cleared his throat, obviously trying to establish himself.

Finally, the older man with thinning hair and bulldog jowls peered through his square-framed glasses and asked, “And just exactly how many homeless people do you propose to house?”

“Our first phase will hold three hundred fifty people,” Shipley replied. “As time goes on, we hope to house maybe a thousand, adding in vocational training. Farm equipment needed to plant and harvest a hundred acres of fruits and vegetables will undoubtedly require lots of maintenance, so we’d like to teach our residents how to repair the machinery.”

His answer obviously stirred a question in the meek and withdrawn man to Shipley’s right. “Will all the homeless come from Kansas City? And how do you plan to rehabilitate them and their mental illness?”

Ship bristled at the insinuation, responding as politely as possible. “Not all homeless people have mental illnesses. Many are nothing more than down on their luck—for whatever reason—who have overstayed their welcome in the city’s homeless shelter. Social workers can quickly determine who needs help and who has been pushed so far into homelessness that they now struggle with mental issues.

“You’ll notice this facility is centrally located not only in the United States, but strategically between Kansas City, Denver, Omaha, Des Moines, Oklahoma City, and even Little Rock. The idea is to locate fertile areas, adjacent to sources of water, with moderate temperatures throughout the country and offer another opportunity for restoring dignity to the unfortunate. Each facility will be tightly managed so residents know this is a last chance. Rather than throw endless federal dollars at worthless programs for the disadvantaged, this will teach them marketable skills that can be used in a variety of ways. The Feds want to incorporate job placement services in every facility.”

“Sure seems like slave labor to me,” the prune-faced biddy hissed, her hair in a bun held together with a pencil, her reading glasses resting on the end of her nose.

Shipley took a deep breath before answering. “I can see how it might appear that way, but for someone tossed out on the street, their greatest need is a roof over their head. We can provide that in exchange for their labor, and a small stipend that’ll go in a bank account with only their name on it. That way, we’ll be able to teach them about money management while they build their resume. When they’re ready, most will be able to reacclimate back into society, while some of the really good ones will be offered management opportunities in similar facilities in other parts of the country. There’s a tremendous advantage in cross-pollinating those who have really applied themselves with those just coming in and looking for a short-term opportunity.”

Shipley hoped he was scoring points. Glancing at the nearly full chamber, he noticed three well-dressed men in the back row murmuring amongst themselves.

On the other side of the horseshoe, a middle-aged woman with flaming-red hair fidgeted. She was elegantly dressed in such a way that she didn’t appear to fit in with the others. “Um, excuse me,” she began. “I actually have two questions. What about drug and alcohol use? How do you plan to deal with that? And I’m a little uneasy about your plans for communal restrooms, so could you please explain that a bit more?”

Shipley smiled, knowing both areas were the weak links in his plan. “Great questions. You’re right! Both questions don’t have simple answers. Our research has shown that drug and alcohol use is prevalent amongst those who’ve been on the streets the longest. In many instances, it’s substance abuse that has put them on the street in the first place. There’s a hopelessness and loneliness to being beaten down day after day after day. Yet some have unwittingly fallen into drug and alcohol use just to pass the time, and they’re wanting out of the vicious cycle. Again, we’ll depend on social workers to help us figure out who the riskier ones are. This area over here”—Shipley pointed to the modified ocean-going container village—“is a bit out of the way from the other housing, and we’ll staff it with drug counselors who will assist in getting residents clean before we move them into the general population. Remember, this is their last chance, so they’ve got no other options but returning to the street.

“The restroom issue is an efficiency issue. If we have three hundred fifty rooms, we’ll need three hundred-fifty bathrooms. The cost of building all those bathrooms is exponential, to say nothing of the potential uncleanliness. So the thought is to bring water and sewer lines to several strategic locations, provide men’s and women’s facilities, and rotate the residents so everyone has bathroom-cleaning duty. It’ll be a little like the dining hall where everyone has to pitch in. In a communal setting, residents will once again have to learn how to get along with others.”

Most of the council members’ heads were now bobbing in unison. For Shipley, this was a small but necessary step toward reinventing a career that could potentially serve the masses while at the same time addressing a pressing national issue. A smile on Loretta’s face transmitted relief mixed with a sense of pride for having made the journey with Shipley into his unknown future. Celebration over the council’s seven to three vote of approval to move forward had Loretta leaping into his arms.

When Shipley turned around to pursue the three suits in the back row, they were gone.

That was odd, he thought.

~

Intermittent noise from the miter saw was competing favorably with the rat-tat-tat of the pneumatic finish nailer. Completion of the farmhouse kitchen trim would hopefully be done before the birth of Loretta and Ship’s first child, a little girl. Her brother, Travis Haynes, once again had his merry men cooking up a room full of sawdust necessary to produce nearly flawless work. Only this time it wasn’t a cash grab-and-go like last time.

“Travis, once again you’re turning out incredible work. You taking ownership of The Farm?” Shipley teased.

“Ever since you and sissy found me on the streets of Denver and told me what you guys were up to, I think I may have found my calling,” Travis shared. “Been clean now for two years, six months, and three days. Not that I’m counting or anything.” The smile on his face told the whole story. “Hey, who are these guys walking up the drive?”

These were familiar faces to Shipley and Loretta. Thomas Perkins, Orlando Clarke, and Henry Owens had become known as “the three musketeers” ever since their hasty exit from the Grand Bend City Council Chambers the night the project was approved. They’d snuck in on behalf of the Department of Housing and Urban Development to see Shipley’s presentation and how it was received by both the council and citizens. Three more farmhouses in different areas of the United States were green-lighted before the musketeers made it back to Washington. They’d worked closely with Loretta and Shipley ever since.

“When are we getting some residents?” Orlando quipped. “Your tax dollars at work, you know.”

Shipley helped Loretta to her feet, wrapped her arm through his, and walked the Washington contingent to the nearest window. “See those plowed fields way over there?” he asked. “They didn’t plow or seed themselves. We’ve already got forty-eight onsite. One is even a mechanic, but their housing wasn’t quite ready. So if you’ll look over there, you’ll see two big tents: one for the men, and one for the women. Those restrooms are finished, so they were happy to rough it a little bit in exchange for eventually picking their own room. We’ve already got some sprouts.

“Orlando, I had eight residents stop me just yesterday to thank us for giving them another chance. Loretta reminded them it wasn’t us who gave them another chance; it was God. She may have been talking to them, but subtly she was reminding me. Lying in that hospital bed after my heart attack, I heard God’s voice saying it wasn’t me who’d won fame and fortune for my award-winning designs. He is the Great Designer. Besides all of this”—his hand surveyed the horizon—“God gave me the talent to help others. And thanks to you guys, this is what Loretta and I want to do for the rest of our days.”

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