“That’s ‘Modern-Day Bonnie and Clyde,’ by Travis Tritt,” Randy said.
Thankfully, it only took a few minutes to get to the Armadillo, and Tritt was in his last few bars—the redhead having now become a sheriff—ending with an insightful “Yeah—whoa—well—woo-hoo.”
I pulled up to C’s abode on wheels next to Allen’s Mini-Mart, only to see a note written on an old paper bag tacked to the door. I left the engine running, so Randy could enjoy his music, and stepped out to read the message: “Gone on a Mexican cruise. C.” I chuckled, pretty sure the note meant C had gone ten rounds with Jose Cuervo and was sleeping it off.
An idea formed in my brain. Maybe Allen would cash the check. Then I thought, “Naw; he probably doesn’t even know Randy.” But I was desperate. I needed to get away from the country music before I became bow-legged, got yearnin’ for a pair of boots, and started calling everyone “Y’all.” Heck, the worst Allen could do was say no, and we had just been through that with the biggest bank in the world.
I turned off the engine. “Randy, come along with me,” I said. “Let’s see if we might cash that check in the store.”
Once inside, we found Allen at his usual station on the stool at the end of the counter. I walked over to the bell by the cash register and hit it once. Allen hopped off the stool and stood before us.
“Hello,” I began. “This is Randy, and it’s his birthday today. We have this check he got for a present, and he would like to cash it.”
Allen just looked at us.
“Give him the check, Randy,” I said.
Randy reached into his pocket handed the check to Allen.
Allen held it up and looked at it. “It is good?” the Chinese man asked.
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head.
“You have to buy something,” Allen said.
This sounded hopeful. I turned to Randy and asked, “Randy, what do you want?”
Randy looked at the displays on the counter. He reached out and picked up a package of Starbursts and put it down in front of Allen.
“Sixty-nine cents,” Allen said, hitting the button to open the cash register. He quickly placed the check in the drawer and took out a handful of cash. “Ten,” he said, laying a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Fifteen,” he said, laying down a five. “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and thirty-one cents,” he said, counting out the rest of Randy’s change. “Happy birthday.” He walked back to his stool, sat down, and crossed his arms.
Randy smiled. He began to pick up his change with his good hand. Then he stopped, as something in the glass case beside the cash register caught his eye. There, in the case, next to several decorative knives with dragons engraved on the handles, was a headset radio. “That’s what I want!” Now Randy was smiling all over.
I leaned forward to see if I could find a price on the headset, but I couldn’t see one.
The ever-vigilant Allen hopped off his stool and walked back to the cash register. He hit a key on the cash machine and the drawer opened. He took a small key from one of the compartments and stuck it in the lock on the back of the display case, releasing the door. He reached in and picked up the radio in question. “Twelve ninety-nine,” he said, holding it up to Randy.
“Does it have batteries?” Randy asked.
Allen turned it over and looked at the writing on the package, then nodded an affirmative to Randy.
“That’s cheaper than K-Mart, Richard,” Randy said to me. “I’ll take it!” he said triumphantly to Allen, and he put his money back down on the counter.
Allen counted out the money from Randy’s nineteen dollars and thirty-one cents and pushed the remaining change and the headset radio across the counter.
“I’ve still got some money left,” Randy said, picking up his change and putting it in the pocket of his jeans.
Randy tried to open the package right away. He held the case steady with his deformed hand and attempted to pull the plastic off with his good hand, but it seemed to be a losing battle. He looked up at me at last and said, “Could you help me, Richard?”
“Sure,” I said, taking the package from him. I pulled on one corner of the package, and I pushed on the other, trying to pry the headset from the plastic. I turned the package over, looking for a penetrable seam, muttering, “I don’t know why they make these blasted things so hard to open.” Then I heard a click from behind the counter. Allen was standing there holding a long knife similar to the ones inside the glass case. It was a switchblade, and he held it up toward the ceiling, the metal gleaming in the light. He held out his hand without a word, and I placed the package in it. In seconds, Allen cut the headset free from its plastic protection, handed it to Randy, and tossed the plastic away. He folded up the blade of the knife and stuck it in his pocket with the dexterity of a gang member.
“Thank you, mister,” Randy said to Allen, and I nodded my thanks as well. Allen headed back for his stool and we headed for the door.
Outside, Randy put his gym bag down on the ground. He held the headset against his chest with his deformed hand and widened the adjustable arms to fit his head. Then he turned the channel knob to where he thought his country station might be and held the headset to his ear. He fiddled with the knob until his station came through loud and clear, and then he slipped the headset over his head.
And he beamed.
I beamed, too.
I let him enjoy the moment. After a bit, I asked in a loud voice, “You want me to drop you off someplace, Randy?”
He pushed the headset back off his ears until it fell onto his neck. “No, I think I’ll take a walk,” he replied.
“Okay then,” I said. “Well, I’ll see you later.” I started walking back to the van.
“Hey, Richard?” he called. I turned. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
As I got in the van, I watched Randy put the headset back over his ears and pick up his gym bag. He started walking toward the bowling alley up the street. “I’ll bet he’s going looking for snipes,” I said to myself.
The drizzle had stopped, so I started the car and rolled the windows down. It was then that I heard the singing. It was Randy, walking up the street, singing at the top of his lungs to a tune on his radio.
Chapter 29
HERO LOST
Major Baker was treating the homeless to an after-lunch movie in Sally’s chapel. As I entered, he was leaning over to make sure the film reel was threaded properly in the projector. I took a seat in the back pew. It was a plain little room—a sanctuary from the elements. There was a bite in the cold breeze outside. It was now late October, and winter was fast approaching. I figured that most of the audience, like me, was here to stay warm and dry for an hour or so, at least as much as for the entertainment value of the film.
Surveying the room, I spotted C sitting in the front, right next to the screen, which was placed before the small altar. He was chatting with a young man I had not seen before.
The Major stood up and adjusted his glasses, which perpetually slipped down his nose and had to be pushed back in place. He appeared to be satisfied that everything was in order for the show, and he walked quickly to the front of the little room.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “Please bow your heads for a short prayer.” The Major bowed his head and clasped his hands together, and everyone in the chapel bowed with him. “Dear Lord, thank you for this time together,” he prayed. “Thank you for your many blessings. Keep us all safe from harm and show us the way. Amen.” Then he began walking back down the center aisle toward the projector.
“Okay, the movie is The Passion of the Christ,” he announced as he walked. “I think you will like it.” He flipped the switch on the projector and the movie started rolling.
It was warm in the chapel. I unlaced my wet tennis shoes and slipped my feet out of them. It felt good.
We were probably about a third of the way through the movie, with the scenes flashing back and forth
from love to hate and from tenderness to brutality, when I thought to myself, “Leave it to Mel Gibson to give us a bloody close-up of Jesus.” When the Roman guards were lashing Jesus for the third time, I was looking for Danny Glover to come barging through the doors with guns blazing to drag Jesus to safety.
But the beatings went on and on.
I knew C could not take much more of this, and, sure enough, a few seconds later he got up from his seat and made his way slowly along the aisle by the wall; the flickering lights from the projector created a silhouette that preceded him. C saw me in the dim light and slid into the pew beside me. He leaned in close and cupped his hand over his mouth. “I give it one kernel,” he whispered.
I was grateful for the comic relief. He leaned over again. “I liked the book much better,” he whispered. I grinned again and nodded.
A few minutes passed as we watched the movie together. But I could tell by the way C was moving his feet and looking around the room (like a small child bored in church) that he would be leaving soon. Finally, he leaned in to me once again and whispered, “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll see you around.” And off he went.
I stayed to watch Jesus be nailed to the cross, rise from the dead three days later, and leave this world a hero—lost, but not forgotten.
The credits were rolling when the Major turned on the lights. Five or six heads popped into sight, as men who had been lying down on the hard wooden pews were jarred from their sleep.
I could see the tears in the Major’s eyes as he walked over to flip off the projector. He was, after all, a man of God—a believer. He had dedicated himself to this life—this serving and saving. I could picture him praying for us in the morning and before going to sleep at night.
I could only hope that his God was listening. It would be hard to refuse a man like the Major.
“Thank you for coming,” said the Major in a loud voice. “Don’t forget—we will show the movie again tomorrow; tell your friends!” He gazed at us with great depth and sincerity.
The crowd began to meander out of the chapel and into the wind and cold. We had no place to go, and it was a Tuesday, the only night of the week that no church in town served a free meal. I, too, made my way toward the exit. Just as I cracked open the big metal door to the outside, I heard a voice calling out, “Hey, mister! Hey, Richard!”
I let go of the door, and the howling wind shut it again quickly. I turned back to see a tall young man walking briskly toward me. He was a burly lad with red hair and a short red beard. He said, “Richard? C and a couple other guys here told me you have a car and might give me a ride.”
“Where do you need to go? Which way?” I asked.
“Out that way,” he said, pointing north. “Out by the edge of town. I’ve got a couple of bucks I can give you for gas,” he offered.
“Sure,” I said. “Come on.” I pushed the door open again. The wind was whipping as we rushed to the van. Willow greeted me and hopped into my lap as the young man opened the passenger door and got in. Willow had waited patiently while I was gone, but now she was cold, so I opened my jacket and wrapped it around her so she could share my body heat.
The young man extended his right hand to me. “My name is Matthew; people call me Matt,” he said. “That must be your dog, eh?”
“Yes, this is Willow,” I said, reaching out to return his handshake. He had a strong grip.
A powerful gust of wind buffeted the van, and an old newspaper, a trash bag, and a cloud of city dust blew across the windshield.
“The people at my table at lunch were talking about you and Willow,” Matt said. “You guys are famous.”
“Famous?” I asked skeptically.
“Yeah! They told me you’re writing a book,” he said. “They’re all excited about it. They said it’s about homeless people; they all want to be in it.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint them,” I replied, “but it’s not much of a book, really. I’ve pretty much given up on it; it was just a dream. I’ve been writing at picnic tables in parks around town when it’s not raining and when the wind isn’t blowing like this. But winter’s coming on. I’ll probably end up throwing it in the dumpster.”
“Hell, you can’t give up now,” the young man said. “All the people at Sally’s are praying for you. They’re expecting a book! The guy they call C—well, he told me about you. He said that you and your dog have been living in your car for about a year now.”
“More than that, actually,” I said, still clutching Willow tightly inside my coat to warm her up. But she knew better than I did when she was warm enough, and she wriggled free and hopped into Matt’s lap.
“What a wonderful little dog,” he said, smiling and stroking her head and back. “I used to have a golden retriever when I lived in Los Angeles.”
I turned the ignition key and backed out of the parking space at Sally’s. “So, we’re heading north?” I asked as I headed down the alley to the main drag.
“Yep,” Matt confirmed. He reached into his jeans pocket and handed me a couple of wadded-up dollar bills. “I’m heading up to the woods. There’s a camp the guys call The Hilton. You know where that is?”
“I know exactly where it is,” I said. We turned north onto the thoroughfare and sped up.
“I was sleeping in my car until a couple nights ago,” Matt said. “I was parked on a side street that looked safe, but somebody stole my car. All my clothes were in it. I just got here a week ago from L.A.”
EEEeeeEEEeeeEEEeeeEEEeee—the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance as we were crossing the Warren Avenue Bridge. I looked up to check the rearview mirror and saw two fire trucks coming on fast. The traffic in front of us began pulling over to let the trucks pass, and we did the same. One truck sped past, then the other.
“That’s what I used to ride,” Matt said, as I was pulling back into traffic and picking up speed.
“Really?” I was surprised—and a little incredulous.
“Yeah, I used to be a fireman in L.A.,” he said. “Just a few years ago.”
“What brought you up here?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” he said, seeming reticent.
EEEeeeEEEeeeEEEeee—another siren. A fire engine was on our tail, with a medic unit close behind. The traffic again pulled over to let both vehicles rush by.
“Must be a big fire,” said Matt.
“Ever been in a really big fire?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Too many, really.”
“Ever save anybody’s life?”
“Yeah—people, cats, and dogs.”
“So, you are a hero!”
“Maybe I was a hero, sort of,” Matt replied, “but not anymore...”
I eased my foot off the gas pedal, checked my rearview mirror again, and then merged into the slow lane. “What happened to the hero?” I asked.
Matt was pensive for a moment. “You know, I just don’t want to get into that,” he said, turning his head and staring out the window.
We drove in silence for a mile or so and then saw the flashing lights of the fire trucks on a hill in the distance. Smoke filled the air above the fire scene.
“They must have water on it already,” Matt said. “The smoke is white. I can’t see any flames. They’ll likely have it out pretty quick. I hope nobody got hurt.”
“What was your last fire run like?”
“Not good, Richard. Not good. That was the beginning of the end for me.” He sighed. “It was a warehouse fire in L.A. My truck had been on dozens of runs, and this should have been an easy one—well, as easy as any of them are, anyway. My pals on the truck were good: Luke and Bill. We were sharp. Never had a scratch on any of us, or on the truck. We covered each other’s asses; we were a tight unit.” He paused again, continuing to peer out the window at the lights in the distance. “It was a small fire; there wasn’t any smoke or flames from the roof when we got there. It was all inside. We checked with the dispatcher by radio, and as far as everyone
knew, there weren’t any chemicals or combustibles stored inside that might explode. Still, we put on our masks before going inside.
“The fire was down at the end of a hallway on the first floor of a two-story. Some smoke, but not a lot. Luke took off his gloves to feel the metal door and told us through his mask that it wasn’t even hot. But it was locked. Luke asked Bill if he thought he could knock it down, so Bill pulled out his axe and motioned us to step back. He took a big swing and dented the door. Then he swung again, making a hole in the metal. Then Luke sent me out to get the big crowbar from the truck.
“Just as I got outside, all hell broke loose. There was an explosion, and smoke came rolling out the front door. I raced back and saw the flames filling the hallway. Luke and Bill were still inside. I tried to get to them, but the heat and smoke were too much. The building totally went up in flames. Luke and Bill died that day. And most of me died with them.”
He paused for a moment. “I tried to go on. People tried to help. The department sent me to support groups and counseling. My wife was understanding. I just couldn’t forget, and I couldn’t work. I sat around a lot. It took about two years to lose everything. The bank took the house and repossessed the car. My wife got tired of watching me do nothing, and she finally left with our son. My brother gave me some cash to buy a car, and I stayed in it for a while. But I couldn’t handle being in L.A. anymore, so I worked my way north and ended up here. My guess is that all those people back home are glad I’m gone.”
I searched for words to offer—something like “I bet they miss you” or “You’ll always be a hero”—but nothing came. His story was too familiar. In silence, I drove him to his next home.
He was a hero trying to forget, and I had no heroic words to help him.
I would soon be dropping him off at what I knew to be a good place—The Hilton. There would be food there, at least, and I knew the women who helped Adam and the other young people living there would make sure he had clean clothes.
Breakfast at Sally's Page 33
