You don't know old man John, but that doesn't much matter. He's moving away, remember?
Well, maybe you don't remember. Maybe I'm the only one that remembers him.
I always found him on that bench. And he always smiled at me when I walked up. Or if I drove by, he always waved. Still smiling through that rusty beard of his. I don't understand how he could smile, really. He was alone, except for that drunk son of his.
For the most part, he was alone.
And I'd sit on that bench with him just staring down Lyden Street. It leads to the water you know. Follow the road down the hill, cross Water Street and you'll be at the marina.
The old stone post office held its corner. And time ticked away in the tower above. I don't know if John realized time. He kept a blank stare breathing heavy. Every few breaths the gasps would attack him.
I thought that was the end. It never was, but it sounded so agonizing. I guess it was normal for him though. He'd just hold the oxygen mask that much harderpressed to his face, cheeks imploded and mouth wide open. Gasping. For. Air.
He said he uses four tanks a week now. The hospital only gave him three. They said it would get him through. That's all.
I guess we're all just getting by with life. Scraping the bottom of the barrel and trying to find more. But there's no more ice cream. No more summer laughs. Life is just typical and John is merely a typical homeless man.
It never failed. I always found John sitting, staring and all I thought is he must be picturing the ocean. What else is in a man's eyes, if not hope?
Sometimes no words were ever exchanged in our company. I would listen for God and find the winter winds making me reach deeper in my pockets for a warm place to hide. I would count the cars. Listen to the last leaf break from the tree behind us. And wonder if there was anything more than this.
Then I would catch John out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling. Of course.
In those moments I knew there was more to life. It is a hope most of us don't afford ourselves. Then I knew why all he did was stare down Lyden Street; he knew there was hope even at the ends of the earth.
About Me
- Gregory J Kelly
- Massachusetts, United States
- to be short, i've lived a good life. and in the past year i've seen one too many massive changes. all before 24, i was deported from a friendly country, got engaged to my beautiful sweetheart, took on a fight against cancer, beat him up pretty cleverly and am back to the resilient nature God's given me. through all these changes, God has never changed in my life. only my perception of the Divine has matured.
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He stood there looking over the pastries and I knew that he had earned every wrinkle on his wearied face. He was wearing what I once heard described as “an Americanized turban- a scrap of cloth folded at specific seams,” and he looked old. He looked like he had seen many more seasons, many more suns and moons, and many more Thanksgivings and Christmases than my parents; my grandparents. But he wasn’t old. Maybe he was fifty, not much more.
He lived a long hard life. And I could see that every wrinkle on his face was more than a fold or a line of skin, because every crevasse was drawn to the next, connecting like a path. Yes, each one was one of the paths that he took in life, but so far, none that he had travelled had brought him to where he wanted to be.
And his battle with cancer, it never left him. Sure, he overcame it years ago, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. When he walked in, he carried behind him a cart, one that had wheels-small wheels, ones on each side; the wheels that shook and squeaked and rattled, appearing to be on the verge of defeat, clinging for dear life- and it carried the oxygen tank. He always carried his burden by his side, not on his back. And from the top of the small cask there was what I like to think of as a bendy straw, one for adults. And it crawled up his leg, moved around his shoulder, jumped over his ears and rested right under his nose, right over his lip. And it brought him his oxygen, the only air he could breathe. No. He couldn’t have the stuff you and I take in- you know the oxygen mixed with nitrogen and whatever else is in the air we breathe now-a-day- he was a purest, and coincidently, that’s exactly how he liked his coffee.
And I remember, while he was browsing the pastries, he paused, looked up at me and sighed, “The usual.”
I knew that was coming. And I knew what “the usual” was because he a regular. Yes, in my mind the two words that least described him were what I normally attributed him with- usual and regular.
It was a corn-muffin: plain, that’s it. And it was a black coffee, no additives, nothing that makes it sweet, or nice, or enjoyable. So I got them for him: $3.25.
He moved his geriatric arm from his side into his pocket- if that is what you want to call it. I would say it was a pouch because it hung on the outside of the hole in his pants. It swung there, freely in the wind, but none the less, it held his change. And I watched. He moved slowly, and that was fast for him. I heard the clicking and the clacking and the clanging, and the hand emerged from the pocket- if that’s what you want to call it.
He spread out his hand, and his weathered eyes gazed over the scattered tender: $2.75.
“I don’t have it.”
He looked at me. Not making eye contact, only scanning my face, maybe looking for wrinkles, trying to find a path where we could meet- he found it. I hadn’t seen much, or experienced much, but I had seen suffering, and hunger, and poverty before- it must have left its mark on me, because on that path, we met-again
“It’s okay John. I have it…Everyone deserves some grace.”
“Thanks.”
I handed him his coffee and his muffin and then I reached into the tip jar: 50 cents. And I didn’t consider it stealing, even though Jerry’s tips came from the same source. In my mind, it was my money I was giving away. He nodded, then turned his back.
And I watched him waddle away, carrying his burden and his muffin in one hand, and his coffee in the other. Out the door. And I heard the ever-noticeable squealing wheels die off, for today they were a thing of the past, until a few days from now when he would once again muster up: $2.50.
hey, thanks for the comments. its always nice to get comments. i really like your writing as well.
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