“I hope you get better soon,” I said.
The lady then moved her purse from her chest and opened it again. “Wait,” she said, looking inside her bag and then reaching in. “I might have some change in here too.” She dug to the bottom of her purse. She took out a handful of change and handed it to me. I put my hands together and held them out, and she poured the coins into them. “I hope this helps you,” she said, gently placing her hand on mine. “Remember me. I’ll see you in heaven. Happy Thanksgiving!” She turned and walked away.
I watched her disappear into her car before I counted the money she had given me. It was sixty-four dollars and fifty cents. I was stunned! I walked back to the van, counted the money again, and then counted my blessings.
I sat there in the drizzle, contemplating what had just happened. A sporadic churchgoer my entire life, I had spent recent months asking God to send his angels to me. But no angels came. Maybe I had to go looking for them.
With the glimmer of faith I still had left on that Thanksgiving Day, I said a prayer, thanking God for the visit from the Lady in Red.
And now, in the church parking lot, it was time to sleep. I closed the doors of my mind, one by one, and snuggled with Willow.
Chapter 4
MR. C’S NEIGHBORHOOD
The morning came, cold and crisp.
I had buried myself inside the sleeping bag, covered by a couple of blankets, and thanks to Willow’s cuddling, I’d kept warm during the night.
I popped my head out of the warmth to see that the front window and most of the other windows were covered in frost. It must have been in the twenties. I could see my breath. Willow wasn’t moving yet. She had squirreled her way down to my feet.
The village wasn’t really moving yet either, but it was beginning to awaken. I could hear the giggling of the girls in the station wagon next door as they played some wake-up game that I could not see. It must have involved tickling. Then one of the girls said, “Mommy, I’ve got to go potty.”
“You’ll have to hold it a minute. Can you?” a female voice replied.
“Nuh uh,” was the response. There was a brief silence.
“Earl, can you take Melissa out?” the woman asked.
“Okay,” he sighed heavily. “Melissa, p-put on your shoes and let’s g-go,” he said. “It’s c-cold, so we’ve got to go really f-f-fast.”
“Can you start the car, honey? To warm it up in here a little?”
“Hmm. Well, m-maybe just for a m-minute or two. We d-don’t have m-much gas left,” he said. Then the engine of the wagon started up.
“Daddy, I can’t find my shoes,” Melissa called out.
“You g-gotta find your shoes, Melissa. I c-can’t c-carry you!” Earl said.
“Here they are!” she said, triumphantly.
I heard the sound of one door opening and then the other, and the father escorted his daughter down the hill to the bushes. “Number one, or number two?” he asked.
“Number one,” she replied.
“Good!” he said.
The engine of another car started. It coughed, belched, and stopped, then the owner turned the key again, this time racing the motor to keep it going. The noise roused the rest of the encampment.
“I’ve got to go potty, too,” announced the other girl’s voice from the wagon.
“Katie, you should have gone with Melissa!” the woman said.
“I didn’t need to then,” Katie replied.
“Then you’ll just have to wait till they come back,” said her mom.
“Okay.”
Willow was now awake, and she crawled toward the opening at the top of the sleeping bag. As she often did, she began licking my face, cleaning my nose and my ears. I smiled in spite of myself. “Let’s get going, girl. It’s cold!” I maneuvered out of our warm nest. Like Melissa, I could not find my shoes. I looked under the blankets and in the bottom of the sleeping bag, and I finally crawled forward and found them under the front seat. I slipped them on, along with my coat, and started the engine to get some heat going in the van. Then I jumped out to scrape the ice off the front window.
Earl and Melissa were just coming back from their potty trip to the bushes. Earl, a big man, held the little girl’s hand as they climbed up the slippery hill to the parking lot.
“G-g-g-good morning,” stuttered Earl. “It’s a little f-f-frosty out here!”
“Sure is,” I said.
“Earl,” the lady in the wagon called out. “Katie has to go now.”
“I-I knew th-that was going to h-h-happen,” he stammered. “Hold on. I-I-I’ll take her d-down.”
Willow was now whining and scratching on the window to greet the little girls. “Puppy! Puppy!” Katie squealed, as she climbed out of the wagon. I let Willow out, and she jumped up on Katie first and then Melissa, wiggling her tail wildly. She happily followed Earl and Katie to the bushes as I finished scraping the windows. Willow was delighted to have new playmates.
“So, it’s okay to sleep here?” I asked Earl when they returned.
“W-we’ve been here about th-th-three months,” he said. Earl walked around to my side of the van as I was finishing up the last of the window scraping.
“R-r-reverend Randy has been l-l-letting a-all of us s-stay here, but—but i-it may not last much l-l-l-longer,” he continued. “The w-word on the s-s-street is the neigh-neighbors have been c-complaining, and the h-h-health department is g-g-going to c-c-close it d-down. I d-don’t know w-where w-we’ll go if they m-m-make us leave. W-w-wal-Mart won’t let us st-st-stay in their l-l-lot unless we have a c-c-camper and b-buy something. It’s s-safe here. We got to b-be careful, you kn-know, if y-y-you-know-wh-who sees us. The wife’s af-f-fraid they’ll take the kids aw-w-way if they, if they, ah, see us.”
Earl stopped talking and took his arm and wiped it across his runny nose. His moustache glistened with the moisture. I thought he looked just like a little boy, wiping his nose with his sleeve that way. His hair stuck out from underneath an Oakland Raiders ski cap. He wore an olive-green jacket with one of the pockets torn and hanging off the side. I noticed a hand-carved round wooden peace symbol hanging around his neck.
“You a Raiders fan?” I asked, pointing to his hat.
“No. I-I-I got, I got this free d-d-down at the Army,” he replied.
“The lady sleeping under the eaves... is she okay?” I asked, nodding in that direction.
“Th-that’s Ba-barbara,” Earl said. “Well, s-she’s kinda o-okay,” he continued. “She’s kinda...” He moved his hand in a circular motion around his head. “She was a n-n-nurse at the ho-ho-hospital up on the h-hill a few years ago. Then she got h-h-hit in the h-head in an ac-acaccident on the way to w-work one day and just about d-d-d-died. B-b-barbara spent th-three months in the h-h-hospital and was n-never the s-s-same, you know? H-her h-husband left her. S-she l-l-lost her j-job and her h-house. She, she’s been here for s-s-six months.”
My eyes surveyed the parking lot, and Earl said, “Th-that’s R-robert, in the big n-n-noisy white v-van. He’s an-n-other f-fucked up N-nam vet. He’s a n-n-nice guy. He just got s-s-screwed over at the plant s-s-so many times that he, he c-couldn’t take it anymore and h-h-he punched h-h-his boss. He e-ended up in j-jail. He’s a g-g-good c-c-carpenter, but he can’t f-f-find w-w-work. He’s a g-g-good guy, b-b-but be c-c-careful around his van. He’s g-g-got two big wh-white Sh-shepherds in there.
“B-bob and Mary live in th-that gray B-b-b-uick with the flat tire.” Earl pointed to the next car in line. “Th-they’re still cu-cuddling right now. They are tw-tw-tweeters—you know, c-c-crack users—won’t be up till n-noon. They ah-ah fight a-a-a lot.”
The cold air was beginning to chill me, and my body was calling out for a cup of coffee and a bush of my own, not necessarily in that order. “I’ve got to get going,” I said. “I’m headed down to the Salvation Army for breakfast.” As I started to get into the van, Earl moved closer to me.
“Mister, I-I was w-w-wonderi
ng if you might be able to l-l-loan me a c-c-couple of bucks for gas?” he asked. “I hate to a-a-ask, but...” his voice trailed off.
I dipped into my pocket and pulled out the two tens C had given me the night before. I handed Earl one of them. “Just keep it. Don’t worry about paying me back, okay?”
“Th-th-thanks,” Earl stuttered, and then he smiled at me. “M-my name is Earl,” he said extending his hand. “Th-that’s Betty, my w-wife,” he added, turning and nodding toward his car. “A-and those are our d-d-daughters, K-katie and Melissa.”
“And I’m Richard,” I smiled in return. “C’mon Willow,” I called. We both hopped in the van, and I closed the door.
Earl stepped up to the window. “W-we’ll probably see you d-d-down there, now th-that we h-h-have gas money.”
“I’ll probably be back tonight,” I said.
“G-get here e-e-early,” he said. “Th-this place f-f-fills up fast. Y-you were l-lucky to get th-this spot last night.”
As I looked over my shoulder and began to back the van out of the parking spot, I could hear Betty telling the girls, “Brush your hair real good. We’re going to get some breakfast.” I cracked the window and Willow stuck her nose out into the morning air. We were headed to pick up C.
The Armadillo was strategically located next to Allen’s Mini-Mart. There was a dumpster right beside Allen’s where C could get a day-old paper each morning. In fact, he could even get the paper from Hong Kong that Allen, who was Chinese, tossed away.
The location was also within easy walking distance of The Maple Leaf Tavern, a run-down bar that leaned toward the road but somehow had a perfectly level pool table. That was the only really level spot in the room. You felt like you were in one of those oblique fun houses with a moving floor if you had to navigate to the bathroom. The sideways angle of the tavern appeared to be about 20 degrees before the first beer; after two beers, maybe 10 degrees; and after four beers, everything seemed perfectly level. The Maple Leaf also had a beer garden, horseshoes, friendly folks, and draft beer for a buck. Popcorn was free.
The Leaf didn’t serve a microbrew. It had Bud and Bud Light on tap. Milwaukee’s Best in a can was the most popular. And for the connoisseur, there was Chablis or white Zin from a box. It wasn’t like Bill Gates was going to pop in on his way home from the office.
The Leaf was a slate-gray building stained by multiple layers of mildew, with a pretty pink front door just four feet from the street. The men’s bathroom was adorned with pre-breast-implant Playboy centerfolds dating back to 1969.
The patrons of the Leaf were obsessed with bodily functions. At almost any time of day a belching or farting contest could break out. Statements like “I don’t give a shit!” or “Up your ass!” accentuated most conversations that could be heard over the roar of country songs about Texan women with big tits and butts. When C pleaded, “Please, no more flatulence,” the patrons thought he was talking about a French beer.
The Leaf had its regulars, who cherished their stools at the bar. There was camaraderie and caring. When one of The Leaf’s soldiers was late for sentinel duty on his stool, there were worried glances toward the door.
Disagreements over politics, religion, and whether Dolly Parton’s breasts were real, fake, or weapons of mass destruction became heated on occasion, but always ended peacefully.
The harshest of insults were forgiven. They all knew they would be back on the same bar stools again tomorrow—God willing—and might need a friend. No grudges were carried home from The Leaf. The patrons would not have liked the comparison, but it was almost Parisian. Hemingway would have lingered there. Norman Rockwell would have painted there.
Sharon was the daytime bartender, and Charlotte ran the place at night. Sharon was a virtuoso at handling the bar, often doing so with a Salem Menthol Long hanging from her lips. She was a big-hipped lady, maybe forty, with black hair held in a ponytail with a rubber band. She glided behind the bar, watching each patron for some signal that they were “dry” and needed a refill, or for a flash of greenbacks laid on the bar to play the assortment of pull-tabs stapled to the wall. It was as if she could read the minds of her customers as she swiped a ten-spot off the bar, saying, “You want ten on ‘Lucky 8s’?” When there was a brief lull in the action, she would retreat to the end of the bar and work on Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle. But no one ever felt neglected on Sharon’s watch.
Sharon wasn’t much up on current affairs—she didn’t know that Dick Cheney was the vice-president, that Dennis Hastert was speaker of the House, that William Rehnquist was the chief justice, or that the Pope’s name was John Paul II. But she knew the important things in her world, like the names of the last six people voted off the island in Survivor and who won on American Idol.
Sharon also knew everyone’s birthday and that Harold had his gall bladder removed on St. Patrick’s Day in 1995, that Helen’s husband died the day before Halloween in 1990 and she still misses him, that Jean wears a colostomy bag, and that Steve’s wife was running around on him while he was off to the Gulf War (Steve didn’t know it, and she wasn’t going to tell him). She also knew that Old Bill had a DWI last year, so she had established a three-highball limit for him. She would coyly flash three fingers when she served him his last drink of the day, rather than announcing to all in attendance.
In a voice like Rosie O’Donnell’s, Sharon would welcome each patron with the proper greeting. When C arrived, she would usually call out, “Here comes trouble!”
C did his best to bring culture to The Leaf, one day by standing on the bar and reading a poem called “Casualty” by the Irish poet Seamus Heaney. He held the book high as he read. He was belched and farted down and carried out the door, but he kept reading nonetheless, raising his voice.
I found out later that C had been “asked to leave” (and in some cases removed by force) from just about every tavern in town, for a variety of offenses. He and Robert Frost were booted out of Brewskis, and W. Somerset Maugham and C were unceremoniously tossed from The Blue Goose.
Allen’s Mini-Mart was open from seven in the morning to ten at night, seven days a week, except from six to seven in the evening when Allen went home for dinner. Allen’s was staffed by Allen, and nobody else.
Allen was a man of few words. He would sit on a stool at the end of the counter in his store with his arms folded. A sign posted by the cash register stated: please ring bell For service. When a customer would come in, Allen would wait with arms folded while the customer picked out the items for purchase and then rang the bell at the counter. Allen would then quickly hop off his stool, make the transaction, and then return to his stool and fold his arms across his chest once again.
That’s the way he treated everyone, except C.
Allen talked to C. He liked him.
I asked C one day why Allen talked to him.
“He’s my neighbor,” C replied. “You know, like Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.” Then he sang: “Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won’t you be my neighbor?
“He’s very intelligent,” C said of Allen. “He’s like Buddha. When he has something to say, it’s profound. Allen just skips all the small talk.”
This morning, I parked the van next to the Armadillo and walked into Allen’s. I rang the bell and Allen leaped off the stool.
“Do you have any Tums?” I asked.
Allen handed me a package, took my ten, gave me change, and returned to his perch. He didn’t say a word.
I went out and knocked on the door of the Armadillo. There was no answer.
I waited a few minutes and then knocked again.
I could hear clunking around inside... and then the door opened. Two cats came pouncing out to greet me, followed by C, who appeared a little frazzled and was rubbing his eyes.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice creaking. “I stayed up last night reading Horatio Hornblower. I started out with the idea of reading just a few pages to fall asleep and the next thing I knew, it was f
ive o’clock.”
Purring and meowing, each of the cats rubbed against one of my legs. “Meet MyLynx and Calico,” C said, introducing his fuzzy friends. “They keep me warm at night.
“Come in and take a look around,” C invited.
I stepped on the metal fold-down step and peeked inside C’s home. Martha Stewart would have had a heart attack on the spot. Pots and pans and dirty dishes were piled in the small sink. Heads of lettuce and bunches of carrots and loaves of bread were piled in a corner on top of a mountain of dirty clothes. There must have been three hundred books, many sprouting makeshift bookmarks, and piles of handwritten notes lying on the bed.
A crow had landed on the roof, and its call captured C’s attention. “The crows are hungry,” he said, grabbing a loaf of bread and pulling the plastic tie from the end as he headed outside. He broke the bread into pieces and tossed them to the birds as he talked. “I’ve been here since August or September,” he said. “I’ve just been waiting for you.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Are you ready to go to Sally’s?” I asked.
“You’ll have to excuse me this morning,” C said, his gravelly voice breaking. “I stayed up too late with Hornblower and Captain Morgan to go anywhere except back to bed.”
“Well, I’d better get going,” I said, heading for the van.
“I think they’re having gruel this morning,” C said, laughing. “Overcooked oatmeal in a big pot! Hey, would you do me a favor, though? Take something down to Jake for me.”
“Sure.”
C retrieved a wrinkled paper bag from the Armadillo and handed it to me. “Here,” he said, reaching in his pocket. “Here’s ten bucks for delivering it. It saves me some time.”
So I took the bag and headed for Sally’s.
Breakfast at Sally's Page 5
