[Smurf]

Great Chapter can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Monday morning, and Angela was in her tiny room at Sanctuary Shelter, getting ready for her teaching job at Applewood Elementary School. Her room was smaller than the one she had at home, but it offered more privacy, not to mention protection from her sister, Bianca. Here, she didn't have to listen to a litany of complaints about her incompetance or her lack of intelligence, nor was she forced to run Bianca's errands or do housework when she got home. For once, Angela felt relaxed in the early hours of the morning.

When she had escaped the Luxor with George that Saturday night, carrying only her overnight bag and school satchel, she felt like someone defecting to another country. They had stopped briefly at the house just long enough for her to gather more clothes and a few personal belongings (so few they fit in a plastic grocery bag), then sped to the shelter. She had to leave her little Chevette behind, unfortunatly. Until she could make better living arrangements, it would have to remain at the house; parking it at the shelter would be inviting car thieves who would think nothing of stripping it down for parts. Still, she was not worried about it--George would be picking her up that morning and taking her to school, then returning to pick her up in the afternoon after looking over the shelter for Criss' show.

Angela picked up her school satchel and her purse and headed out the door. Passing the clergyman's office, she recalled that her casino winnings should be in the shelter's bank account by this afternoon. She smiled gleefully. Pastor Bob's gonna get a big surprise when he checks his balance! she said to herself. I wonder what's going to be left after taxes, though. Oh, well, whatever's left, it's going to be a big help around here!

She tripped happily into the lobby, her thin face aching from smiling so much (little wonder, having had so little practice). She was doubly delighted when she saw George standing there waiting for her. He kept his promise! she thought elatedly. I knew he would!
"Hey, Angie," George greeted her. "Ready to go?"

Angela said nothing, but threw her arms around him. It didn't matter to her whether he was driving her to work or taking her to Tahiti; she was raring to go with him anywhere. "I'm ready," she said. "Let's go.

A gruff harrumphing jolted her back to earth. Both turned aside, a bit flushed with embarrassment. Beside them were Father Stefan, staring disapprovingly at such a blatant display of public affection, and Pastor Bob, who looked both shocked and amused by it.




Pastor Bob rose from behind the desk and accompanied Father Stefan out of the office. Around them, life in the shelter went on: there was a Bible study session going on in one small room, an AA meeting next to it, a job skills course taught by a social worker volunteer across the hall, and the day care center at the end of the corridor. As the two clergymen walked into the lobby, they encountered two people familiar to each of them: a skinny, plainly dressed blond-haired woman, and a man in a cutoff muscle shirt showing off well-developed biceps, embracing each other like lovers. It came as a surprise to both pastor and priest; Angela Honi had a reputation as a wallflower, shy and retiring, almost withdrawn at times. And now here she was in the arms of a man, hugging him as if he was her husband.

"That must be George," Pastor Bob murmured to Father Stefan. "You know, the guy who broke Angela's fall when her sister threw her over that balcony."

Father Stefan nodded in confirmation. He had heard about the fall at the Luxor, but it did not mitigate his indignation over such a scene. He cleared his throat to make his presence known. George and Angela withdrew immediatly, a bit embarrassed at first, then exchanged nervous smiles with the two clergymen. Pastor Bob merely smiled back. "Hello, Angela," he greeted her warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Pastor," Angela responded politely. "Oh, George, this is Father Stefan," Angela said.

"Uh, we already know each other," George told her. "My Aunt Dimitra goes to his church."

"Oh!" Angela exclaimed, both surprised and delighted. "Oh, well, that's nice!"

"Good to see you again, George," Father Stefan said, still disapproving of his and Angela's conduct but willing to let it slide.

"Good to see you again, too, Father," George returned, unintimidated.

"So," Father began, "what brings you here to Sanctuary Shelter?"

"Oh, I'm just here to take Angie here to school, and then case out the shelter for the show, that's all," George explained casually.

Father Stefan grunted. He turned to Angela. "Pastor Bob has told me George here saved your life," he said. "Is that true?"

"Yes, Father, he did," Angela replied, and she related the whole story of her winning the million-dollar jackpot in the casino on her very first try at a slot machine, her sister's violent reaction to it, her falling off the balcony and her landing on George Strumpolis. "It was accidental, really it was," she insisted. "But he still saved my life."

The priest grunted again. He turned to Pastor Bob, who nodded in confirmation. "Well, the Lord was certainly looking out for you that day," he said, shaking his head. "But what happened to your sister?"

"She got arrested for attempted murder," Angela answered almost sadly. "She kept insisting it was a suicide attempt on my part and she was trying to save me, but the video surveillance tape proved otherwise." She lowered her eyes so as not to allow him to see the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know why she treats me the way she does," she sniffled. "I try to please her, but she always turns on me, taking more than I can afford to give. I tried to offer her half of the jackpot, but she wanted all of it. I just don't understand why."

Pastor Bob laid a hand on Angela's bony shoulder. "Because your sister--what's her name again?"

"Bianca."

"Bianca. Well, it seems to me that Bianca is a narcissist, someone who is so self-centered she can't see beyond her own wants and desires. You can't please a person like that, no matter how hard you try; she lives in her own little world where she's the queen, and she's just letting you live in it. She has no empathy for anyone, not even members of her own family. What's hers is hers, and what's yours is hers--that's how she thinks. She can't stand the thought of anyone, least of all you, getting all the breaks instead of her. When you won that jackpot in the casino, she was so eaten up with greed and envy that she tried to kill you. It's Cain and Abel all over again." He smiled reassuringly. "But the Lord was watching over you, Angela," he continued. "He kept you from falling to your death. Maybe in a bizarre sort of way, falling on top of your friend, George, here, but He did protect you."

"Amen to that," Angela said with all sincerity.

"Well, George," Father Stefan said, "since you and your famous cousin will be taping your show here, you might as well get a feel of the place. We'd give you the fifty-cent tour if you're willing."

"Yeah, I'd like that," George replied amiably, "but I gotta drop Angie here off at school first. I'll catch you later."

The two clergymen agreed. "Good," Father Stefan said approvingly. "It'll give us a chance to catch up on some business."

George checked his watch. "Holy Geez!" he exclaimed mildly, "we'd better get going or we'll be late!"

Angela clutched her school satchel. "Well, I'll be back this evening, Pastor," she said. "Good-bye, and good-bye, Father."

She left the lobby with George, the pair arm in arm. Pastor Bob eyed his fellow clergyman bemusedly. "'Famous cousin'?" he echoed.

Father Stefan nodded. "That's right, George is Criss Angel's cousin," he confirmed. "He's got practically his whole family working for him."

Pastor Bob grunted again. "Didn't know it was a family business," he said.

"Not surprising," Father Stefan said drily. "The Sarantakos clan's pretty tight-knit, right down to the second cousins."

"Saran-what?"

"Sar-an-ta-kos," Father enunciated. "It's Greek. Both Christopher's parents are from Greece."

"So Criss' real name is..."

"Christopher Nicholas Sarantakos" Father finished for him. "His mother told me once."

Pastor Bob whistled. "That's quite a handle!" he commented. "No wonder he changed it to Angel."

[Smurf]

Great chapter can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

"Christopher Nicholas Sarantakos" Father finished for him. "His mother told me once."

Pastor Bob whistled. "That's quite a handle!" he commented. "No wonder he changed it to Angel."



Ain't it the truth

[Veritas]

"Again," barked the instructor.

Criss, barefoot and stripped to the waist in only a pair of loose sweat pants, took his fighting stance: legs tensed and ready to spring, eyes focused on his opponent, hands poised for the attack. The instructor lunged forward, bringing his arm down with a hammer blow. Criss deflected it with a single swipe of his forearm, then grabbed his instructor's wrist, twisted his arm around, pivoting on his central point of gravity, and sent the instructor down onto the mat. The instructor landed with a soft thud and a single grunt, then rose to his feet again, his face reflecting grim satisfation over his student's performance.

The instructor drew a deep clensing breath as he regained his composure. "Again," he ordered.

Criss remained silent as he repeated taking his stance. Sweat trickled down his face, but he did not reach up to wipe it away for fear he would be caught off guard. He had been doing this same exercise repeatedly for the better part of the morning. He did not complain about it; he was too self-disciplined for that. He was going into gang territory this week to shoot the "Other Side of Vegas" episode for MindFreak, and he wanted to be prepared for whatever came his way, be it a psycho homeless bum or a street gang bent on killing him. Hope for the best, be prepared for the worst, he had been taught, and today he was doing the latter by brushing up on his martial arts skills. When he went into gang territory, he was going in locked and loaded.

The instructor came at him again, this time with a side swing. Again Criss deflected the blow with his arm and sent him sprawling to the mat. His reflexes were good; indeed, better than ever, he thought with a bit of pride. They were much better than most men his age, at any rate. Fortysomething males such as himself had a tendancy to go flabby, preferring the comfort of a recliner in front of a television set to any sort of physical activity except for golf (a sport Criss found excruciatingly boring), only to succumb to a heart attack before they reach fifty. Criss, however, maintained his physique to the point of eternal youth, often being mistaken for a man in his late twenties or early thirties, something he--

His thoughts were shattered by a blow to the shin, sending him flat onto the mat. The instructor had taken advantage of his moment of self-gratification and had tripped him with one kick to the leg. Criss groaned, cursing himself as he rose from the mat. He should not have lost focus, he reprimanded himself. He should have been aware of his opponent's every move until he had been soundly defeated. Pride goeth before a fall, he half-joked to himself. Vowing to be more careful this time, he faced his instructor as before.

"Again."

Criss took his stance. The instructor came at him with the same sideways swing. Again, the wrist grab and tumble to the mat. This time, Criss took the precaution of stepping away to avoid another kick in the leg. His muscular torso gleamed in the flourescent lighting of the training room, reflecting the strenuousness of the morning's workout. His broad shoulders and firm biceps, developed from endless daily workouts in the gym, ached from the exertion of repeated blows and tosses, but he did not complain. He refused to ask for so much as a drink of water or a moment's respite from the morning exercise. He had to keep going, no matter how much his body craved rest and refreshment. No gang member was going to show mercy upon him should he encounter one when he went to North Las Vegas. He had suffer so he could survive, to endure the physical punishment now so he could mete it out when the time came.

The instructor rose to his feet and stood before him. "Again."

And again, and again, and again....



While Angela had been at school, and Criss had been in training, George had taken a tour of the shelter for Criss' alternative episode. At first, he thought it would be a cakewalk compared to that crazy mineshaft idea his famous cousin had proposed--just go in, film a few shots with the residents and they were out of there. No danger, no explosions, no risk of life and limb, nothing but some basic magic tricks and some footage of the shelter itself. Everyone would go home, safe and sound.

It was when he actually got to the shelter that he began to have second thoughts. What he saw when he toured the streets of the shelter's neighborhood shocked and appalled him: Gangs roamed the streets, warning ordinary citizens with their mere presence to keep their distance if they wanted to stay healthy; homeless vagrants wandered aimlessly, occasionally begging for handouts from anyone who even looked as if they had money; frowzy-looking prostitutes posted themselves on every street corner, waiting for their next john but hoping it didn't turn out to be a cop.

Everywhere George looked he saw hopelessness and despair. Even the buildings seemed to have given up hope: iron bars were bolted over the windows of the few occupied tenements, or boarded up with plywood sheets. Graffitti was scrawled over every available vertical surface, marking gang turf. Police sirens wailed endlessly, a droning soundtrack to a crumbling neighborhood, if such a friendly appellation could be applied to this miserable environment.

In comparison, if any could be drawn, Sanctuary Shelter was an oasis in the desert, a place for the needy and destitute to seek refuge from the desolate wilderness that was North Las Vegas. Even so, it was a stark and dreary place to live. George and Father Stefan had walked down the main corridor, a cinderblock hallway that created the image of a prison. He saw the dorm rooms, housing up to five per room, little better than jail cells in George's opinion. He saw the classrooms with their kindling-wood desks that he recalled from his high-school days (probably did come from his old high school, he thought), the day-care center with its bright colorful paint valiently concealing the cinderblock walls, and the chapel with its rows of wooden folding chairs before a simple podium.

"And over here is the cafeteria," Father had said, pointing to the double swinging doors. "We serve over a thousand meals every day, breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's nothing fancy, but it's nourishing."

George peered into the cafeteria, a spartan dining area that reminded him of a military-style mess hall with metal tables and benches lined up in three ramrod-straight rows. To one side was a stainless steel steam table where the food was dished out to the residents on plastic trays. The few inspirational posters stuck to the cinderblock walls did little to brighten up the room. "Geez," George grunted. "It makes my old high school lunch room look ritzy by comparison."

"And if you come this way," Father continued, "you can see the common room."

The common room was just that, a room where everyone commonly gathered. No televison, not even a magazine rack, just a few old couches that looked as if they had been salvaged from a dumpster. It was crowded with residents, their unwashed clothes and bodies reeking in unison, doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. To them, it was protection against the elements, nothing more. The mere sight of them depressed George even more. Maybe when Angie donates her winnings, he thought hopefully, they can afford to fix up this place.

Later that afternoon, as he drove to Applewood Elementary to pick up Angela, George ruminated over what he had seen in the shelter. A warehouse the size of half a football field and still not enough room for everyone, he thought. And more homeless bums coming in every day. My God! What's it gonna take to solve all this? This one little shelter ain't gonna do the job--hell, they're struggling to help the people already there! The church can't do it alone. Angie with her winnings can't do it alone. We need real reform, not church handouts. Come on, Obama, I voted for you so you can make a difference--start making one already! These people need help!



Morning faded into afternoon. A black Jeep glided up to the side entrance of Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless, driving past the razor-wire fence surrounding the parking lot to the dented metal door scrawled with graffitti. It halted by the cracked concrete walkway leading up to the building. Then George Strumpolis got out of the Jeep, trotted over to the passenger side, and opened the door for Angela, who stepped out of the boxy vehicle as gracefully as a princess exiting her coach. They lingered for a while in the shade of the building, enjoying each other's company for a while longer. Then, with a kiss and a "See you tomorrow, Angie," George strode back to his Jeep and drove away.

Angela stood there, trembling with excitement. For all her adult life she never thought she would meet a man who would look past her plain-Jane looks and actually be interested in her; she had seemed doomed to perpetual spinsterhood with nothing to look forward to but a lonely life as an old-maid schoolteacher dominated by a tyrranical sister.

But now! Not only did she hit the jackpot in the casino, she also hit the jackpot in love! Yes, that was the sensation when she looked into George's eyes in the hotel hallway after their dinner date--she was falling in love with him! "Thank You, God!" she whispered. "Thank You for sending George into my life! Oh, and as for the jackpot? Well, I'm donating it to the shelter--all of it! I mean, I have a trust fund set up already, so it's not like I need the money that badly. I don't care for a life of luxury. Just let me have George, and I'm happy!"

She practically floated to the schoolroom where she taught remedial reading to barely literate residents. Her elation did not go unnoticed by a fellow volunteer, a petite brunette named Darlene Milliken. Curious over her normally withdrawn friend's bubbly mood, she quickly deduced the cause and walked up to her as Angela was setting up her lesson plan at her desk. Without so much as a hello, Darlene cut to the chase. "Okay, who is he?" she demanded.

Angela was startled at the sudden intrusion. "Oh, hi, Darlene," she greeted her nervously. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

"The guy you're in love with," Darlene pressed. "Who is he?"

Angela was flustered. "What makes you think I'm in love with a guy?"

"Oh, I dunno," Darlene replied facetiously. "It could be the humming, the smiling, the way you're walking around like you're on Cloud Nine. My God, Angie, you could see it from space!"

Angela set down her lesson plan binder. "Well, if you must know, Darlene, I've been dating the man who saved my life last Saturday."

Darlene's curiosity was piqued. "Saved your life? How?"

Once again, Angela related the story of her accidental rescue by George Strumpolis. Upon mentioning his name, however, Darlene huge aquamarine eyes lit up like Fremont Street at sunset. "George Strumpolis?" she echoed in disbelief. "Ohmigawd, Angie, do you know who he's related to?"

"Yes, I know who he's related to," Angela replied patiently, rolling her eyes. "He's Criss Angel's cousin and he works for him. What's the big deal?"

Darlene was flabbergasted. "What's the big deal? What's the big deal?! I'll have you know I am hopelessly in lust with Criss Angel! I mean, haven't you seen the banner hanging over the Luxor pyramid lately? I mean, he's got the hottest bod this side of the Mississippi! And I'd give anything, anything at all, to meet him!"

"Well, you just might get that wish."

Darlene's ears pricked up. "Really? How?"

Angela leaned over to Darlene and spoke quietly. "Keep this under your bonnet, but Criss Angel is going to be taping his show right here at the shelter."

Darlene's heart was bouncing off the walls. "For real?" she said eagerly.

"Yes, for real," Angela confirmed. "He told me so himself."

Darlene squealed like a schoolgirl. "Ohmigodohmigodohmigod! When's he gonna be here, do you know? Oh, God, I can't wait!"

"That I don't know," Angela replied. "But like I said, keep this to yourself, okay? I don't want to get in trouble with Pastor Bob or Father Stefan, okay?"

"Cross my heart," Darlene agreed breathlessly. "I won't breathe a word to anyone!"

"Good."

The literacy students, a mix of young teenagers and older folks, shuffled into the classroom for their daily lesson. "I gotta go," Darlene whispered hastily. "Lemme know when Criss gets here, okay?"

Angela nodded, relieved to be free of her overenthusiastic friend. Darlene skipped out of the classroom as elated as she had seen Angela earlier. I'm gonna meet Criss! she thought estatically. I'm gonna meet Criss! Eeeeeeeeee!

[Smurf]

Great Chapter i hope it all go well at the shelter Can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

That evening, Criss and his crew listened in stunned silence as George described his visit to Sanctuary Shelter and what he found there. "It's like a human warehouse, man!" he exclaimed. "They got people from practically all walks of life crowded in there--men, women and children! It's (bleeping) inhuman, I'm tellin' ya! And the whole (bleeping) neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone! Every building there looks like they'd been bombed out! Wouldn't surprise me if they were. And Father was right about the gangs--those mother(bleepers) look like something straight out of America's Most Wanted! I swear to God I saw blood splashed on the sidewalk--fresh blood, dripping right into the storm drain! I don't even want to know whose it is or how it got there, but I was glad to get out of there when I did!"

George rubbed his face as he sat down on the sofa. "I don't know how Angie can get through that hellhole in one piece," he said worriedly. "She goes to that shelter three nights a week to teach the people who live there how to read and write, and then goes home again through that neighborhood--at night! Small wonder they got the parking lot surrounded by razor wire. I'm surprised she hasn't been carjacked!" He turned to Criss. "I'm starting to think your mineshaft stunt wasn't such a crazy idea after all," he said.

"Well, I guess maybe she can put up with gangs and homeless bums a lot better than she could put up with her sister," Criss commented. "I mean, after what you told me about her--uh, what was her name again?"

"Bianca."

"Yeah, Bianca. Anyway, from what you told me about her, she's a complete psycho. If Angie can put up with her, she can put up with anything. How's she doing, anyway?"

"Bianca?"

"No, Angie."

"Oh, she's doing great. She's staying at the shelter right now until she can make other arrangements. God forbid she should go home to her sister."

JD was perplexed. "Go home to her sister?" he echoed. "I thought she was in jail."

"She bailed herself out," George explained grimly. "I was taking Angie back to the hotel after going out last Saturday night, and there she was, standing right there in the suite. Said she used money from her trust fund for bail. You talk about a mad-dog (bleep)! She looked like she was gonna throw both of us over the railing! She's poison, guys, I'm tellin' ya!"

"So, how come you didn't take her home with you?" Criss asked. "You got plenty of room; better than an overcrowded homeless shelter, anyway."

"C'mon, Criss, you know I can't do that!" George said to him. "I got enough stress in my life without Mom and the family having a fit if I had an unmarried woman living with me! And if the press found out, I'd be target for tonight about it. Besides, it's too far from Angie's school."

"Maybe Angie should get a restraining order," Costa suggested, "just in case."

George snorted. "Oh, please! A piece of paper ain't gonna do nothin'!"

"Nothing but insure her safety," Costa argued. "Bianca comes within fifty yards or so toward her and BAM! Straight back to jail!"

JD laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Look, George, Angie's gonna be all right," he assured him. "She's safe where she is right now, and if that sister of hers tries anything, she'll be violating the terms of her bond, and, like Costa said, bam, straight back to jail. You ain't got nothing to worry about."

George sighed heavily. "God, I hope not," he murmured.



She was gone.

Angela was gone.

Bianca sat down in the brown leather chair that had been Father's favorite in the living room of the house her family called home for thirty-five years. If only Angela had had the good grace to die when she did. No one would have known the truth since there had been no real witnesses. She could have claimed it was a suicide, and then Angela's trust fund would have been all hers. But no, that big lummox George Strumpetolous or whatever the hell his name was had to be standing right there when she landed, breaking her fall. Worse, that (bleeping) hotel security videotape showed everything that happened on that balcony. Now she was up on murder charges, and Angela was still alive and gone God knows where. If she tried to kill her again, she'd lose everything, including her freedom. Prison was not an option. Neither was poverty.

She had no idea where Angela was living (probably with that loser, George, no doubt), but she was confident she was still teaching at that school. She had a pretty good idea where Applewood Elementary was; she decided to go there in person and persuade her timid mouse of a sister to give up her trust fund for the sake of family harmony. No physical violence, just the power of persuasion. And Bianca could be very persuasive indeed. She had always been so where her younger sister was concerned.

But what if Angela refused in spite of all her efforts? She needed an ace in the hole, something up her sleeve if she remained stubborn and would not yield to her demands. What could she use against her? Bianca racked her brains to recall any sort of weakness she could exploit, an Achilles heel Angela possessed that would do more damage if touched upon. In the end she found nothing worth using; Angela was blameless to the point of boredom.

But there was George.

Bianca brightened at the thought. If she was truly living with George, unmarried, then they were living in sin, shacking up as it were. The school board would not approve of that. And what did she know about this George character, anyway? He was built like an ex-con, all beefy and muscular with such a large nose, and the way he spoke, he sounded so uncouth. Maybe she could dig up some dirt about him, link it with Angela, drop a few hints in the appropriate corners, and little sister would be ruined beyond redemption for being associated with such a man as that. Unless, of course, little sister paid up big time.

It was as if the dark clouds that had hovered over her head for the past two days suddenly parted and rays of sunshine streamed through. Bianca congratulated herself over the brilliance of her plan. But first things were first, after all--she had to gather some information about loverboy George before she could put her plan into action, and that was going to take some time. And time was what Bianca had in abundance.

[RACHEL02189]

How wrong Bianca is

[Smurf]

Great chapter i hope someone will stop her soon can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

Early next morning, Criss made the trip to Sanctuary Shelter, accompanied by his entourage of camermen, technicians, assistants and bodyguards (at Dave Baram's insistance; he feared gang violence), and truckloads of cameras and sound equipment for taping the show. It had been a harrowing ride down the side streets of North Las Vegas to the shelter. George had not exaggerated his description of the surrounding neighborhood: the crumbling buildings with their boarded up windows; the stench of urine and rotting garbage choking the narrow alleyways; the gang graffitti spraypainted on the walls; the slumped figures of the homeless on the curbside; the roving bands of gangs guarding their turf. Everywhere Criss looked, he saw hopelessness and despair--and fear.

One pitiful figure lay crumpled on the sidewalk. From inside his SUV, Criss couldn't tell if the man was passed out drunk or just sleeping He wasn't even sure if he was still alive. No one reached out to him, no one stopped to shake his shoulder to wake him up. People simply passed him by, turning their faces away from him, pretending he wasn't there. Just another homeless bum, they must have been thinking to themselves. Don't give him any handouts, he'll just use it to buy drugs or booze. If he can't take care of himself, no one else will. He bought this all on himself, he has no one to blame for his problems but himself, it's his own fault he's like this, he doesn't deserve our sympathy...

The convoy of trucks and SUVs continued on their way to the shelter. Criss spared one last glance at the lump of human flesh lying on the curbside as he passed, noting especially the wads of plastic grocery bags covering the man's feet. He lowered his head in grief, and in so doing glanced at the eighty-dollar pair of running shoes he himself wore. I have shoes, he thought. I have shoes and that poor dude out there's wearing grocery bags on his feet. America's supposed to be the Land of Plenty, but there's a guy out there weaing plastic grocery bags on his feet and sleeping out on the sidewalk. What's wrong with this picture?

He felt like weeping. So, this is what it's like to be poor and homeless, he said to himself. Shunned, ignored, despised, just a piece of human litter on the street, waiting to be tossed into the trash.

There are two sides of Las Vegas, he recalled Father Stefan telling him. The side you see, and the side you don't see. The side you see is the one the travel brochures show you, the glitz and glamor, the luxury and wealth. The other side is one I see every day, the one of poverty and violence, of gangs and drug dealers and prostitutes. That is the side no one sees, or even wants to know exists.

Nobody sees this side because they don't want to, Criss bitterly realized. They're in total denial; they want everyone to see what they want them to see: the neon signs and bikini-clad models and rolling dice coming up sevens for everybody. As far as they're concerned, these people here don't exist--they just sweep them aside like trash on the street, shove them into this warehouse where they can't be seen and pretend they don't exist. Out of sight, out of mind.

But who were "they"? Criss' conscience spoke up inside him. Who were "they" who swept aside these unfortunate people just because they were poor and homeless? Who was in denial of their existance? The city govenment? The hotel and casino owners? The citizenry?

Or, perhaps, himself?




The entire block had been cordoned off by local police for the taping. Criss and his crew were given special badges for entry into the "zone", as it became known. Once inside the shelter, Father Stefan had given him the fifty-cent tour as he called it, showing him the common room, the chapel, the classrooms, and the dorm rooms. Criss followed the priest in shock. All he could see were endless bodies with glazed eyes wandering from place to place, or slumped upon any available horizontal surface, without hope and without care. He knew the economy had taken a nosedive in recent years, but he had no idea there were this many homeless people in Las Vegas. Had the number increased since then, or had he simply not noticed? Guiltily, he forced himself to admit the latter.

He put on a brave face during his performance before the residents. A few actually cheered, but mostly they just sat there in the auditorium, grateful simply for the diversion from their miserable lives. A few took the time to speak with him on camera, telling them of their lives and how they came to the shelter. They played variations of the same theme: joblessness, alcoholism, loss of a house or apartment, drugs, a criminal record. It saddened him to see so many lives taking a turn for the worse.

Saddest of all were the number of children living there, thin, frightened little waifs with large, staring eyes like does in the forest. He did his level best to make them smile, even pulling out lollipops out of thin air for them, but the burden of poverty seemed to have crushed the joy of living out of them, leaving only empty shells of children. All they wanted was a home, a warm bed of their own, clean clothes for their frail little bodies, shoes that fit their growing feet, nourishing food, toys to play with, a chance to go to school with other kids--things he had taken for granted when he was growing up in Long Island. The mere sight of them stabbed him through the heart like an icepick.

Father took Criss to the cafeteria. It was noon, and lunch was being served. He watched as the seemingly endless lunch line snaked through the double doors, down the steam table where volunteers in flimsy hair nets shoveled out the day's rations onto chipped plastic trays. The food, if what was being ladled out could be called that, revolted him: watery soup with a slice of cheap sandwich bread on the side, a half-pint of milk and a spoonful of applesauce. Criss could only watch as the residents carried this pitful fare to the rows of metal tables and devoured it as if it was their last meal on this earth. He thought of the fine restaraunt meals he had enjoyed in the past: gourmet pizza, smoked salmon, prime rib, Porterhouse steak grilled to his liking. How many of these poor wretches had ever dined in a restaraunt before they hit bottom? he wondered. Then he recalled the home-cooked meals of his childhood, of the vegetables he had once scorned but had been forced to eat by his father's orders, and the huge family gatherings with food in abundance. Had any of these people any memory of what it was like to eat in a real kitchen in a real home? Or at a family barbecue? Did they even remember the last decent meal they had at all?

He gazed at the wretched mass of humanity before him in the cafeteria, scarfing down the tasteless, watery meals. What kept them coming back here, day after day, living on nothing but manufactured slop and sleeping on flimsy cots in an overcrowded shelter? Did they hope for a better life somewhere in the recesses of their souls? Were they hoping for a miracle, some magic windfall that would end all their misery? Or was it simply the will to live, the survival instinct present in all living creatures that kept them going? His mind boggled. Didn't anyone care what was going on here?

"Would you like to join us for lunch?" Father asked.

Criss looked again at the pathetic lunch line. "Uh, no thanks, Father," he replied as politely as he could. "It...it wouldn't be right if I took away food from the poor. We got a catering truck outside. Thanks anyway."

Father nodded and joined the residents in the lunch line. With a heavy heart, Criss retired to the comfort of the RV with his brothers and his cousin George, virtually a world away from the shelter. But even in the clean, comfortable confines of his customized trailer, he could not escape what he had seen. So much misery, so much want! Why did they have to suffer like this? Why did anyone have to suffer like this? And what could he, a single person, do about it? For the first time since his mother's heart surgery a few years ago, Criss felt helpless.

He went into the tiny bathroom and shut the door, the tears he had fought to hold back bursting forth like a ruptured dam.