Stacey Sweet's Soroptimist, Extreme, Stopover.

When does philanthopy become indulgence?

Stacey Sweet’s Soroptimist, Extreme, Stopover.

 

 

Mrs. Stacey Sweet wass such a charming, fussy, well scrubbed lady.  No one could work it out how the Soroptimists managed to get her involved in such a crazy idea. How could such a well dressed, elegant, popular person even consider it? At sixty years of age she still kept some of her, pretty, flush of youth. Could it be true this house proud, fastidious housewife intended to spend a full night out doors, sleeping in a cardboard box? A box situated under the Railway Arches at Charing Cross?

 

Some say it was the oath taken during the Masonic style, Soroptimist, initiation ceremony that compelled her. Others thought it was the Swedish, ex hippy and most overwhelming of Soroptimists, Regional Director, Erma Hasvo (Pronounced Asbo), who drew Stacey into the, Human Rights obsessed, feminist, cult!  One said it was Soroptimist, Reverend Emily Ardent who willed Stacey by the Grace of God. Stacey’s husband suspected it was the force of her own fearsome, stubborn, temperament that drove her onwards.

 

Serving soup to the poor and homeless at 3am, everyone understood this kindness and supported it. To sleep in a down-and-out’s cardboard villa was quite another issue. Why it was common knowledge one of Stacey’s best stories described her hatred of camping in the Brownies and she smuggled a blow up mattress in the Girl Guide Tent. She knew very well how horrid the night would be. How undergoing this ghastly enterprise would help anyone empathise with the poor vagrants, her friends were at a loss to understand.

 

Stacey cared little for the political excess within the Soroptimists. She cared genuinely for her fellow human beings. She would go! She defied her detractors; to the task she would give her all.

 

Erma Hasvo drove the willing Stacey Sweet to Charing Cross to the Scoroptomist sponsored soup kitchen. Stacey was ready! She was aromatically bathed and powdered, warmly clad, mentally rigid for the night ahead.

 

Her Cardboard home for the night was a mere hundred metres away. The night after she would meet the owner of the cardboard house Mr. Ernie Compo. For this particular night Ernie had been housed in a local Travelodge. He was an ex soldier with mental problems who was considered low risk for the house swap exercise.

 

Ex Corporal Ernest Compo rested in his Travelodge Room. He was fresh and clean after using gallons of free hot water. He had washed his clothes too. He could get quite used to this cosy, settled, life! It was hard being a vagrant but the endeavour of surviving every day kept his mind from the blood and explosions that shook him in Iraq.

 

His parents kept his medals, what use were they to him now? Ernie knew that this hotel cost someone money and it was this fact that frightened him. How could he work with a temper that rose like a tempest and he bristled when others ordered him around. A temper worse still when he was patronised like a needy kitten. Medication gave him the terrors. Hospital was like prison.

 

 

Life in the Para troop Regiment had hardened him and taught him how to survive. Survival in the urban city, without a penny to his name, was now his life. The solitude and hard work of this life gave him peace of mind.

 

Mindful that a strange woman would occupy his cardboard home he felt bemused. Why she should do it he had no idea. He had left her his precious candle stub and clay plant pot. Use the lighted candle to get into bed. Then cover it with the tiny plant pot. This tiny device would keep her warm for hours. Surely anyone would understand that. It was a gift of survival he would lend her.

 

He lay replete after a large free meal. He became drowsy on his luxurious bed, random thoughts intruded. “I hope she doesn’t find that little breakfast that I hid. I will need that when I get out!” He drifted off to sleep. Tomahawk missiles exploded in his ears. Blood flowed in the street.

 

Stacey peered into the large cardboard box. It was larger than she thought and quite sturdy in its own way. It would be dry under the arches but the draft was cutting. She crawled into a pungent darkness. The aroma of men, feet and candle filled her nostrils.

 

“Damn! No matches or torch.” she whispered. “Anyway it would be far too dangerous to use naked lights,” she muttered. "No risk assessment seemed to have been done on this."  She would just have to feel around and make do!

 

 

“It’s Gods work!” the words of the Reverend Emily Ardent rang in her ears. Yet now they didn’t seem so comforting. “Yes here is the bed.” she mumbled. A long film of foam was spread on the floor of the box. “This would roll up into easily if the real occupant wanted to move house.” She tried to stop herself uttering silly thoughts. She had pressing things to do, like finding a way to survive the night.

 

 

Stacey ran her hands around the foam layer. “No top cover!” She would have to make do with her overcoat. “No pillow!” Probably just as well. She found a small stick of candle and she sniffed it. “Too dangerous for in here,” she pondered and slipped it into her handbag. In so doing Stacey promptly forgot about it.

 

It was chilly, very chilly. She put her booted feet to the cardboard entrance and flopped her body down.

There was a crunch and a splintering noise. “What on Earth was that?” She felt around, removing shards of pot, something she had just crushed. She scooped up the debris and twisting awkwardly deposited it outside the door. She lay back on the foam. The pavement hard as rock beneath her. City sounds wailed outside. She felt alone and vulnerable. Cold, cold and colder she became.

 

Minutes then hours ticked by. The hardness became unbearable. Stacey tossed and squirmed as the chill gripped and something bit! “A flea!” This dread she had banished from her mind or so she thought. Stacey Sweet hated the thought of fleas. She wanted to bolt for it! “Get out of here,” she blurted out loud and sat bolt upright!”

 

“It’s Gods work!” So returned the voice of the Reverend Emily Ardent.

“Piss off!” Stacey shouted out loud. Strange she hadn’t sworn out loud since she was a young girl.

 

Then came the sound of a buzzing midge drilling in her ear. "A midge bite not a flea bite," this felt marginally better. Something had stuck to her left elbow. Hard like sandpaper and greasy on top. She ripped if free and passed it rapidly out of the cardboard door. She plopped down hoping to yield to that irresistible urge, to sleep.

 

Stacey could not have known but she had just disposed of Ernie’s saved dry toast and jam. Soon,in the quiet of early morning, a silent, city dog-fox would wolf it down.

 

Numb with cold and her back racked with pain Stacey endured and endured that writhing night of agony. She cursed Erma Hasvo and the Reverend Emily Ardent and swore wrathfully at the Trent Region of British Soroptimists.

 

Just as sleep, at last, crept into her icy body came the call “Stacey, Stacey rise and shine! God’s work done! Pure and divine!”

“Emily ’bloody’ Ardent!” Stacey cringed and then, as good women do, she drew a wide eyed smile, across her freezing face.

“Morning, breakfast, hot water, clean clothes. at last,” she sighed.

 

 

The time came later for the event to reach its crescendo. Soroptimists Stacey Sweet, Erma Hasvo, (Regional Leader) and the Reverend Emily Ardent would meet to cluster around the owner of the Cardboard House. Ex Corporal Ernest Compo was ready on parade.

 

“There he is,” tweeted a beaming Emily. In a moment Ernie was surrounded and there was much clucking. “Oh I don’t know how you can do this every night, poor man,” crooned Erma

“I pray for you dear man,” chanted the Reverend thrusting a bowl of soup at the ashen faced Ex Corporal. Throughout this petting Stacey Sweet watched in silence. She felt bemused as the odd situation developed.

 

 

Then to the amazement and horror of the thee Soroptimists Ernie dashed the soup to the ground, scarlet with rage. “You stupid b*****s, look.” He pointed to the charred remains of his cardboard box.

 

“Dear man who has done this?” enquired the cleric, eyes bulging and head reeling.

“I did of course!” said Ernie crimson with fury. “Not only do you steal my candle and eat my breakfast but you break my clay plant pot. Where can I find another one of them? Worse still my cardboard box stank with hateful perfume. I could not get rid of it. I had to burn the lot. Damn you do-gooders! You are just like the rest of them.” Tears welled in his eyes. Stacey Sweet’s hackles rose!

 

Ernie walked slowly away, his glowering rage subsiding. He needed to scavenge a new home, heating system, bed and food.

 

Two Soroptimists blinked like Owls. Stacey Sweet marched off to catch Ernie. They would go for tea and and talk like adults. Mrs. Sweet had no idea what she could do to help.

 

She would talk to that damaged young man.  She would talk sincerely, human being to human being. Even if time and words were all she could offer she would do it. Good, loving women like Stacey Sweet do that sort of thing!

Author's Note

Sorry if this is too long. This work is in honour of a great lady!

Reviews

[Thurston]

It's funny...yes, your story is funny...but funnier is the feeling that you have a gift of style reminiscent of William Sydney Porter, or O'Henry as he is better known by to us.
Since this is a work of fiction, or conjecture based upon a theoritical situation, I revise my estimate of your ability to write fiction, as against your angst-inspired non-fiction, whether verse or prose.
I started with "It's funny" and finish thus: it's funny how you keep producing work using real life as grist for your mill, churning out startlingly different genres and modes, but each with a smile and a preach, Ronnie.

[Samuel Dickens]

Not too long, Ron. Not at all. I laughed aloud during the reading of this. The story was funny, but made much more so by your unique and appealing story-telling style. I loved it--really.

[little mermaid]

Ha ha Ron. A story based very loosly on fact. I hope Stacey and her fellows managed to raise awareness of the plight of this growing number of homeless people. Where were the press, the tv coverage, the people who might make a difference? Love your story telling.

[Cherrie Palmer]

Being homeless is a true epidemic the streets are filled with familes in need and lost souls without hope. This was a great story.

[Cherrie Palmer]

WONDERFUL STORY, you did a great job litting it unfold. Your characters were very delightful.