Story 22: Saint Anselm

Anselm knew the truth about life. It was purgatory. Not metaphorically but literally. The inhabitants of the world were in purgatory. That place in between heaven and hell meant for expiatory purification. A place of extreme torment but not a place of permanent torment. The torment would end once the exiles had atoned for their sins. It was a mystery to Anselm why the rest of the world could not see the world for what it really was. One had only to look around. To consider. To reflect on the nature of the human condition. A condition that could only be described as tortuous. Anselm thought not just of the wars, the massacres, the murders, the rapes, the child abuse and the domestic violence. To name but a few of the atrocities that defined the state of the world. No. The state of purgatory was given in the general malaise that defined the day to day lives of the vast majority of people. Not all. But the majority. They suffered from ennui without having the slightest clue that their postmodern condition was one of existential boredom. The reason. They distracted themselves without end. The worst distraction of all being giving birth to offspring. Their progeny. Doomed to live lives no more fulfilling than the lives of their erstwhile parents. Anselm shuddered at the thought of adults so stupid that they gave birth to children doomed to repeat the lives that they themselves had lived. Because repetition defined the human condition. Children destined to make the same mistakes as their parents. Children who would amount to no more, but possibly less, than their parents. It was such an utterly pointless cycle. And there was nothing to be done. Because the clever academic philosophers had defined truth out of existence. And having played their academic games, only to find that truth was rather important, they had found no way to restore truth to its rightful place. Ontology and metaphysics were no more. Morals were relative and, in theory at least, one could do as one pleased. There was only the immediate fact of the world that confronted its denizens. And that truth, which could not be a truth, was too much to bear. Anselm returned in his mind to the obvious fact of the masses embracing any means of distraction. But that was not the real reason that his words fell on death ears. The conditions of postmodern discourse meant that he could no longer be heard. His language was a lost language, a language that had once had meaning. Meaning. In the very distant past. In the time of the prophets perhaps. But not now. Now his words, if impossibly heard, would likely lead to the label of being mentally unwell and he would find himself locked away until he could behave in a way that would see him fitting into society and functioning alongside the so called sane folk.

Anselm raised his head. His eyes level with the legs of the passers by who, for the most part, ignored yet another homeless person begging for money. Occasionally someone would throw a few coins into his plastic cup. It cost them nothing. Not really. And it served to salve their minds. Every now and then, once or twice a day, someone would stop to engage him in conversation. Anselm hated these times because the  concern of these people was not a real concern. How could it be? There was perhaps a touch of sympathy but no empathy. No real understanding of what it was like to beg every day in the hope of making the twenty five dollars that would secure him a hostel room for the night. No. The emotions were faux emotions, an attempt to relate that always came across as contrived. Anselm counted the money in his cap. Eight dollars and ten cents. It was nearly four O'clock and the hostel would be full by six O'clock. Such were the numbers of homeless people living across the city. Anselm was facing another night of sleeping under a bridge. Or in a shop doorway if he was not moved on by the police. His sleep would not be real sleep. Not deep sleep. It would be the sleep of a man who had to be ready to defend himself. There were the drunks who kicked and punched the homeless just for sport. Then were the other homeless souls who would steal anything of value at a moments notice. A sleeping bag, a blanket, food, money. Anything that would make life a little easier. If only for a short while. Anselm continued to beg late into the night making another twenty dollars, mostly from drunks who had trouble knowing just what they were giving him. Drunks. All that bonhomie. Sometimes directed at Anselm. Just before midnight Anselm gathered up his belongings, folded up his sleeping bag and headed for a well known bridge where, for the most part, a harmless homeless community set up camp for the night so that they might all be safe. Anselm found a spot adjacent to the supporting beams. He unrolled his sleeping bag , slid inside and hugged the bag to keep in the warmth that he would generate. Anselm drifted into a fitful sleep, conscious of the city night noises, the roar of the cars passing overhead, the blare of the horns from the passing ships and the heated arguments that erupted as newcomers tried to squeeze themselves into spaces that were too small. A city at night. Quiet for only an hour. That hour between all the drunks going home and the city setting itself up for the day that would follow. Lorries delivering produce to the cafes. The first trains trundling along the tracks. The garbage trucks cleaning up the mess of the night before. Ferries chugging into life and pulling into piers, poised to transport the early morning commuters across the bay to the financial district.

Anselm was, as always in the winter months, bone cold despite the protection that the sleeping bag was meant to offer. He slid out of cocooned semi-warmth and stretched to get his aching muscles in motion. Anselm had the money that he had  made the night before and so he headed to a McDonalds, one of the few places that would serve him. There would be looks from the other customers, often looks of disdain, but nothing would be said. He would also be able to use the toilets including a sink to wash his face and hands with hot soapy water. And McDonalds would be warm, a place to sit until the coldness of the night before truly left his body. After breakfast, Anselm headed to a well known corner, dubbed "Speaker's Corner" by the locals because, over time, the spot had attracted the more vocal of the cities inhabitants. Those who believed that they had something to say, something that the world should hear. Anselm ruminated. His words about purgatory would once again fall on deaf ears with the vast majority of people not even noticing his oratory. And those who did notice would look away, pretending to have not seen him in case he approached them., in case he invaded their personal space. The corner was unoccupied and the wooden soap box was in place which was nothing short of miraculous after a city night filled with drunken revelers. Anselm set his belongings down and climbed on to the soap box. He stood for minutes, not speaking. Just watching the people pass by. Nearly all of them staring intently at their phones as they walked along the street. Zombies addicted to social media. Leading an attenuated social life that left them feeling alone and isolated. Smiley face. Smiley face. My life is OK. I  have friends. People talk to me. Talk. No, it was not talk. Social media words were surface words. There was no depth, no discourse, and nothing ultimately genuine about living out a digital presence. Five hundred friends on FaceBook none of whom would lift a finger should one of their friends actually be in need of help.  Anselm wondered if he might speak on that very subject. Telling people that there lives were ultimately empty, that despite being more connected than any age in history, people actually felt completely disconnected from the world and from other people.  The irony. Anselm would not be heard because the intended audience would be too intent on scanning their phones to pay any attention to him. Anselm continued to ponder the question of the subject for his delivery. Not the loneliness of social media. Something else. Perhaps he would  get straight to the heart of the matter and speak on the fact of purgatory, telling people what they did not want to hear. The fact of their ultimately empty lives and the fact of their still being in the world as the singular result of being able to ignore their emptiness and loneliness. Yes. Purgatory would be the subject of the day. A good Old Testament Prophet kind of oration to pierce the indifference of the masses and wake them up to the need to atone for their sins before they could pass from this existence to the next.

Anselm surveyed the crowd once more and then commenced to deliver his words. He spoke at length, and with great conviction, about the purgatorial lives that were being lived out on earth. He talked about the need for atonement, for living fully conscious lives dedicated to undoing the sins of the past. And then there would be salvation for those who purged themselves of their past deeds. And so it was. Anselm, a voice in the wilderness, preaching to the passers by who paid him no heed. Because they did not have the ears to listen. After an hour Anselm stopped. He climbed down from the soap box, collected his belongings and walked to a city center spot where begging had been good to him in the past. There, he laid out his belongings, sat cross legged and placed his begging cup in front of him. Seven hours to make the twenty five dollars for the hostel. Every day the same. Clinging on to hope in the face of extreme adversity. With the hours stretching ahead of him Anselm had the time to think. And so he thought. Gabriel had been absent for weeks. Leaving him to his own devices. Leaving him to fend for himself. And as for Lucifer. Well, not often seen but clearly at work doing everything within his power to ensnare people in the immediacy of their lives. Anselm thought that perhaps there had been a time when it had been harder for Lucifer to beguile the masses. A time when it had been necessary to put in some effort. But that time was no more. Lucifer's job had become easy. Far too easy. Anselm. Head still bowed, heard the sound of coins dropping into his cup. He thanked the person whom he could not see. "Do you no longer hold up your head?" asked Gabriel. Anselm looked up. And there was Gabriel resplendent in a three piece suit. "You've been gone for weeks," said Anselm. "Gone, but I did not forget you," said Gabriel. "Why are you here?" asked Anselm. "We'll get to that in a moment," said Gabriel. "You know that Lucifer has won," said Anselm. "I know that the eternal battle for human souls continues. Lucifer does what Lucifer does and we do what we do. The outcome is not yet certain," said Gabriel. "It seems certain to me," said Anselm. "These people cannot escape. They are too caught up in their empty lives. They no longer see." "Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, the battle is not yet over," said Gabriel. "Tell me why you are here," said Anselm.  "In a few minutes someone will walk towards you. They will pull out a gun and start shooting into the crowd. People will die," said Gabriel. "Why are you telling me this?" asked Anselm. "Because you are going to stop it before it happens. You will know the man when you see him and you will do what is necessary," said Gabriel. Anselm, weary from the world. "To save a few lives," said Anselm. "Yes to save a few lives but perhaps there will be more. We shall see," said Gabriel. "I suppose that you will be leaving now," said Anselm. "Yes, I have to go but I am always present with you," said Gabriel. "There are times, too many times when that is small comfort," said Anselm. Gabriel turned and walked away, quickly becoming lost in the crowd.

Gabriel had been right. Anselm spotted the gunman with ease. A man where army fatigues with the gun bulging under his shirt. Anselm stood, invisible to the man. Just another homeless person. The man reached under his vest and pulled out the gun. No one noticed. Anselm braced himself and charged headlong at the man, the impact sending them both sprawling across the pavement. People noticed but thought that it was just a crazy homeless person who had got into a fight. Anselm wrestled with the man, trying to take away the gun before he could pull the trigger.  A shot was fired, the bullet shattering a shop window. People began to stare, not quite sure what was happening. There was another shot and this time the bullet found a target. "Gun, gun, he's got a gun," screamed a woman. People panicked, running in all directions, taking refuge in stores and behind parked vehicles. Anselm continued to fight but he was not strong enough to pull the gun from the man's hand. And so he bit into the man's hand, sinking his teeth into the man's flesh and ripping away skin. The man shrieked and relinquished his hold of the gun. Anselm grabbed the gun and threw it into the gutter. "Help me," shouted Anselm. Only one man moved. Tall, well built, attired in gym gear. He ran over to Anselm and helped to pin the man down. The man continued his struggle but could not get free. "Keep him down," said Anselm. "The police will get here." Minutes later the a police van screeched to a halt and six policeman jumped out. They wrenched the gunman from the ground, handcuffed him and threw him into the back of the police van. "Everyone stay where you are," said one of the policemen. "We'll need to get statements from you all." Anselm tried to slip away into the crowd but he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. "You'll need to come with us to the station. The same goes for you," said the policeman pointing at the man who had helped Anselm. A police car arrived to take them both to the police station. "You two have saved a lot of lives," said one of the policemen. "Good on you. Wish there were more like you." Anselm spent hours at the police station, answering questions about how he had spotted the man, when he had seen the gun, what happened when he tackled the man. Anselm told a version of the truth. Not the version that included Gabriel turning up to tell him what was going to happen. Because that version would likely see him detained for far longer than he wanted to be detained. The question of being a witness in court came up. Anselm really had no choice but to agree. The difficulty was how he might be contacted. No fixed abode. No postal address. No phone. Anselm would have to report to a police station once a week until the matter was concluded. Finally, he was free to go. It was already early evening and he made no money and so would spend another night under the bridge. Anselm sat down on the police station steps to gather his thoughts. But before he could do so, Gabriel appeared.

The two sat in silence for several minutes. "So you were right," said Anselm. "I'm always right. It comes with the territory," said Gabriel. "My protector," said Anselm. "Among other things," replied Gabriel. "You know I didn't make any money today," said Anselm. "No, you just saved a lot of lives," said Gabriel, smiling in mock amusement. "And I have to report here once a week until the trial is over," said Anselm. "The trial," said Gabriel. "I wonder what you will say," said Gabriel. "Exactly what I said today," said Anselm. "No mention of me then," said Gabriel. "No, I'd like to remain free so no mention of you," said Anselm. "Very well. The choice is yours. I'll see you when I see you," said Gabriel. "As esoteric as always," replied Anselm. Gabriel stood up and headed down the steps, waving over his shoulder as he disappeared into the rush hour crowd. Anselm headed once again for the bridge where he followed the ritual of the night before. Anselm was drifting into sleep when a bright light pierced the darkness. He opened his eyes and squinted, not able to see anything. "Channel Seven News. I'm Rebecca. We hear you're quite the hero." "How did you find me," asked Anselm. "Oh it wasn't difficult. We got your description from the police station and there's only a few places where the homeless go to sleep," said Sandy. "What do you want?" asked Anselm. "We just want to talk to you to get your side of the story," said Sandy. Anselm considered for a moment. All those days spent on his soap box and no one ever listened to him. Now he had the chance to be on television. "Alright, I'll tell you what happened," said Anselm. "Marvelous. Let's just put this microphone on you and then off you go," said Sandy. Anselm recounted the story in its entirety including the visitation from Gabriel who battled for the souls of the lost. He talked about purgatory and the need for atonement and about people's indifference to the world in which they lived. "That was quite some story," said Sandy as Anselm concluded his tale. "That's how it was," said Anselm. "Well I don't know about that but it will make great news. We'll be broadcasting it tonight," said Sandy. "I shall have to take your word for it," said Anselm. "Televisions are a rare commodity amongst the homeless." "Point taken. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us," said Sandy. "No problem. I'm going to go back to sleep now," said Anselm. "Nutty as a fruit cake," said Sandy to her cameraman. We'll edit out the crazy parts and leave the account of what happened. It's a good human interest story and people will think about the homeless for a while. It will make them feel good about themselves." "Agreed," said the cameraman. They guy should probably be in an institution. At leas there he'd have a bed and he'd be looked after." "Not our problem. You know how it is. Government funding cuts. More mentally unwell people than they know what to do with. Maybe we could do another story about that. Trouble is that people don't really care that much. They get bored of hearing about homeless people. No. This will do."