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re:generation QuarterlyMoney
Winter 1998

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Hustlers on the Road to Emmaus



One-thirty a.m., mid-February, ten degrees below zero. I found myself wondering what I was doing standing at the corner of Waveland and Halstead, waiting for a male prostitute to walk around the corner so I could talk to him. That frozen vigil gave me pause to think about life—where I was and where I was going. Four years earlier, I had come to Chicago to attend Bible college, intoxicated with dreams of being the next Hudson Taylor, William Carey, or Jim Elliott. Since then, I had dropped out and started spending one night a week wearing grooves in the sidewalks of Boys Town, looking for hustlers.

Ronnie didn't look at us, much less say a word, until my partner almost stepped on him. We rounded the corner and almost tripped over him huddled over an exhaust vent trying to thaw his hands, shivering so hard he looked like he was having a seizure.

"Hey, what's up, guys?" he said through teeth chattering like castanets.

"Not much, Ronnie. Business slow tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Can we take you someplace to warm up?"

"That'd be cool, but the shelters are closed."

So we took him to a local dive and watched him ravage a burger and fries. After talking for a while, he asked if we could give him a lift.

"Which direction you guys going?" Ronnie sputtered.

"North. We're heading home for the night."

"Perfect."

We followed his aimless directions for 20 minutes and ended up ten blocks away from where we started.

"Here's where I get off, I guess," he said, hesitating. "Thanks, guys. Nobody's treated me like … I really appreciate … well, thanks." Ronnie got out of the car and walked back towards the exhaust vent, where we first saw him hustling. My partner and I cried as we prayed for him that night.

Emmaus Ministries is an outreach to male prostitutes based ...



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