-"Moonshiner" (Unknown author, made popular by Uncle Tupelo and Bob Dylan)
In the Book of Mark, Christ tells his disciples that "the poor will always be with you, and you can help them whenever you wish." Even atheists would agree with this if they were to spend a week in Nantes. Until I was reminded of that yesterday, however, the last time I had shared a long conversation with a homeless man was back home in Mobile's Bienville Park.
America
My friends were understandably horrified that I would answer when a dark figure begged us to "help a man out," but trusting my safety to the streetlights above and my feet below (thought encumbered by dress shoes), I asked the man what I could do to help. I'd meet my group at the next bar.
America
My friends were understandably horrified that I would answer when a dark figure begged us to "help a man out," but trusting my safety to the streetlights above and my feet below (thought encumbered by dress shoes), I asked the man what I could do to help. I'd meet my group at the next bar.
My memory fails me as I try to remember his name (I think it was Charles), but I doubt I'll ever forget his story. He wanted money; I wanted to know why. Before I could ask, he fired off a question of his own:
"Y'all been at a party?"
"Yes sir, it's called the Nutcracker Ball. About as fancy as Mobile parties come," I said.
"You have fun?"
"Yes sir, and everyone's heading out to the bars now."
He nodded in approval, and I took the opportunity to ask my question:
"How'd you end up out here?"
He smiled, and I half expected the stock "Hell, even I don't know." He surprised me.
"I joined the Navy when I graduated high school...."
"What'd you do in Navy?" I asked, my own voice rising with scholastic enthusiasm
He was a fire control technician on a destroyer in the early 90's, a seaman who helped to control the vessel's "Close-in Weapons System," a defensive tool called Phalanx (it's a effectively a massive, computer-targeted machine gun that shoots 75 20mm bullets a second to detonate an incoming anti-ship missile before it can strike the vessel). He said he enjoyed his work and the places it took him, and we bonded when he said how much he had loved the short period of shore leave he'd had in Provence and that he sometimes thought of trying to go back. His final year of service ended sometime during the Clinton presidency, and since his job was already being replaced by computers, he didn't reenlist.
His story went on, taking turn after turn for the worse. His mother died shortly after he left the Navy, and when he went back to his family homestead in Selma it had already been stripped clean by thieves (after copper wire in particular) and was no longer inhabitable. He had no money to repair it and no money to rent a place to live, so he joined a carnival that was hiring and spent the next few years of his life working as a manual laborer. He hated the menial minimum wage work and described the people who ran the show as "crazy." He ended back up in Mobile soon enough and took to the shelter/labor finders circuit. He said he'd stopped drinking and had rarely used drugs. I believe that to be true even today; clear eyes and decent clothing testified on his behalf.
I told him that I wished I could buy him a nice dinner, but since it was 12:30 at night, I would just give him $20 instead. He was speechless for a moment and then simply said "You're a good man, John." I told him that I was only going to spend that on overpriced beer and that I knew he could make good use of it. "You're a good, man, too," I added. We shook hands and said goodbye. For a moment, there we stood: I in my Mardi Gras ball tuxedo, and he in his Goodwill shirt and work jeans on a cool December night. I had made a trifling sacrifice, but I hope that I can at least grant him the dignity of having his story told here.
That experience did nothing to prepare me for what happened a year and a month later in Nantes, France.
France
My Saturday began with misfortune; the family laundromat I frequent (run by a kind old Chinese man who cordially asks how my laundry and I are doing whenever we cross paths) had its payment terminal crash right after I finished loading my laundry and detergent into machines 12,13, and 9. I also managed to spill fabric softener all over hands at some point, adding floral-scented insult to injury. Half a Nalgene bottle of water did little to remove the film of soap from my hands, and I had to hold my laundry bags in a deathgrip during the half-mile trek to the inferior "Lavolux" (there's no luxury there, I assure you).
With my laundry reloaded at last in two of the (foul-smelling) Lavolux's semi-functional machines, I'd finally settled into reading a characteristically sordid passage in Cormac McCarthy's Suttree about kind, but disgusting drunkards. Then, as if magically summoned from the alcoholic aehter of McCarthy's Southern Gothic universe, two haggard Frenchmen---one disheveled and unnaturally plump for a homeless man, the other emaciated and jaundiced---staggered into the tiny coin laundry carrying bread, Camembert, and Old Nick white rum in a reusable grocery bag. They reeked, their cheese reeked, the laundromat reeked. Everything reeked. After several heroic pulls of their milk-white liquor, the first thing they asked me after "Do you have any friends here?" was "Would you like to eat with us?" A kind offer excepting the fact that I despise Camembert and was already feeling ill. Then, just as I began to think "Well maybe they aren't so drunk after all," it happened. The larger, more coherent of the two coughed, sputtered, and then vomited all of the rum he'd been drinking into the sack he from which he had just removed his lunch.
Now I've been in the fraternity world, so this was not my first rodeo, but I nearly followed suit into my own grocery sack when he, at last finished vomiting, blew his nose into his. "These are literally Cormac McCarthy characters" I thought to myself. I confirmed I was not dreaming as I mentally recited a line from Child of God that depicts---in vile detail---a moonshiner blowing his nose on to the ground. Mustering my last reserve of calm, I suppressed my nausea long enough to escape the laundromat in good order. I headed to my kebab restaurant to buy two bottled waters, ran back to my apartment to grab paper towels, and then returned to the Lavolux with my cleaning supplies. He was grateful and entirely unashamed. Once again I heard "You're a good man," only this time it was slurred and in French. The sickly man agreed.
I managed to pretend that this all hadn't happened, and the three of us spoke as my clothes dried. The fat man first asked (appropriately) about my book and was disappointed when I told him it wasn't in French. He set about eating his lunch while I spoke to his companion. The jaundiced man told me it was his birthday today (something his friend didn't seem to acknowledge) and that he wanted to know what I thought of the war in Mali. Before I could articulate my opinions, however, he began telling his own story about his time in Bosnia serving during the NATO mission in the early 90's:
"I was there in Sarajevo. We were there to help people...everyone forgets that, but we were there to help people. I was there to help people...."
He trailed off, and soon our conversation drifted once again back to their lunch offer.
"Eat, it's the best kind!" the first said. I tried to refuse politely. "Eat!" My final reserve of patience wavered, and I tried one last time to decline. "I will be insulted if you don't eat." Now the Camembert covered bread was nearly in my face, and my patience shattered. "I think that unpasteurized cheese is disgusting, and I cannot make myself eat it. I apologize." I collected my half dry clothes and prepared to leave as he stood there, shocked that someone would refuse his cheese. I composed myself, apologized again for rejecting the cheese, and wished them a final good luck and farewell. "If you ever end up on the streets, find us. Good luck and take care." was their reply.
I walked home and struggled to conjure up images of the former soldier in his uniform, healthy and strong, rifle in his hands and his nation's flag sewn on to his shoulder. The distorted images that came to mind were of that same man, sallow and feeble, bottle in his hand and someone else's discarded jacked around his shoulders. I thought of Twelfth Night's pitiful drunk knight Sir Andrew Aguecheek, poor and alone (exploited by the one man who could pass for his friend, a fat knight named Sir Toby). "I was adored once, too," he says, and no one but the audience cares.
Sometimes comedies aren't funny at all, and I guess that applies to everything from Shakespeare plays to this lowly blog.
