by Andy Andrews
I did, however, question him about how long he had been in town. Again, his reply left me shaking my head. “Not really certain how long I been here,” Jones stated as a matter of fact. “That doesn’t really matter to me, so I choose not to think about it. But I’ve been here more’n a couple of days, that’s for sure.”
After a brief pause he wrinkled up his face as if he were giving the thought every ounce of his concentration and said, “Time is an odd thing. Christmas Eve for most adults lasts about as long as most other nights, but for an eight-year-old, on that particular night of the year, time slows to a crawl.” Jones laughed and slapped his hands together. “And I don’t know if you ever thought about it,” he said, “but what you and I calculate in years, in reality, might be just a quick dusting of heavenly hands.
“Think about it like this,” he said, shifting on the bench to face me. “What are you planning for next year . . . on today’s date?”
I laughed. “I have no clue. Are you kidding?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not kidding. A year from now seems like a long way off, though, doesn’t it?”
“A year from now?” I replied. “Yes. A year from now is forever. I mean, I’m not even thinking about next month.”
Jones nodded. “How old are your boys now? Eleven and fourteen, aren’t they?” I confirmed their ages, and he continued.
“A year or a month or even a week into the future can seem like a long time away. But a decade in the past?” He snapped his fingers. “Why, don’t it seem like those boys were born just a minute ago?”
The old man seemed to have run out of steam. With a satisfied sigh Jones eased back down on the bench beside me and placed one leg over the other. “Yes sir,” he said softly. “Time is an odd thing. Currency is what it is. Once spent . . . it’s gone forever.” And with that he simply crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
I wasn’t sure if he was resting or waiting for me to talk. He was quiet and appeared relaxed, and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all.
As I studied the profile of his familiar face, I couldn’t help but reflect upon where I might have ended up had it not been for that old man and the “time” he had spent with me. After all, I was living under a pier when he found me. But now . . . ? I considered what was, in fact, the relatively small amount of time I had been in his presence and tried to pinpoint what he had done—I mean, exactly what he had done—that had made such a dramatic difference in my life.
It was my thinking, I decided. Jones had challenged the very foundations of my thought processes. He questioned my perceptions, my assumptions, and even—or maybe I should say especially—my conclusions. Yes, I nodded to myself. That is exactly how he had managed to change my life so many years ago.
Within thirty minutes of our meeting for the first time, Jones had asked, “Do you read?” His question seemed simple enough, but as it turned out, there was a lifetime of layers to the true answer—an answer that continues to unfold even now, after all these years. When he had asked, “Do you read?” I remember taking a breath to answer affirmatively as he had added, “I’m not asking if you can read; I’m asking if you do.”
And that was only the first time Jones challenged what I thought I knew or even what I thought I had heard. The shift he created in my thinking at that moment changed my answer to his question from a yes to a no.
“Proper perspective about every facet of your existence,” he would tell me again and again, “is only everything.”
And so, as Jones became a fixture in my broken life—remember, I was homeless at the time—his remarkable way of dissecting situations began to have an astounding effect on me. And the books didn’t hurt either.
“Jones? Are you asleep?” I said softly. He made no response, so I sat back and waited. For the moment, I was content to simply sit there, feeling an odd sense of importance, as if I were protecting him somehow.
After all, I wasn’t the same scared kid he had found living on the beach years ago. Things had changed for me during the three-plus decades that had followed. Professionally—except for the hiccup with my latest manuscript—I was doing fairly well, and my personal life was on a great track. I had married a beautiful woman with whom I was still madly in love, and together we were in the process of raising our two boys.
I smiled, watching as the old man’s breathing gently lifted his brown arms, which remained folded across his midsection. “Come here, son,” was what he had said to me that night—the first time I had ever seen him—so long ago. Then he had reached out his hand and added, “Move into the light.” And that is exactly what I have been trying to do ever since.
Not a day has gone by in more than thirty years that I haven’t thought of Jones. More specifically, I don’t believe a day has passed since that time when I haven’t rolled those particular four words around in my head: move into the light.
At first, as you might expect, I assumed it had been the pier light to which he was referring. When I lived under the pier and night fell, my only light came from the big sodium-vapor bulb that extended from the top of a pole high above the structure. A small slice of that light worked its way down to me through a crack between the huge slabs of concrete. Those massive blocks of cement were set end to end and formed the pier’s walkway. They also served as the ceiling to my secret—and very sandy—home.
In the weeks after my first encounter with the old man, it began to dawn on me that the light to which he had been referring was a much brighter source of illumination than I had originally assumed. And the way things turned out, that light—and its source—changed everything.
“It’s six minutes after two o’clock,” Jones said. He had not moved a muscle. His arms were still crossed. His right leg draped across his left, and his eyes were still closed. I glanced at my phone. He was correct. It was exactly 2:06. Jones had never worn a watch, but I smiled to myself as I looked at his wrists to check anyway. Surveying the area with a few turns of my head, I also determined there were no clocks within sight at which he could have taken a quick peek.
I had seen the old man do this many times, and it always amazed me. He never missed. I mean, he never, ever missed by even a minute. Taking a deep breath, I opened my mouth to ask for at least the millionth time just how he managed that trick, but before I could utter a word, Jones added, “You’re supposed to pick up the boys from school. From here to there is at least fifty minutes with no traffic. You’d better get going and hightail it.”
Surprised as always at his awareness, I nodded. “Okay,” I replied.
With the barest hint of a smile, Jones said, “Good.” Then he shut the one eye he had opened for our brief conversation and settled in with small movements as if he were readying himself for a long nap. Once again, he said, “Good,” and with a deep breath in and a long one out, Jones was asleep.
He really was asleep. Or at least I thought so. The old man could read people and situations like no one I had ever seen or even heard of. Sometimes, during his long absences from my life, I imagined Jones watching me through a pane of glass. I would wonder what he would think about this situation or that person.
Then after five years, or thirty years, of being wherever else he went, Jones would show up and act as though we had seen each other an hour ago. It was weird. And wonderful. There was so much I wanted to know about him, but he was never interested in anything more than my life and what I was learning about myself.
I looked at the time again and knew I had to leave. I seriously considered shaking him and waking him up. I wanted to know where he would be and how I might find him. Was he staying in town? With someone? Inside? Outside? As much as I loved Jones, this part of our relationship was infuriating. As to where I might see him again . . . or when I might see him again . . . I had no clue.
But then I got one.
Out of time but still needing to sign books, I reluctantly turned away and quickly moved toward Page & Palette’s front door. Casually aware
of the vivid colors of the posters and book covers splashed across the store window, I froze as my hand touched the doorknob. There, in the far bottom left corner of the glass storefront, was a small, hand-lettered sign. In reality a 3×5 index card, the sign was ridiculously overwhelmed by the colors and commercial designs of the larger, more expensive advertisements competing for attention.
I moved to the unassuming, handwritten notice and went to one knee to get a closer look. At the top of the card, the words PARENTING CLASS had been neatly printed in all caps in blue ink with a ballpoint pen. THURSDAY AT 7 PM AND SAME TIME NEXT THURSDAY FOR SURE was centered on the next line. Under that, in parentheses, was written (AFTER THAT, WE’LL SEE HOW IT GOES). The location, GRAND HOTEL, was listed on the last line—and there, at the bottom, in careful script, was the signature of the teacher: Jones.
My mouth opened slightly as my eyebrows reached for the top of my head. I was past the point of believing that anything Jones said or did could surprise me anymore, but this . . . well, this was a surprise. I didn’t know what to think. Looking back to my old friend, I saw that he hadn’t moved. He remained upright on the park bench, arms crossed, chin on his chest. Yes, Jones was still asleep, but my mind raced with the possibilities of how this newest little wrinkle might play out.
Before heading inside the bookstore, I glanced at him one more time. Then with a huge grin on my face, I pushed the door open, shaking my head in amazement, and laughed out loud.
At least I knew where to find him. And when.
Four
The old man stopped for a moment to push his hair out of his eyes and brush a few strands of pine straw from his clothes. He had already walked a long way and was slipping quietly through the woods. It was almost an hour before sunrise, but Jones could see well in the dark. The raccoons and deer and armadillos—even one bobcat—paid little attention to him as he drifted through their midst.
The old man loved this part of the day. He didn’t need much sleep and preferred to be alone during the early morning hours. Oftentimes, though, he took on a project that required his work to begin in the dark. In a way, Jones knew, every journey started in the dark. And that, of course, was the very essence of his reason for being. It was his purpose. Jones took folks by the hand and helped them see the pathway by which they could move into the light. Perspective, he called it.
Jones walked across several cultivated fields, careful not to damage the growing crops. He could hear the noise ahead. From where he stopped to listen, it sounded like a muffled version of scratchy audio from an infinite number of speakers. He was still more than a mile from its source.
The noise grew louder as he walked until, at last, he stopped inside the woods at the edge of a huge field. Jones could see the faintest hint of light beginning to appear in the eastern sky. Alone in the darkness, he grinned at the clamoring racket now building to a crescendo around him.
After a time, cautiously, as if in slow motion, the old man moved into the middle of the field. It was no longer pitch black. The bluish-gray shadows portended the coming dawn while the tumult was growing. The very air popped and whistled and creaked. Metallic clacking and distinctive rattles filled the retreating darkness as if to scare it away forever. Screams of anger kept company with caustic rolling purrs and repeated shrieks of delight.
As night was gradually overtaken by the morning’s initial glow, the uproar increased, intensifying in volume, enthusiastically anticipating the split second when the sun’s earliest ray would vault over the horizon. Jones stood motionless in the field’s center. Head bowed, eyes closed, he was perfectly still for several full minutes when—as expected, but without notice—the sun’s first beam burst across the field. The old man’s white hair shimmered as the light fluoresced everything in its path. And for a beat . . . two at the most . . . everything went silent.
At that moment the noise responded to the dawn, more piercing than before, followed immediately by swirling images, coalescing across the morning sky into one shape-shifting symphony of motion. Jones looked up and smiled.
It was pandemonium.
It had been full daylight for at least twenty minutes. Baker Larson, alone in his Ford F-150, leaned forward and scanned the sky through a dirty windshield. Slowing the red truck slightly, he spotted the object of his search several miles away. The young farmer never took his eyes off the point in the distance as he tossed a curse word into the stale air of the pickup and punched the accelerator. Without any conscious thought, Baker snatched up the plastic cup in the drink holder and put it to his chin, spitting into it a stream of tobacco juice that was as foul as his mood.
County Road 33 was long and straight. Fortunately for everyone else this morning, the two-lane blacktop was clear because the driver’s mind was far away, and the Ford was being pushed well beyond the speed limit.
Baker Larson had turned thirty-seven years old the day before. It had been a Monday he would never forget. The bank sent a registered letter in which the word foreclosure was mentioned prominently in several paragraphs. “Happy birthday to me,” Baker had said aloud after reading it.
Obviously there had not been much of a celebration. Sealy, his wife, had already purchased thick rib eyes for the grill as a surprise, but Baker was upset about the cost of the steaks; therefore, any party atmosphere that might have been possible was over before the evening started.
Their daughters were high school age and already working to help the family make ends meet. For once, Sealy had been glad the girls worked evenings—thank God for waitressing jobs. At least they weren’t there to experience their father’s grumpy behavior on what was supposed to have been a joyful occasion.
Baker and Sealy had married young and struggled financially from the start. There had been no inheritance from either side of the family, and both carried student loans from two years of community college.
Sealy had gone to college because everyone else did, and she had never really decided what she wanted to do. She knew she wanted Baker, and she knew she wanted children. After eighteen years together, by most standards, the couple had a successful marriage. But the stress never really went away.
In retrospect, Baker was glad he had gone to college because that was where he met Sealy, but he had not known what he wanted to do either. It was a fact he recalled every month when the payment was made on his student loan. He had earned a two-year degree, but he did not want any part of any job for which that particular degree qualified him. It had never occurred to him to determine in advance just what kind of job he could obtain with that degree. Apparently it had never occurred to his faculty advisors, either, because no one ever mentioned it to him. Baker often wondered if his guidance counselors were still paying off their student loans too.
When sixty acres of land became available between Fairhope and Foley, Baker jumped on it. He had worked on some of the Baldwin County farms during his summers in high school and figured he could own one as easily as work on someone else’s. He wasn’t too surprised that he qualified for the loan—it was a government thing—but he was shocked that they offered him more than he needed to buy the place. The extra money, he was told, was for seed, fertilizer, and anything else he might need.
The first thing Baker had “needed” was a new truck. A brand-new truck. And a new one for Sealy. Baker was determined to have the best of everything on his farm, and, for the most part, by borrowing available cash, that was one particular goal he managed to accomplish.
He used the money from government loan programs and farm subsidies for hunting vehicles and elaborate playhouses for the girls. Five years after they were married, Baker and Sealy acquired a four-bedroom, three-bath residence in town. Of course, the house was mortgaged to the hilt (just like everything else they had), and through the years it became increasingly obvious that the family’s finances left no margin for unexpected occurrences.
Baker had juggled things for a long time, but the letter from the bank let him know with certainty that the ba
lls were no longer in the air. He felt scared, embarrassed, angry, confused, weak, and tired. Oh, and stupid. Especially stupid.
And guilty. Guilty because of the damage he had done to his family’s future. Baker had told his wife and daughters that they were going to be rich. He certainly believed it. Money was all Baker ever thought about, really, and the arrogance he displayed with the things he bought—never mind that it was all on credit—bordered on the ridiculous. Somewhere in his subconscious Baker knew that his lust for stuff was some kind of reaction to a family history about which he was ashamed. His daddy had died broke after four marriages, and though no one ever, ever talked about it, Baker knew that his grandfather had died in prison.
The extended family was just as bad. Most of the young farmer’s cousins and their kids were always in trouble of one sort or another. He had an aunt who was constantly in either rehab or the county jail. Then there was his uncle Edward, the preacher, who was always broke, and the church paid for his house. It disgusted Baker that “Brother Ed” always lectured them about God providing but never hesitated to ask his nephew for money, never called it a loan, and never bothered to pay any of it back. Ever!
His mother’s side was no better. Her own brother had not come to her funeral but had managed to make it to the house several hours after it was over. He used the same flat-tire excuse they had heard at least a dozen times. He wanted to pick up some things, he said, “to remember her by.” Less than a week later Sealy spotted those things remembering Baker’s mama in a pawnshop window.
Yes, Baker’s family tree was a mess, especially when it came to their finances. On the other hand, when he looked around at most everyone else, he couldn’t help but come to the conclusion that debt and financial stress were just part of success. So while he did not like the pressure, he did consider it normal. In the back of his mind, though, the farmer felt like he was running on the edge of a cliff. The expenses and the income had balanced pretty closely for years, but he always lived in fear about the one thing that kept the banks at bay. His crops.
