To Be Or...

We have all heard the phrase, “to be or not to be, that is the question." What does that mean? We don’t really have a choice of being or not being. We didn't ask to be born.

Is the implication we can be what we choose to be? If so, when did that line begin, and where is it.

This however was just the question to ask Rufus Stuntsworth. He lives down by the bus stop somewhere. No one has bothered to find out, because no one cares, except me. And I know enough not to go chasing rainbows.

 Some say he has the reputation of being, either a disgraced Jesuit proletarian, or an over zealous believer in the trickle up theory, which is of course a direct challenge to the president who once represented those that spoke, heard, or saw no evil, unless it was compensated for by either votes or money; are considered fighting words by some. But that is another story.

Rufus never having had the opportunity to attend school, as his parents were concerned for his sophisticated nature being bruised by the hardened evaluations of the lower classes. He believed in nothing before his parents were assassinated by an irate cabby who claimed they had stiffed him. Rufus became so distraught because of the incident and its notoriety, his parents being high rollers in the laundromat industry and had become one more piece of news no one cared to hear, but couldn’t resist delving into the sordid details, Rufus almost retired from the human race. 

Rufus was left to stagger through life with only the memories of things unlearned and the hope that he would live long enough to see a wash machine in every pot in the land. His unique outlook on life gave him an inward capability of seeing a problem before anyone else. His ability to project a solution before the question was asked became apparent, allowing his unparalleled success on the corner of Fifth and Main, metering out advice to those who had nothing to do while waiting for the bus.

He realized not long after people started taking the next bus, that he was on to something. He started out giving free unsolicited advice about unassuming things, clothing styles, shoes, how to walk without attracting attention by the wrong sort of people. He became an instant success. He branched out into horoscopes and crossword puzzle recommendations. He was fond of saying, “Not all crosswords are created equal.” Advice once given freely by Ruffs from the head and heart, became an albatross that hung like a plane from the clenched hand of King Kong around his neck.

Like so many things that begin with good intentions, end up in a conundrum of their own making. Rufus never having experienced the foreplay of differing opinions found he often would have to dawn his resurrected football helmet and hockey protection to keep from suffering the indignities of having been raised a pacifist.

One day after receiving his lecture on the pros and cons of chewing gum in public, I asked him if he had ever considered charging for his insight into the disturbing problems of not only the city, but the world as a whole. He said he’d thought of it, but could not decide. Rufus, not being able to decide about anything, was like looking at the devil and wondering if he enjoyed spicy food. Was there even a question? There was no choice but to push him on the subject, as he normally did not procrastinate like the rest of us, who would rather be hit by lighting or a meteor before we’d have to come up with a definitive answer to a problem, any problem. 

Whereas our society trained us to be nebulous in the face of uncertainty, Rufus was raised in the definitive nature of the Baptist tradition. There was not right or wrong to contemplate. “You went with the Lord,” or you just went. It was a simple but effective means of weeding out the non-believers according to Rufus. That is why his recent indecision about charging for services, and it being the basis for the capitalistic system we know as trickle down, seemed to take a heavy toll on Rufus. 

He began to lose weight, his eyes became milkier than usual, his hair started to curl on its own, and he began to tell people the truth, not just what they wanted to hear. It was this bit of enlightenment that encouraged me to dig deeper into the pile of unrecognizable knowledge accrued by Rufus over the years.

We all know that being influenced by ones parents should only last until they are no longer living, but in Rufus’s case that time came before he’d developed the will to rebel, and think for himself. He was left with old clichés and half remembered biblical references that made his stories a thing to behold, when combined. 

After many hours of self-reflection, Rufus determined if he chose to charge for his insight into the human condition, he would be forced to tell the truth. He also realized from listening to the hours of tapes I had recorded of his sermons, that he was in no position to begin telling the truth at this particular juncture in his life. “Perhaps later,” he whispered to me with tears in his eyes, as he finished the last of his onion sandwich. 

I wish I could tell you that Rufus found God in his new found business, but he died tragically before he confided in me his final decision whether to charge, or be truthful. He was most conflicted by the idea that truth often hurts more than a mismanaged segment of it.

Rufus would have been proud of the way his story ended. The cabby who had assassinated his parents was the same cabby that ran him down on his way to confession. 

His brother Icarus had just been ordained as the first interdenominational Papista, to receive special dispensation from somewhere in Italy, and he was now legally qualified and spiritually endorsed, to hear confessions. 

Rufus believed in almost everything, but even more fervently in family than everything. The news that his brother had left the tabernacle choir and was opening a storefront church on Bleeker street, was too much for Rufus. He jumped from his bus stop pulpit and ran into the street where he was struck by John Culprit who had just been released from prison on the grounds he would look for a more non-transitional type of work. 

JC can be seen most afternoons, before his shift, dispensing knowledge from the pulpit on Fifth and Main. He does OK for a novice, but doesn’t have the same intensity that made Rufus so believable, and yet viewed skeptically, as no one gives advice for free, and expects you to believe it.