“Have a great day,” Mark said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he watched her escape him.
He continued south on the Promenade. He saw two teenage boys standing outside a store typing into their phones. Perhaps kids wouldn’t be as callous as the adults. Maybe he could promise to repay them a buck if either would loan him some change. He went to them and said, “Excuse me, either of you guys have fifty cents for a phone call?”
They stopped their typing and looked at Mark and then at each other and then back to Mark. “Get a job, bum,” one said. His buddy laughed and they knuckle-bumped each other.
On his way back up the Promenade, back toward Milten Wingren’s office, Mark made two more approaches to people he thought had potential for sympathy. On both attempts he was rejected before he could even utter a word.
He found a payphone and checked its coin return for some lucky change—empty. He picked up the receiver and dialed 0.
“Yes, operator, I want to make a collect call please.” He gave the number of one of his Santa Monica clients, a law firm for whom he provided IT support.
The operator rang his client and Melissa, the receptionist, answered. The operator asked permission to bill the collect charge from “Mark” and Melissa said, “I’m sorry, Mark. I cannot accept any collect calls.”
Before Mark could interject, the operator said, “I’m sorry sir, your collect call has been refused,” and the line went dead.
Mark dialed 0 again and tried a collect call to the other client whose phone number he recalled. There was no answer even though the operator honored Mark’s request to let the phone ring over fifteen times.
Mark slammed the phone receiver down and walked to a bench by a planter to regroup. He reconsidered walking home, but the thought of making the trek through his pain was unbearable. Although the easier option would be to wait for Milten to return to his office at 2:00, he couldn’t bear the time needed to wait for him. It was only 11:50 a.m.
Two young girls and a boy, none older than seven, sat on an opposite bench near a fountain a stone’s throw away. They licked ice cream cones and giggled while a woman, probably their mother, stood over them digging through her purse. One at a time, she pulled out coins and handed them to the children.
At last, Mark thought. A mother with her coin purse out and open. If a mother had no sympathy on a young person’s misfortune, who would? He made his way toward her. When he came within thirty feet he saw a homeless woman carrying a plastic cup stand up from a bench behind them. She approached them and requested some change while clanging a few loose coins in a cup.
The mother shook her head and shooed the homeless woman away as the children watched. Mark detoured to a nearby light post and leaned gently on it.
The mom instructed the kids to close their eyes, make a wish, and then toss the money into the fountain without peeking. All three children did so, and afterward looked at one another as if they expected more to happen after the coins splashed into the water.
Mark knew that if he waited for the children to leave and then sat on their bench, he might be able to slip his hand into the fountain to get some change for a phone call.
The young boy sitting on the bench threw the stub of his ice cream cone into the fountain. It bobbed a few timed and then tilted as the water began to saturate it. His mother scolded him, pulled him from the bench by the arm, and gave him a stern lecture on littering. Before the ice cream cone could sink, a gull that had been watching from a rooftop swooped down into the fountain and grasped the cone in its beak. It spread its wings, and with two powerful flaps levitated up to a ledge to enjoy its soggy treat.
The mother ordered the kids to follow her closely and they rejoined the flow of pedestrian traffic on the mall. Mark made his way to the bench. The fountain was deeper than it appeared to be from a distance. The turquoise tiles under the water undulated with the fountain’s current. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and, yes, quarters shimmered from beneath the water. Mark turned sideways on the bench and rested his arm along the back before he let it flop down just above the water. He casually checked in all directions. He hadn’t attracted any attention so far. He dunked his hand into the chilly water and wiggled his fingers. It soothed the scrapes on his knuckles.
All passersby seemed to be oblivious to him. He lowered his hand into the fountain halfway to his elbow. As he swept his arm back and forth in the water, gauging how far he’d have to plunge his arm in to get his fingertips on one of those quarters, he felt eyes on him. As he scanned the closest storefronts, he saw a security guard outside a jewelry shop watching him. Unlike the many people who passed Mark on the sidewalk, the guard didn’t seem to mind maintaining eye contact with Mark. In fact, he put his hands on his hips and he lowered his chin, giving Mark patient attention.
Mark lifted his arm and shook the excess water off. As he did so, the guard gave him three slow nods, as if congratulating him for making the right choice. Mark stood and wiped his hand on his shirt and continued his walk back toward Milten Wingren’s office.
He saw a homeless man with a sign that said, “Please help.” Mark now understood the simplicity of the sign. It eliminated any pretense and cut to the heart of the matter.
On the opposite side of the mall he saw a street performer dressed like a clown from the waist up—complete with frilly shoulder pads, a red ball nose and face paint. He was getting big laughs by imitating passing tourists. The crowd laughed whenever the clown waddled behind a fat man or primped his hair behind a woman in bouffant. On the ground near a tree under which the clown stood, was an inverted hat with a dome of bills puffing up from inside and coins splashed onto the ground around it.
Mark made his way closer. There were so many coins spread out on the ground by the hat that the clown would certainly let Mark borrow two quarters for a quick call. During an apparent lull in the routine, the clown sat down on a wooden crate turned sideways under the tree. Mark stepped into the clown’s area and said, “Excuse me, is there any chance you would let me borrow two quarters for a phone call?”
The clown stood up and turned his back to Mark, crouching and searching up and down and all around as if he didn’t know where Mark’s voice was coming from. “Hey, I’m right here,” Mark said. The clown jumped high in the air spinning so that when he came down he faced Mark. That’s when Mark heard the laughs and realized that the clown was still very much amidst a performance. New spectators stopped walking, and since the clown was stationary and not following pedestrians, the flowing foot traffic began to clog around them. Mark found himself snagged, costarring in the clown’s routine.
“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t realize you were still on. I just wanted to borrow some change, that’s all.”
The clown pointed down at his overflowing hat and then pulled the corners of his mouth down with his fingers and wrinkled his forehead. He then broke into an exaggerated mime of playing a violin. Spectators laughed. Mark stepped back. The clown, following Mark’s lead, took a giant step back and hung his mouth open with a dumbfounded expression. More laughter from the crowd angered Mark. He yelled, “Never mind, clown. I can see you need the money to buy some matching pants for your blouse!” The clown mimed the act of stabbing himself as if Mark had struck a fatal blow and the crowd laughed and clapped. Mark turned and walked away to the sound of spectators booing and hissing.
The clown wasn’t letting Mark off the hook so easily, and mimed shoveling big heavy scoops of money from his hat and throwing it toward Mark. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd. The clown followed him for a good fifty feet, scooping pretend money, tossing it, and milking the crowd for more laughter. It wasn’t until Mark had drawn the clown too far from the real money in that hat that the mockery stopped and the clown retreated to guard his stash.
Mark sat and watched people until almost 1:00 p.m. and then decided to move about some more to stave off stiffness that had begun to set in. He hung his head while he walked. His growling stomach not only reminded
him of his hunger, but of a growing thirst.
He passed two benches occupied by homeless people before he found a free one. The option to wait until Milten Wingren returned to his office was looking like the only one. It was just two blocks away. He could wait here instead of on Milten’s steps.
The fresh aroma of a variety of hot foods wafted past Mark’s nose. The grilled smokiness of marinated carne asada gave way to the smell of buttered popcorn from a nearby theater, which yielded to marinara sauce slow cooking in an Italian restaurant a block away. The fragrant food made Mark’s stomach churn and growl and drew early lunch customers into the outdoor patio seats of the cafés.
He watched the homeless people that wandered from trash can to trash can, digging through, tasting, and pocketing anything edible. From a perch on a nearby building, a pigeon folded its wings and swooped down to a wadded ball of yellow paper on the sidewalk. It took the paper in its beak and shook free a stub of a baked pretzel. A nearby homeless man jumped up from a bench. He abandoned his bundle of clothes wrapped tightly in a sleeping bag to chase after the bird’s prize. The pigeon flapped, lifting itself far out of reach, pretzel in beak to enjoy its lunch elsewhere. The homeless man cursed the bird, picked up the empty pretzel paper, and threw it hard, but it only floated down by his feet before he grumbled back to his bench.
Mark leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his sore face in his hands. All his family members who would accept a collect call from him were scattered in various cities across the country. He knew that his small circle of friends would be at work right now and he hated to need them. He would wait for Milten.
§
Mark shook his head with his face still buried in his hands—unable to believe his circumstances. His head throbbed. He felt a tap on his shoulder and from behind heard a voice say, “Son, I’d be honored if you’d take this change.”
Mark turned to see a short, slightly hunched-over old man, two quarters pinched between his index and middle fingers. The man’s hair was pure white, a neat crop around his ears and tapered to the neck as if he had just been to the barber. He was clean shaven and wore a two-piece, single-breasted brown suit and brown wing-tip shoes to match. His trousers were too short so that green socks protruded from his shoes, exposed to a place well above his ankles. His fist squeezed the straps of a small wrapped and tied black duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
Mark took the quarters. “Thank you, sir.”
The man dropped his duffle bag on the ground, raised both his hands in the air and shouted, “Woo-hoo! No, thank you!”
“Why are you thanking me?” Mark said. He knew that many people who wandered around here suffered from mental illness. Mark was grateful for the quarters nonetheless.
“Cause you’re takin’ my grace,” the man said.
Mark felt a sermon coming on. He wasn’t in the mood to hear a religious pitch from a potentially crazy person who felt they had purchased sermon time in exchange for fifty cents. He held his palm open, ready to give them back. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Folks around here call me Uncle Leon. And you?”
“I’m Mark—Mark Denny.” They shook hands.
“It looks like somebody took a whuppin’ to ya.” Uncle Leon’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to hone in on Mark’s swollen eye as he continued to shake Mark’s hand.
“I’ve had a very tough day,” Mark said.
Uncle Leon had a firm grip and he smiled as he shook hands—a smile that deepened the permanent wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His greeting had the warmth of a grandpa.
“Well God bless ya, son. You needed some quarters, now you got ‘em.” Uncle Leon picked up his duffle bag and turned to leave.
“Listen, Uncle Leon…” Mark said, stopping him. “If you’ll give me your address I will be glad to pay you back by mail—with interest.”
Uncle Leon laughed. “You’re sittin’ on my address. And if you tried to mail it here, what are ya gonna write on the envelope? Third Street Promenade, fourth bench north of Broadway Street?” He pointed his finger around to the other benches on which other homeless people sat. “Hell, one of my roommates would get the mail that day and I’d never see your money.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know your situation. I was just looking to repay you for your kindness.”
“Thank ya’ is just fine. You try to pay me back and you’ll ruin my grace.”
“What’s with this grace?” Mark asked. He was anxious to go make his phone call, but Uncle Leon intrigued him.
“Unmerited favor—that’s what grace is. I showed you favor you ain’t earned. If you pay it back you ruin my grace. If you don’t pay me back, my favor comes back to me better and different.”
“Interesting…philosophical,” Mark said.
Uncle Leon stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger a few times while he examined Mark. “You’re new to beggin’, ain’t ya?”
“Oh no, I, uh just, I’m just trying to make a call—I mean this is temporary… and I…” Mark stammered.
“Hold up, son. You’re gonna choke on yer tongue.”
Mark took a small breath so as not to reignite the pain in his torso and prepared to try his explanation again.
“May I?” Uncle Leon pointed at a spot on the bench beside Mark.
“Of course—apparently it’s your bench.”
“Naaa. It’s a time-share. Anyways, I know yer new to beggin’ ‘cause the disappointment on yer face is fresh—it ain’t etched in real good. Yer askin’ voice is chock full of hope and you don’t got no callus in yer tone yet.”
“So you’ve been watching me?”
Uncle Leon nodded. “Not for long though. I seen how the clown did you. By the way, don’t worry,” he leaned in closer to Mark and lowered his voice, “Clowny don’t make nothin’—he stocks his own hat with cash so people think he’s good. Givin’ you quarters would wreck his profit ‘cause his mockery don’t pay any good.”
“So I guess the clown doesn’t share your take on grace.”
Uncle Leon smiled and nodded at Mark. “You believe me? ‘Bout the grace stuff I just said to you?”
“Sure. But I’m not religious…I don’t really—”
“Religious? I’m not talking ‘bout no religion! Grace ain’t just in religion. I’m talking about universal grace, boy! Givin’ without takin’! Unpaid kindness. You ever tried that?”
“Sure. I give all the time without expecting anything back.”
Uncle Leon’s smile grew wider and he adjusted his duffle bag on the ground between his feet. “Can we chit chat for a spell, son?”
Mark checked his watch as if he had the option to be somewhere else. It was only 1:25 p.m. and Milten wouldn’t be available for at least a half hour. “Sure,” he said.
Uncle Leon rubbed his hands together, scooted a bit closer on the bench, and crossed his skinny legs, drawing his pant leg yet higher and exposing a hairy leg above the green sock. “I’m going to tell you something you ain’t never heard before.”
“Please do,” Mark said.
“You remember that Bruce Willis movie where the kid said he seen dead folk?”
“Yep. The Sixth Sense.”
“That’s the one. Well, I can see favors,” Uncle Leon said. He slapped his knee like it was a gavel that pronounced his words true and then he leaned back on the bench.
“What do you mean you see favors?”
“I see favors,” Uncle Leon said louder, almost laughing at his own amazement of the fact. “I see them flying out of folk and into other folk. They’re real things—favors. I only know’d one other person, a woman, who could see favors like I can. One day she got sick with a fever and when the fever broke she couldn’t see them no more and never saw them again. The gift of seein’ favors got to her though ‘cause when she lost it she forgot how to trust what she couldn’t see and went crazy.” Uncle Leon wiggled his fingers up by his ears to show craziness.
Mark returned to his
suspicion of Uncle Leon’s mental instability. “Go on,” Mark said, more out of respect for the elderly man than genuine curiosity.
“When a person does a favor, it slips out of his body and goes into the body of the person gettin’ the favor.” Uncle Leon thrust his hands out from his chest. “Anyone nearby that sees the favor happen, they get splashed with some of it. Then a new favor launches out of the person you helped and follows you waiting for a chance to get into you.”
“So what does a favor look like?” Mark said.
“All shapes and sizes and colors. Some are round, some are blocks, some are twirling tubish things—everybody’s is different, but all favors are just a jigglin’ when they come out—jigglin’ like jelly. I reckon they’re soft and that’s how they get into the person that’s gettin’ it.”
“Amazing,” Mark said. He decided Uncle Leon’s wild notion was good entertainment for a few minutes.
“I might be the last man alive who can see a favor anymore—long as I can avoid the fever. By the way, yer favors are hour-glassy, like the base of a guitar.”
“How do you know what my favors look like if you haven’t seen me do any favors for anyone?”
“Oh, I can see ‘em alright. That’s the thing I ain’t told you yet. Favors can’t stay with the person you give ‘em to. They always follow you, trying to get back into you—always. But they gotta come back different or else they can’t get back into you. They gotta change form and enter you as a different type of favor. If they can’t then they hover around you waiting for a new way to get back in.”
“So you see favors trying to get back to me right now? Because I could use one.”
“A whole flock of them hovering around, but right now they are kinda goin’ in a line thata way.” Uncle Leon shook two fingers toward Mark’s right side. “I wonder why they ain’t getting’ back to you. You must have a few hundred or so at the moment.”
Dire Means Page 6
