December 25th, 2015 is the day we found Craig Miller dead.  We were two volunteers wanting to pass out sleeping bags with the season slump to be uplifted in the streets of Ocean Beach, California.  The organization, Urban Street Angels, had a goal of reaching 800 local homeless in the community by gifting them with newly donated sleeping bags.  As fate would have it, we received an outdated flyer with an old starting time, arriving well after the event was over.

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Ocean Beach is a community were hippies dance in the streets listening to live bands singing covers for tips.  Local business sell beads, neon lights, and organic face creams.  A black guy with dreads sits on a rail, lighting his intents that’s for sale, two bags for three dollars.  But on Christmas day, the streets were empty.

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Disappointed and left with little options on how to fill up time on a deserted street with closed businesses, we walked to a small coffee shop, the only one open on the block, ordered our drinks, and continued our path up Newport Ave window shopping pretending we would buy luxury shoes.  We made a left on Sunset Cliffs, crossing over a gas station, and hugged another left on Santa Monica Blvd.  As we made our way down the street, a man lunged flapping his arms to the beat of his sobs.

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“Help! I think my friends is dead.  He has no pulse. I checked it.  Do you have a cell phone?  Oh God, please don’t let him be dead. Please, help me.”  We looked at each other, following him to stooped man.  His eyes were shut tight, mouth slightly open, and his head tilted back.  He wore jeans and a couple of sweaters.  His brown shoes appeared new, while the rest of his clothes were worn to the thread.  We immediately split up duties, one calling 9-1-1, the other crouching down to take a closer look at the body.  A medical tag stuck wrapped around his ankle.

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On the phone with emergency responders, one shouted the order while the other coordinated the move.

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“My friend and I were walking down Santa Monica Blvd, and we ran into a man who said that his friend was dead.  I don’t know.  Let me ask.  What’s your name?”

“Steven.  Please don’t let him be dead. He’s my best friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Craig.”

“Last name?”

“Miller.”

“Age?”

“59.”

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“They said to lay him down.”  The body was pulled out of its half-slumped sitting state and dragged flat on the cold cement.  “How do you think this happened?”

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“I don’t know, man. I was with him all night.  We were sleeping, and he never woke up.  Is he dead?”  There was a brown paper bag by Craig’s feet.  Steven grabbed the bag and hid it in the bushes while he continued asking, “Is he dead?”

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The conversation was interrupted by a flood of cop cars with a caravan of firetrucks and roaring sirens of paramedics.  The skilled movements of trained professional moved into their well-practiced routine, pumping the body with machinery and IV bags.  We stood to the side, along with Steve, who continued to sob into his hands and repeating for his friend to be alive, his breath smelling of booze and other odors.  Several minutes went by even thought there was no time check.  Steven fell of the floor and prayed for his friend.  Men in pressed uniforms, barked orders to pump and pump, but there was no success.  The lead sergeant spoke words we had assumed from the beginning as the medics removed the catheters and covered the body.

“He’s dead.”

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We stared at the remnants of Craig’s life— a bike, a bag stuffed with unopened cans of soup, crumpled newspapers, and a blankie.  And there it was, a brand new sleeping bag that matched the sleeping bag that had been piling ups for weeks by the Urban Street Angels Ministry.  We knew then that it was no mistake we received the wrong flier.  We were not late. We were right on time and exactly where we were supposed to be, meeting Craig Miller.