The Ministry of Love.

After staying at the Gateway Hotel for two nights, I knew that I had to go and get a bed at the El Paso Rescue Mission since I was low on funds. I retrieved my luggage from Amtrak, been to freaking San Antonio and back! I acquired the address along with directions and made my way to the shelter in that unforgiving dry climate. I was soon to find out it was not conveniently located in downtown like the ones in Los Angeles or San Diego or any other sane metropolis. No, this one was way out there on the fringes of the desert.

The El Paso Rescue Mission is a small one story building nestled in the craggy rocks of this nowhere Tex-Mex border town. From the outside, it looks like a long forgotten green and yellow painted army bunker with railroad tracks crisscrossing on either side. A dilapidated water tower rusted from decades of non-use, stood next to the building.

Once inside, through the dusty glass entrance one will notice the various offices sprinkled with tacky religious objects. The mission statement is based on religious beliefs, but no one believed them for a second. The mission receives many donations from charitable groups; televisions, fine furniture, new clothes, good food. None of these are ever seen by the clients, the items are all sold at various swap meets around town and the monies pocketed. The place is corrupt to the core.

From the lowly ass kissers who volunteered all the way up to the shelters general manager, a Mexican woman named Juana Ortega, who sits in her office like a great Aztec Goddess. When she said yes, it was a blessing; unfortunately she dealt in mostly no’s. She is surrounded by the saddest crew of boot lickers and ass wipers in the business. One has to stay on their toes, since there were so many Kafkaesque rules; you could be thrown out onto the street at the drop of a hat. And there were plenty of pigeons that will do anything to stay in Juana’s favor. Those nameless assholes are the temporary residents; people on the missions various programs, from alcoholics anonymous to the job search programs. They are allowed to stay as long as they like. Or as long as their sanity would hold out. When a person first comes in, he is a client until he gets Juana’s approval to stay longer than the obligatory three days. Though more often than not, they stay for a single night.

I sat in the intake room as the few clients drifted in. Old shabby men. Indians and Mexicans. Addicts. Thieves. Fags. Train Jumpers. Hitchhikers. The men that walked through those doors were lost souls because this mission was way out of the way – in a dead end town. The building was a diving bell, at the bottom of a Black Sea; cables severed.

After a brief interview, I was told I had to take a shower and then I was given a bunk. The dormitory is the largest room in the building. It is adjacent to the bathroom and showers. Packed with rickety old army surplus bunkbeds, the room can house 120 men on any given night. It is a dirty funky smelling room wafting with the aroma of sour feet and filthy linens. I didn’t sleep well my first night, mainly because I was issued a top bunk and the damn thing jiggled all night from the slightest movement by my snoring bunkmate below me. Asshole.

Everyone was awaken at the obligatory 5:30 a.m., washed up and stood in line to wait for breakfast. As the line jerked forward for a bowl of hot oatmeal I was affronted by a small-wizened man that resemble Yoda from Star Wars wearing a Sante Fe style shirt.

He smiled showing his toothless hole. ”Howdy! Watcha got planned fer today there, feller?”

“Well, I was going out to look for a job.”

“Nope ya ain’t, I need help an’ you just been drafted.” He cackled and shook my hand. “I run this here kitchen…ev’rybody calls me Papa Smurf. After ya eat yer breakfast, you can start cleaning th’ tables when everybody’s done. Then report here at twelve erclock an’ you can help me serve lunch.”

He cackled some more and then waddled off. My mind was in a muddle. I didn’t know if I should laugh or what. Who was this little creature that talked like Mr. Haney from Green Acres? What Red Neck Hell have I gotten myself into? Well, at least the job wasn’t too difficult and I had access to all the food I wanted.

I was eventually assigned a caseworker, Mr. Klaus, an elderly man, his aged face a leather chair on which Time and Care had sat once too often. His close friends lovingly refer to him as Mother Superior. He is an old gay man tall in stature with a shock of white hair. We became very close and he is making my stay at the mission more tolerable. It was never sexual; it was just a good friendship. We confided in things to each other we’d never tell to another soul. During the following weeks, I will be seeing the psychiatric doctors that come from the hospital. Hopefully I can finally fix this craziness in my mind.

I was soon to find out that this mission was teeming with closeted homosexuals, even though I would also befriend many straight people staying here, both were friendships that would last for years I'm sure.

Getting adjusted here will be easy. Everything goes at a super slow pace. Just what I need, I think. To pass the time, I would help out in the kitchen or hang out in the intake room and socialize with the new friends that I made. Monty, a tall thin black queen (in denial of coarse. He claims to be an ex-G.I. and he is separated from his wife.). Keith, an overweight red neck who everyone called Bubba, he said he came from Virginia on a bet that he could walk to El Paso and back. I guess he lost the bet. Tom, an ex-drug addict on parole, a tall lanky good ol’ boy with a strong southern drawl and missing front teeth. He had the job as the security guard at the mission.

And then there is Sergio Herrera. My friend and rival. Sergio Herrera is a small Mexican guy queer to the core. He was handsome once; he possessed very chiseled Chicano features, however that ended when he had the car accident. His boyfriend and himself were driving in Juarez drunk when they smashed into a telephone pole. Now Sergio’s face is a criss-cross of scars. The effect just makes him look bitchier. We both had a competition going on who could scam on the most guys at the shelter.

Another wing nut, Javier Acosta, is one of the mental cases that stayed there. Jaime is one of my favorite friends. A short fat Mexican with a mane of greasy hair and a beard full of crumbs. He is always happy and very obedient. And last but not least is an old time faggot that everybody calls Big Gay Eddie, he's a sixty-year-old man that wears tight blue jeans and muscle shirts. His hands shake all the time. He told me he was a go-go dancer in the 50’s.

Other than the clients and the temporary residents, there´s also the Meds. They were the sorriest of the bunch, long forgotten zombies who shuffle through the corridors of the mission in frayed slippers and stained clothes waiting for the hour glass of time to run down until their next medication or the call for chow. At that time they shuffle rapidly, stomachs churning, spittle clinging to their chin. Most of the day they would sit out on the side of the building on the various milk crates or rickety chairs and stare at nothing under the blast of blue sky.

My only sexual outlet is the sneak masturbating at three in the morning amid the snoring and farting of the one hundred assholes staying the night. Sexually, my life has become the exact opposite than in Tijuana. I spending many nights pent up and frustrated. Yes, these past four days are pretty dry and I am emotionally horny.

Well, I made this decision and I am sticking to it. But, that doesn't change the fact that I am really horny...any takers?