Hobo Smorgasbord

When la Confrerie takes on the homeless issue, Chance and Edgar find themselves doing charitable work in a peculiar fashion...even for Wingmen.

 In a nameless café in Stockholm, Sweden – 1993

 

“It’s a suicide mission, Frenchman,” I said quietly, as I raised my head so I could meet his eyes below the brim of my hat.

 

“Chance, do not be overly dramatic. This is Sweden. Nobody gets killed in this country. I believe it is in their constitution.”

 

“Career suicide, Edgar. This mission has a zero chance of success.”

 

The waitress brought us two more pints of beer. I momentarily diverted my eyes to her. She was stunningly beautiful. So was the barmaid. In fact, every woman in this café was ridiculously gorgeous. This was Sweden. It is an indisputable law that every woman in Scandinavia has to be a flawless beauty. It isn't fair to the rest of the world, but nothing ever is. You just have to deal with it.

 

“Does the great Chance Ransom believe that he cannot accomplish a mission? I must start to scan the skies to make certain that lightning does not strike me.” He didn’t actually look up. Instead, he shifted his unlit cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other.

 

I pulled out a pack of Marlboros. There was a time when smoking an American cigarette in Europe would have been a really bad tell for an undercover Wingman, but American cigarettes were de rigueur in Europe these days. I did miss Pall Malls, though. I still held the butt like a European, between the index and middle fingers. It didn’t pay to broadcast my identity as an American. Besides, I’d lived in so many places by this time, who knew what I was.

 

What had brought us to this little Swedish pub was an initiative from the Director. He had been moved by a documentary that he had seen about the homeless. In a memorandum that he drafted to the entire la Confrerie, he had declared that, “Our Brotherhood can no longer stand by and see the ranks of homeless men around the globe endure forced celibacy. La Confrerie will do anything in our power to end this crisis.”  He pounded the podium with the heel of a shoe like Khrushchev. Seriously? Okay, I wasn’t there, I had just read the memo.  But I wouldn’t put it past him.

 

Like most of you, I was unaware that the biggest threat facing homeless people was the lack of sex, and not more immediate survival considerations like starvation and unemployment.  Try to keep in mind that we are a brotherhood of Wingmen. We have to play to our strengths, I suppose.

 

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just hire hookers for these hobos like every other Wingman is doing? We could be on to our next mission already.” 

 

The Frenchman ignored the question. I knew the answer. It was that ugly monster that pursues each of us until our untimely demise leaves just an empty coat and a headless hat: ego. Ego is not exclusive to our profession, but it is endemic among our breed.

 

The mission parameters involved us taking five homeless men from across Europe and introducing them into a high society function. As if passing them off wasn’t enough, the evening had to culminate in a successful conclusion with five socialites. “Successful conclusion” is Wingman speak for intercourse. We like to use pretty words to mask the perversion of our profession.

 

The men were mostly Western European, between the ages of 25 and 40. They were neither classically handsome nor repulsively ugly. They all drank heavily. None were mentally ill, which was a huge plus. They lacked proper grooming and there was a terrific stench emanating from each of them. To make matters worse, because this was a pro bono assignment, la Confrerie had only provided us with a week’s prep time and a shoestring budget. They couldn’ t afford two of their top tier Wingmen to be out of work for too long, Director’s initiative notwithstanding. There was no mistaking that this was going to be a two-man job.  

 

Edgar said he had a plan, so I bought into it sight unseen. I owed him a dozen times over, so my involvement was predetermined by my obligation. He pitched his proposal in Marseilles. He had been both forceful and elegant. He received approval to start tout de suite. Now, sitting at the café at the precipice of this disaster, I was starting to ponder other vocations.

 

“Do you think that I could be a haberdasher?” I had no interest in that line of work, but it seemed safe.

 

“Are you ready to stop with your American whining and learn our plan? Haberdasher? Could you not have made up something real?” Condescending b*****d. Any negative quality that he deemed I possessed he dubbed with the adjective “American.” I would argue about it some other time. The clock was ticking.

 

He passed a dossier to me. Wingmen love their dossiers. Inside there were black and white photos of five men. Each sheet was split into three photographs. There was a face shot, a profile shot, and full length. I think he put the better ones at the top on purpose, but even in the bar’s murky lighting, the collection was a bit difficult to look at.

 

“Edgar, these men are pretty rough looking.” I genuinely felt bad for these broken souls, but I was also trying to be practical.

 

“What do you see in these photos?”

 

I didn’t know what he meant, so I tried to see past the images and look inside of the men. “They have no confidence. Some look drunk. They look disappointed, like there is no hope.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor Zhivago. I was not asking you to play a psychologist.” I let the odd reference go. “Yes, they are sad. The world is sad. They are homeless, but they are European homeless.”  

 

“I’m not following.”

 

“Think, Chance. Who are the most popular people in Sweden?”

 

“Easy. Expatriated draft dodgers and … my God, Edgar, artists!”

 

“Exactament. There is a hope for you. Now let us go meet our charges.”

 

I threw a 200-krona note on the table and we walked toward a rented condo off Torsgatan. Edgar had made the temporary living arrangements. We could have never gotten these men into our hotel in their present condition.

 

When I stepped into the foyer, I felt as though someone had thrown a bag of rotting fish over my head. In Sweden, fish-bagging was not all that uncommon. Since I could still see, I knew that was not what had occurred. Besides, I’d been fish-bagged a time or two so I knew the signs. The men all stood up. There were a few empty bottles of Absolut sitting on the table. Edgar’s voice assumed that icy pitch that always sent a chill down my spine when it was directed towards me. “Where did you get this?”  No one said anything. “Do not talk all at once.” The hair on the back of my neck began to stand up. I hadn’t heard that exact tone since Wingman Camp.

 

A drunk German by the name of Helmut answered, “F**k off, Frenchy.” It may have been my imagination, but I believed that I could actually smell his words. Whatever the case, Edgar provided his usual response when addressed in this manner. Helmut wouldn’t have time to contemplate his mistake. In a few hours, he would be fine. The Frenchman was careful not to break any bones or damage his genitals. That would have been counterproductive. Just a very painful blow to the solar plexus followed by a downward strike to the base of the skull.  

 

When Helmut regained consciousness, Edgar would have to repeat the rules. In the meantime, he explained them to the remainder of the men.  There would be no drinking up to the event. The men were not permitted to leave the condo without one of us. They would adhere to a prescribed diet designed to cleanse their odiferous pores. They could smoke three cigarettes a day. They would exercise. There was no hope of getting them in shape in a week, but they needed to sweat out the stink of the streets, and it would build their confidence. The rest we would make up as we went along.

 

Over the next week, I would find Edgar referring to a small black notebook. He was a meticulous sort and some of his greatest conquests had been achieved only through careful planning. This apparently would be no different. God is in the details, my friend. He tried to drill that into my head, but I was more of a shoot from the hip kind of Wingman…and, by the way, I don’t believe in God.

 

I never saw what was written in the book, but it must have said things like: “Have Chance wake the hobos up by 5:00 a.m.”  “Have Chance make them dinner while I smoke abnormally small cigars.”  “Have Chance take them shopping.”  I put my foot down on that one. It wasn’t the fact that they were hobos. Well, not entirely, anyway. As a Wingman, I abhorred attention. When do six adult men ever go shopping together? I took their sizes with a measuring tape and headed out.

 

Under normal circumstances, I would pay a visit to an upscale men’s clothier and select suitable attire for the event: suits, sports coats, riding habits - whatever the occasion called for. To pass these men off as artists, I went to a consignment store that specialized in military surplus from the former USSR. Now that the actual threat of the Soviet Union had been eradicated, the Swedes loved their Commies. Some sort of romantic vision of the past, I suppose. I didn’t really have to understand it. I just had to recognize it and exploit it to our advantage. 

 

Of course, I couldn’t have them all dressed in this type of garb. I didn’t want to come off as though the Red Army had invaded a Swedish cocktail party.  Nevertheless, this would be a significant advantage for a few of the men. The rest o f their clothes came from a laundromat. I gave the attendant 1,000 krona to let me sift through unattended driers.  I also threw a generous amount of krona into the plundered machines. I looked at it as an involuntary sale rather than a theft. I hate thieves.

 

I took everything to a local dry cleaner. I didn’t know if the condo was equipped with an ironing board, but I hadn’t actually done laundry since Wingman Camp and I wasn’t about to start now.

 

By the third day, the men had fallen into a forced routine. They had no time to think about the good old days of being homeless. They would rise at 0500 hours. They would shower and dress and be at the breakfast table by 0530. They would dine on fruits and grainy bread and drink several bottles of water each.

 

From there, they would go into a cleared-out room and alternate between a jump rope, an old treadmill, and a weight machine. The workout pace was slow. They were slovenly. They grumbled under their breath, but Edgar had been specific about the consequences.  Failure to obey orders would result in immediate dismissal.

 

To my surprise, not one of them seemed to want to quit.  

 

To aid in the purification, they would rinse off after their workout and spend some time in the sauna. Yes, it is true that every residence in Sweden is equipped with a sauna. Edgar and I didn’t use it. The walls were tainted with the street sweat of the homeless men. I doubted that it would be serviceable for years after, but they loved it.

 

This routine would be repeated after lunch and then dinner. Before going to bed, we would train them to act like artists. This was the easiest part, because their behavior was already pretty damned close. That may be because so many artists endeavor to achieve the look and affectations of homeless people.

 

On the third night, Edgar assembled everyone in the living room and pulled out his notebook. He lit up a cheroot and took a long drag before he began to speak. “You men are not the forgotten children of society. You have no one to blame for your pathetic states except for yourselves.” A long pause, and then in a louder voice,  “Yet Chance and I will put our entire professional reputations on the line so you can have a glimpse into a life that you will never know. When this is over, you will never see us again. We are not your friends and you are not our equals. I want you to know this because I do not want you laboring under the misconception that we will ever be a resource for you again. You came to us with nothing and you will leave with nothing.” He put the cigar back in his mouth and looked around the room.  “Any questions?”

 

Sergy, a Hungarian who spoke little English, began to clap until he saw Helmut shake his head.

 

Remarkably, the men were not at all dejected by this. They still had five days with a roof and meals. They had become used to a life of survival. A week's furlough from the constant struggle exceeded their expectations. I respected them for that. I told myself that if one man rose above his condition as a result of our efforts, we would have achieved something. I wasn’t holding out too much hope, though. They weren’t in this state because of things that had happened to them. Their condition was because of who they were.  

 

In the next few days, the stench of the men began to fade until the worst odor in the house came from Edgar’s ashtray. Their complexions were clearing. They were shuffled to dentists two at a time to bring their mouths into serviceable condition. Hair and nails went from atrocious to passable. For a dry run, we took them to Prins Eugen's Waldemarsudde Art Museum and set them free for a few hours. Edgar and I kept a loose surveillance on them to make sure that no one tried to slip out for a drink.

 

I was walking through a hall when I heard Helmut speaking English with a thick German accent. I caught a few of the “artist words” that Edgar had taught him, “…brave…powerful…bold... .” I assumed that it was all nonsense, of course, delivered in a gruff voice. He didn’t know a thing about the painting, but at the end, I saw a fortyish Swedish woman writing her number down on a piece of paper.

 

She turned and walked past me without taking notice. In a glance, I could see that he had moved her. The signs were invisible to the untrained, but a Wingman can usually spot them. What was more remarkable was that Helmut was the least promising of the five. I would have shed a tear of pride had I not had a Wingman’s mastery of my tear ducts. My boys were ready.

 

The event to which Edgar had fraudulently obtained invitations for the seven of us was an after party for the Nobel Awards. Like most people on the planet, I didn’t think about the Nobel Prizes until after they were awarded and I was reading about it in the paper. In Sweden, a country that rarely generates news that makes it to the world stage, the Nobel Awards were the event of the year.

 

Our benefactor was a wealthy Swedish Nobely – a person obsessed with the Nobel Prizes. He had spared no expense. He also spared no amount of brute force in his vicious attack on good taste. If you were to happen upon the Grand Hotel Stockholm that night, you would assume that the affair was being held in the lobby. The theme of the lobby was Peace. The staff was dressed as beatniks from the 60s or 70s – I could never tell the difference. There were enormous lava lamps, beads, peace symbols, and happy faces. The oddest thing was the presence of a large bong-shaped machine that filled the room with the smell of cannabis. Not real grass, just a cannabis-like odor. Weird.

 

However, the actual party was occurring on the top floor of the Stockholm. It was an enormous penthouse that possessed all of the gaudy appointments and opulence to which I had become accustomed as a Wingman. The room had a balcony with a view of the majestic Royal Palace. Well, the view was majestic. The palace looked like a birthday cake without the candles. A birthday cake possessing some sort of disappointing flavor. 

 

The hobos had received a crash course in l'indifférence, the Wingmen’s art of exhibiting a lack of interest. But these men were anything but indifferent. They were angry. It was understandable. The five of them could live out the rest of their lives on the money that was spent on this event.   

 

Like most pretentious events, this one tried too hard. Our host made the common mistake of assuming that a bloated budget would result in a sophisticated yet decadent event. The party consumed half of the entire top floor of the luxury hotel. Through the magic of curtains and partitions, the floor was sectioned off to allow for multiple themes: Chemistry, Physics, Literature, Medicine, and Economics. Peace had been covered in the lobby. Each section had its own beautiful staff appropriately costumed to match the corresponding theme. Medicine and Chemistry shared several incredibly beautiful blonde dancers with short tight lab coats. The drinks were served in small beakers, test tubes and, yes, occasionally a graduated measuring cylinder.

 

In Economics, the women wore pinstriped business suits – also short and tight. The glassware, however, was conventional. In Literature, they looked like the kind of sultry librarians that you only see in music videos and pornography but never in an actual book repository. Physics was a bit bizarre. I suppose with the laboratory theme already allocated to Chemistry and Medicine, they were at a bit of a loss, so they had the dancers and staff dressed like very sexy versions of Sir Isaac Newton, complete with floppy hats and very short Renaissance garb. It was weird, but perfect-looking women tend to add a bit of dignity to the most atrocious of costumes. The cups were these absurd, hollowed-out blown glass apples.

 

Each of the themed areas had equal access to one of the most elegant smorgasbords on which I’d ever laid eyes. That part they had gotten right.

 

I will have to admit that I didn’t understand any of the advancements in the fields of science for which the laureates had received their awards. As a Wingman, I had received training in the sciences, but it was field specific. None of their work applied to my art. It was of no consequence, since no one from my field would ever be celebrated in this manner.

 

Our intelligence said that no one but the Peace and Literature laureates ever got celebrity treatment. Peace was shared by two men who had obligations in East Timor, and the poet that won Literature had to attend another engagement. That was good news for my crew. Even though those laureates only totaled three in number, their presence would have made the competition for women problematic. That is not to stay that there wasn’t a fair number of various glitterati in attendance, but their presence was expected and they were not the ones being fêted. They were incidental.

 

If I had to describe the tone of the evening, I would have to say "predictable."  If asked about the mood of the guests, I would say "bored." This did not bode well. Edgar looked particularly annoyed as he sipped a single malt scotch from a beaker. “What a garish travesty. The advance reports were wrong.”

 

Our homeless transformees took it all in, studying the lay of the land before acting. It was just like we had shown them. Finally, it was Sergy that made the first move. He edged his way to a beautiful Asian woman that was standing toward the inner fringes of Literature. I nudged the Frenchman slightly as we watched him brush past her and make his way to a platter of oysters on the half shell.

 

“What just happened? Was that a move? Did he speak to her?”

 

“No, Edgar.  I think he’s just hungry. You’ve had them on that bizarre diet all week.” At that point, all of our charges broke ranks and loaded up on savories. I feared that all was lost as bits of foie gras, caviar, and shellfish flew through the air, causing more than one partygoer to shield his or her face. I had never seen anything like it. The guests looked on in horror as I thought, “So this is how the brilliant careers of Edgar the Frenchman and Chance Ransom end, in a disgusting cloud of delicacies.”

 

Some of the guests started to laugh a bit. A few of the other guests joined into the savage feeding frenzy. Edgar saw it first. A shiny razor thin sliver of hope. “Do you see it?” Softly spoken at first, and then louder.  “Do you see it? They are bored. The guests are bored and they love this.” It was rare to see the Frenchman actually show anything other than emotional detachment, but it seemed as though he was not entirely displeased.

 

“Yes. But the men look like clowns.” They weren’t ready for awkward chic and this was not part of their preparation.

 

“I told you that I had a plan. You need to trust.”

 

I watched as he extinguished a cigarette and walked over to Helmut. He said something in a very low voice that I could not distinguish. Helmut nodded gruffly without taking his attention away from the stuffed Norwegian salmon.

 

He walked back over by me and said, “Our work will soon be done, mon ami.”

 

I didn’t see it. The men were no closer to talking to a woman than when we walked in. Furthermore, they were now disheveled and smelled like they had just been fish-bagged. I watched in horror as Helmut walked over to the bar in Chemistry and demanded that a flask be filled to the brim with Bacardi 151. He gulped down a quarter and held the flask above his head.

 

Frozen in horror, I watched as he scooped up a handful of spotted dick. The guests were beside themselves with anxious energy. They murmured in Swedish. The dancing girls stopped. The music was cut. I was actually a bit grateful for that. It was some sort of heavily-accented techno version of Thomas Dolby’s She Blinded Me with Science.

 

In his eye was the violent look of the insane. What the hell had Edgar done? I don’t know if it was fear or the natural desire not to get pudding on their finery, but the crowd opened a corridor for the crazed German. I could see that he was making his way to a roped-off painting that was just off of Chemistry and Medicine. Despite the spotlight and velvet ropes, I hadn’t noticed it behind the crush of partiers until now.

 

It was at that time that I realized what he was going to do. I began to run down the rapidly-closing aisle that Helmut had carved through the crowd with my coat flapping in the wind. I knew that I would never make it, but I had to try something to save the painting and our operation.

 

I stopped about midway as the crowd was thickening. I could see the painting above the raised heads of the drunken voyeurs as the handful of pudding splattered dead center. The glob of spotted dick paused for a moment before sliding down the painting and falling to the ground. The image was stained, but not destroyed. I know nothing about art restoration, but I remember thinking that it could be repaired as I saw a flaming beaker of rum explode at the top of the abstract. The flames swallowed the piece in whole. Apparently the best part of the night for that canvas was to get bombarded with a pound of spotted dick.

 

I only saw the painting a moment before Helmut destroyed it, but it was a courageous and awe-inspiring piece. I began to contemplate Helmut’s murder when Edgar caught up with me. “Great master plan.” I said this as one of the security guards arrived with a fire extinguisher. A few drunken Swedes applauded.

 

“The mission is not lost, Chance.”

 

“Yes, it is. This crime is on our shoulders. We brought him here.”

 

The multimillion dollar celebration ruined. Our careers lying in tatters. A masterpiece destroyed.

 

However, the Frenchman saw things a bit differently. Then again, he did know the facts.

 

As I was soon to find out, the painting was an H.V. Reissmann - a socially dysfunctional artist who lived on the streets of Hamburg. He was touted as a brilliant but vulgar oaf that was so filled with self-loathing that his work was not complete until it was destroyed by his own hand, and never by the same method. One time he would shoot it, another he would drop it into the sea, and tonight he would bombard it with an oddly-named pudding and a Molotov cocktail.

 

The Frenchman had played me like a tenor sax. Um, only he didn’t put his mouth on me. It’s just an expression.

 

“So we essentially cheated.”

 

“Well, no. Technically, Helmut is a hobo, but he owns a few small flats. He just does not dwell in them. The others are of the more typical type. They do not live on the street by choice.”

 

So Helmut was an artist pretending to be a hobo pretending to be an artist. He had a home but he pretended to be homeless. This was ridiculous, but it worked out in the end.

 

Here’s how the operation went:

 

Sergy publicly disavowed him: He accomplished his mission by criticizing Helmut’s actions as “self-serving.” He was seen slipping into a private room with an exquisite philanthropist who was descended from Polish royalty. In truth, he loved Helmut, who would always own his loyalty. His actions were ones of expediency and no one could fault him for that.

 

Nicolai stood by him: A powerful shipping magnate was loudly decrying Helmut Reissmann’s art as pandering to the masses. Nicolai splashed his drink in the man’s face. The magnate’s rebellious daughter intimated her desire for a bit more privacy with her new hero. He closed the deal near the swimming pool. I guess she hated her father.

 

Manuel used the delightful distraction to his advantage: By riding the wave of enthusiasm that had been created, he was able to catch the eye of a group of several ladies who had hitherto looked bored. With a graduated measuring cylinder of vodka and half a dozen test tubes, he became the man of the hour for these thirsty socialites. While five was too many for him to handle, once he had pared the number down to two, the trio adjourned to a private suite. Impressive work, Manny.

 

Helmut was the man of the hour and had his choice. His consumption of women that night was only superseded by his intake of alcohol.

 

Sven just rode Helmut’s coat tails. Why break a sweat? Sven always struck me as the smartest.

 

When the last of our men had escorted a woman off to his room, I picked up a bottle of scotch from the bar and joined Edgar on the balcony.

 

“What happens to them now?”  It had been on my mind the whole week.

 

“Like I said. We wash our hands of them.”

 

“I know what you said, and at the time I agreed, but...”  I didn’t really have a solution.

 

“Calm yourself, Monsieur Ransom. The condo is rented for six months. They will have an allowance for clothing and food and receive assistance to find jobs. The rest is in their hats.” I think he meant hands.

 

“Where did the money come from?” Our budget had been entirely depleted.

 

“I made a substantial wager with British Leigh.” Never bet against the Frenchman, Leigh.

 

I grabbed my coat and hat and faded off into the night.

 

Months later, the destruction of Reissmann’s haunting painting was still plaguing me. I found that you could obtain authorized photographs of each of his works just prior to their destruction. An art dealer told me that Helmut had attempted to overdose on pills later the night of the party. Apparently he did this every time he destroyed one of his works. Six unsuccessful suicide attempts so far. Russian roulette, public hanging, et cetera. One time he might succeed, but I hoped not. I purchased the photograph without negotiating. It’s hanging in my flat in Marseilles. Although, I can never go there again.

 [email protected]

myspace.com/chanceransom

Author's Note

My editor has been busy. Please, let me know of any grammatical issues. I also welcome just general criticism.

Reviews

[None]

A very indepth story holding my interest entirely. It is always educational to delve into the mind of a professional Wingman. You had me going here with more than one dictionary with words such as "endemic" and "dossier." I don't get out much, I guess.

Your paragraphs were solid and delivered more than expected: "Edgar's voice assumed that icy pitch that always sent a chill down my spine when it was directed towards me. "Where did you get this?" No one said anything. "Do not talk all at once." The hair on the back of my neck began to stand up. I hadn't heard that exact tone since Wingman Camp."

I found myself wrapped up in your story and the imaginative writing: " I also threw a generous amount of krona into the plundered machines. I looked at it as an involuntary sale rather than a theft. I hate thieves."

You really surprised me with where this was headed. I also happen to be partial to the song mentioned: "The guests were beside themselves with anxious energy. They murmured in Swedish. The dancing girls stopped. The music was cut. I was actually a bit grateful for that. It was some sort of heavily-accented techno version of Thomas Dolby's She Blinded Me with Science."

I think six benefited from the experience here rather than five but maybe Chance isn't telling the whole story. hehe.

This was ingenious and your ending very fitting and fanciful: "So Helmut was an artist pretending to be a hobo pretending to be an artist. He had a home but he pretended to be homeless. This was ridiculous, but it worked out in the end."

This Wingman story has me singing "Trailor for Sale or Rent," you continue to deliver and surprise the reader. It's hard to choose a Wingman favorite. That's alright. I can like them all.

[TL Boehm]

another stellar installement. I've missed this storyline! again, the humor is intelligent and much appreciated, (and a bit quirky) who knew that the biggest threat to the homeless was a lack of um....I almost fell out of my chair laughing. I didn't see any grammatical issues, I was so glued to the content.

[Flame DM]

There was one edit mistake I saw, Sven and coat tails XD i doubt its coat tails but who knows. I enjoyed this very much. Nice to see the frenchman work instead of hearing about it. He really is one of the best wingmen around! I was thinking like Ranson as the party was going, but you surprised me. Still cant get enough of Chance XD

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