Life

A homeless man who recycles bottles and cans for street survival finds more than he bargains for!

No one bothered the scraggly-looking man with the unkempt beard and tattered clothing; they barely noticed his mere existence.

He poked around the alleyway searching for bottles and cans just as he did every few days.

Poor career choices and too much drink had rendered Robinson Fage homeless.  Handouts, shelters and selling his findings assisted in a bit more tolerable street life.

Rubbing arthritic knuckles, Robinson’s knees popped as he stooped behind a wooden crate.  He gathered root beer bottles, beer cans and Sprite cans.  Wiping grime on his shirt, Robinson deposited the collection into his faded Duffle bag.

As he stood and adjusted his ball cap, Robinson heard the sound.

“Damn cats.”  He’d been scratched many times and even bitten by a mangy stray.

Ignoring the mewling, Robinson limped along, picking through discarded items.  He’d return later and take some of the bigger, nicer things to the pawn shop.

Rheumy, hazel eyes toward the sky, the man felt the first drops of cold rain slap his face.

The mewling now reverberated loudly, like a jackhammer bouncing off the walls of the crumbling buildings.

“Damn cat must be sick.”  Robinson ducked his head and ambled on.

Stopping at the Dumpster halfway down the alley, the silver-haired man placed his bag on the damp ground, preparing to crawl into the junk and gunk.  He’d found many a bottle and can this way.

The mewling turned to a wail that curdled Robinson’s blood.  Fright washed over him.  Raindrops came faster, harder, colder.

Peeking over the Dumpster’s rim, Robinson gasped at the newborn babe, wrapped in a pink blanket, lying atop a mound of garbage.

“Lordy!  Who’d throw away a baby?”

Standing on tip-toe, Robinson gathered the baby girl into his arms.  He sang lullabies from long-ago, happier days until her anguished cries ceased.

Robinson dodged puddles, boxes and moldy lumber.  He had to get the infant to a hospital or police station.  As he scanned the vehicles on the main thoroughfare, the baby sneezed.  He had to get her out of this weather!

Then he saw the black and white sitting at the signal light several cars away.

Half-skipping, half-running, Robinson held the child tighter.  As he tapped on the car’s window, the burly driver grasped a holstered gun.

“No, no, don’t shoot!  I found this baby!”

A kind Sergeant John Kaley allowed Robinson to ride along to the nearest hospital.  The homeless man’s worry, compassion and fear for the little girl was quite evident.

Tests and x-rays showed the baby to be approximately twelve hours old and healthy, save a scrape along her left forearm.

Word spread to the media and reporters found Robinson Fage pacing the waiting room.

“I’ve one request, that she be named Asha, after my precious daughter.  It means Life.”

**********

Asha Whitaker hung up the phone.  “Adoption’s our only chance; the doctor’s just confirmed.”

Turning on the Channel 4 News, the woman’s hazel eyes teared.

“Nash, let’s get to Hoskins Memorial.  I’ve finally found my Daddy!”

Author's Note

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