The Christmas spirit, oddly enough, was in full swing at Westside Homeless Shelter, where about a dozen residents and staff members set about decorating the humble building.
A woman in her mid-forties, dressed in worn clothing that most would've thrown away years ago, was among the decorators. She alone worked up a sweat as she strived to transform the shelter into a winter wonderland before the kids were due home from school.
The ornaments were worn, the lights flickered, the tinsel threadbare, and the garland was missing pieces here and there, but she knew better than anyone that it was the thought that counts. These particular decorations had been hauled out this time of year, every year, for close to a dozen now. She was just thankful that they were still holding up.
"Here. Let me get that for you, Mr. Hayes," she said with a smile to an elderly man who struggled to untangle a knot of hanging ornaments.
"Thank you, Esther," the man said with a hoarse voice, gripping at his cane with both hands. "I was having some trouble with it."
"I don't even know how these get tangled every year." She sighed as her fingers worked quickly to separate the strings. "But it always happens."
The old man shrugged. "Part of the holiday tradition."
Esther grinned. "I never thought of it that way," she said before heading back to the sparsely furnished fake Christmas tree, which, by now, was missing a few branches in conspicuous places. She rummaged around in an old box, looking for the little silver bells she always hung on the lowest branches.
"Arnold," she heard a voice call out -- a voice that belonged to the shelter Superintendent Frank Ernest. When she looked up, she saw him gesturing to the Manager Arnold Wells, who was in the middle of taping an oversized gingerbread man to the wall. "A word, please," Ernest said quickly and lowly, a somber look on his face as he headed into his office.
Arnold wordlessly followed, shutting the door behind him.
Esther found herself approaching the door quietly. She could just barely see through the partially-closed blinds that obscured most of the office's interior.
Arnold stood in front of a card table that was being used as a makeshift desk. Many papers littered its surface, but his attention was one in particular.
"$17,000?" he asked, stunned. "How is that possible?"
Mr. Ernest looked back at him with frustration. "I don't know why you're surprised. I've warned you for two years about allocating resources we don't have."
"We've got a community poverty rate of 40%. 50,000 people squatting in abandoned buildings. Twice as many seeking shelter as did a year ago," Arnold pleaded.
"You are housing 550 people. The space is coded for 450," replied Ernest.
"50,000 teens, families with children-"
"It's a health code violation. The corporation can be sued-"
"What about State Grants?" asked Arnold, almost pleading.
"Illinois funding for charitable institutions was reduced by 5.3 million dollars last year."
The harsh number played like a drumbeat against Arnold's mind. He was speechless, as Ernest moved closer. "This shelter isn't even on their radar. There are bigger, politically-connected institutions with first rights to State funds."
The suddenness of all this was still unfathomable to Arnold. "Savings?"
Frank merely shook his head. "Exhausted."
