Today?

I stopped to say Hi to a guy sitting on a bench by the rose garden in the park. He looked like he could use a friend, turns out he didn’t. Said he just liked roses, reminded him of when times were good, the sky was green, and the grass was blue. I left him sitting there, too big to carry, too stubborn to change.

He asked as I turned to withdraw, subtly of course, “Do you need any.”

I asked, “what?”

He said if I didn’t know, he couldn’t help me. He also said, “if it was free, would it make a difference?” 

I said, “I supposed it might. But what would it cost?” He laughed like he hadn’t laughed in a hundred years. I smiled back, being the polite type I sometimes am when confused to the point of being civil to the uncivil.

I did something I never do. I asked a question I was sure I knew the answer to. “You homeless by chance?” 

“No,” he replied with a slight grin of anticipation, “No chance involved. You interested in some freedom. It can be arranged.” When he reached into his pocket, I must admit I felt a little uneasy. 

He pulled out a key that he claimed was, “The key to success.” What can you say to something like that, so I just smiled back, like returning a serve, but with less racket. He seemed to appreciate the gesture, and the anomalistic innuendo.

He said, “You know that freedom has to be earned. You can’t just go to the store, and get you some. You got to have something to put down, and then pay for it, a little at a time. You need credit. Got any?” 

Well, I have more credit than the average debater, I told him. He thought that should be enough. He was a smart guy for a littler bug. I didn’t mention that sooner, didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  He’s looking over my shoulder as I jot down these notes.

He didn’t seem to be offended. He didn’t start picking up the trash either.

Then he asked me If there wasn’t someplace I was supposed to be. I hadn’t thought about it until he broached the subject, but he was right. I was supposed to attend an execution. I really didn’t want to go, but sometimes we have to do what is expected. It is not every day they roust the Cretans from the halls of government, and drive them down the street.

I won the opportunity to cavort with the higher ups, in a raffle held by the Freedom from Religion organization that enjoys putting ordinary folks like me, “in the light of the lime.” I have no idea what that means, but appreciate the effort all the same. Not every day you get to run with a bunch of congressman down the street, while citizens berate them for their inactivity. 

I felt bad for the heavy-set fella who lost, he was after all the reason for the execution. The posters all said it was an elocution contest, but those of us in the know, knew, exactly what was meant by elocution.

It wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. They left the rope long enough so when the trap door was sprung, so was he. The big guy landed on his feet. I guess they was just trying to scare him into doing the right thing, which I know from experience can’t be done. Your morals are personal, morels are not, and no matter how many times they make you confess your digressions, and ask for forgiveness; some have a propensity for power that can’t be overcome. “Off with his head,” they scream, and he begins to whimper as though he’d seen himself at the foundry where they cast the statues of dignitaries and kings; they call it hell.

They all confess to their sins when forced to ratify their actions on behalf of the populace, they pretend to repent. They profess they are going to repent. They’ve learned their lesson, until next time.  They go back to being corrupt, but then, that is all they know how to be. It’s kind of like growing up in a house full of thieves, becoming a lawyer seems to be swimming against the proverbial evolutionary stream. Fun watching him sweat though. Kind of thought it might have been the first time he’d worked up a sweat in his entire life. Kind of warms the cockles of your heart.

I asked again what he… what I should call him?

“Bertrand.”

“First or last.”

“You figure it out, I’m busy.”

 I asked what was next. He wanted to know what I meant by next. I explained, “You know the thing that comes after the other thing.” 

“Well,” he says, “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place, instead going all foggy on me.”

I had never gone foggy on anyone before, so was a bit taken back by the implication that being considerate, thoughtful, and kind, could be construed as devious activity, even in this time of upheaval. He just laughed at my wide-eyed expression and made the sign of the cross, blessing me I assume, or praying for salvation, perhaps his. To be honest, I was afraid to ask.

He asked if I remembered WW1. I told him I did remember it historically, as I was not on the planet when it took place. As a means of endeavoring to accommodate his question, which I could only assume had a more practical application than I initially recognized, I offered, “I had a grandfather who served in the U.S. Army during that time, and fought overseas at the behest of his country.” 

He seemed reasonably impressed. I could see it in his eyes before he closed them, conjuring his next question no doubt from the bowels of his dissociative intellect.

“And what about your father? WWII, Korea, Vietnam, LA riots? Sorry, almost forgot, Ferguson.”

I could see he wasn’t goin to let it go, so I offered a presumption to facilitate the mornings progress. “Yes, I am a pacifist!”

“I thought so,” he said with a smile, stooping to pick an All-Day Sucker wrapper from the ground and begin to lick the remnants that clung to the slick paper. “Breakfast,” he offered.

I could have been shocked, but wasn’t. I’d seen a guy eat the beating heart of a road killed Aardvark on my way to Canada to escape the blizzard of 1968; I don’t shock easily.

He wasn’t aware of the 1968 storm but pretended to know nothing of its origins or level of destruction caused by its pervasive and intrusive behavior on the card-carrying members of the newly graduated 18-year-old’s of the country.

“You talkin about the draft, civil disobedience, bra card burners and the like?”

I admitted I was alive and well during those tumultuous times, although I tried not to dwell on the misery it created, not only throughout the country, but around the world as well.  But particularly hurtful to the bra industry, They had to investigate the dark regions of Asia for child labor, just to survive.

Next thing I know he’s pushes the paper into his mouth and begins to chew, then swallow. He then begins to scour the ground for desert, I presumed. He spotted something off in the distance and stumbled towards that direction. He was gone a few hours giving me time to start to pick up the garbage.

He came back looking ten pounds heavier and much paler than when I’d seen him last. He knelt before me and began to thank God for people like me. His prayer was simple, but to the point. “Please God, give this here agitator and adversary of trash, the fortitude to continue his fine admirable work, in the name of the, well I’m goin to leave him to fill in the blanks. Never been much for putting words, thoughts, beliefs, into other people’s prayers. Oh Yah, Amen,” he blurts out picking up a popsicle stick and chewing on it like he was trying to suck the last vestiges of flavor from it, or he no longer had a tooth brush.

“Now, where were we?” He got up off his knees and made his way to the bench with the wet paint sign which obviously was from a previous time, as it had faded to an almost indistinguishable shade of gray. Someone had adopted the means of warning to encompass some guy named Jude who would kill anyone that needed killin for ten percent off, it being the holiday season. I assumed it meant Christmas, but it could have been Easter or Ground Hog Day. I’m not much good with holidays.

“You ever been to hell?” he asks as non-comital as you’d expect from a litter bug. “Ever thought about goin there just to see what it might be like. What the fuss is all about?”

I had never really considered hell an option until that very moment. I had been taught to dwell on the finer things in life, or life after death, heaven. So being that I was also taught to not tell a lie, I re-arranged my morals, unbeknownst to even me, and then it was too late. I lied. Probably the first lie of my life, and I wasted it on a litter bug.

“Yes,” I said, accompanied by a loneliness I had never felt before. Something about lying that freed me from the mundane existence I believed could only be had by those of truth, justice, and the American Way, but hollow.

He says right off, “You’re lying, aren’t you.” 

Not being a liar by trade I confessed, more to myself than to him. I asked if he’d keep my secret, and he erupted in laughter, “Hell no! What you take me for, a government sympathizer. You know they got cameras and tape recorders everywhere. Look!,” then he points to the sky and sure enough there are the entrails of a plane overhead, and a static in the air that was unmistakable, I could feel my hair making a break for it. I did see his point.

“So you’re telling me we are being surveilled as we stand here amongst the garbage, and the air you can see as plainly as the smirk on your face.”

“You’re catchin on,” he says, slapping me on the back with his sticky hand. “Didn’t know if you was too far gone to get the gist or not. I guess there is hope for you yet.” He just stands looking at me and then says, “got to hang up.”

Most people I’d ever known, would say they had to leave, or get going, but not hang up. I asked what he meant by hang up. He says, “You ever seen anyone hang down?” He had another point, just not one I was ready to accept at face-value. I expected there was some ulterior motive to his words, but couldn’t guess at what they’d be.

I must have looked puzzled enough that he comes out of his trance and says, “Hello. It’s me Pete.”

“You told me just a few minutes ago your name was Bertrand.”

“Yes,” he says, “So what’s your point?”

Talking to him was a circumventing experience to say the least. Not only was it not educational, or minimally informative, but totally lacked authenticity. I felt like I was talking to a ghost, or an escapee from the Fort Snelling Mental Stabilization Unit at our local historic military establishment. It was created during the Civil War to introduce the boys from the country to the ways of the big city, or maybe vice-versa. It didn’t work, as they were being asked to fight in the backwoods areas of the South. And I’m not talking Chicago.

I asked him where he’d come from. He pointed to a gaggle of bushes next to the railroad tracks. “Over there. Don’t tell anyone. Against the law to live with the bushes.” He then begins to eye the remaining remnants of my beautification attempt. “Lookin, good,” he says, “Keep it up.”

I was getting a little frustrated with his obvious attempt to make me look even more foolish than usual. Thinking back on how I’d learned to deal with people like him I asked, “You live like this? How come? Don’t you know it ain’t healthy and probably illegal, possibly irreligious.”

Might have hurt his feelings. He walks off towards the bushes and comes back with another sack of assorted garbage, and dumps it on the ground at my feet. “There,” is all he says.

I look at him. He looks at me. We look at each other.

He smiles and says, “Hey George, how’s it goin?”

“Not bad,” I reply. 

“Up for some Gin?... Rummy that is,” and we both laugh as he pulls a deck of anti-fascist cards from his pocket and asks politely, “Vote Yet?”

Well I hadn’t voted yet, and my name is not George. I do like Rummy though. Makes me think of American Pie, rainbows, democracy, and some mores. I attempted to tell him my name, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said that would put us on an even basis, and he had no reason to get even at this stage in his life.

I asked him out of curiosity what he had done in his past life, and if he had plans for the future. He just looked at me like I’d just dropped in from Las Vegas with a pocket full of poker chips, and a bad attitude. 

I could tell he was going to ask me to forgive myself for thinking such thoughts, but he didn’t say a word. He just looked at me like I was applying for sainthood. I assured him I wasn’t, and he just looked at me again like he’d read my mind and knew I must be lying.

“Medicinals,” he says, out of nowhere. “That’s what I was into before they legalized them and sunk the ship that brought the joy.” I had no idea what he was talking about, and I’m sure he realized that when I turned my back on him, and pretended to cry.

He patted my back once again with his sticky hand, out of kindness I suppose and asked what I did to keep from killing myself. I had never thought of survival as avoiding suicide, but I could see in a world where everything is supposed to have value, and so little of it does, that it can be confusing.

I told him I was in to sticks and stones. He asked what I meant by sticks and stones. “Building,” I said, rather shouted. I had begun to fear he was hard of hearing, as I was asked routinely to repeat myself. I began to contemplate the possibility, that what I thought did not project itself in a form of audible stimulation capable of being interpreted by the novice listener, and therefore should reconsider my previous assumption of his hearing capability, or incapability.

I realized the longer I was around him, the more confused I became, and would either have to stoop to his level and dump some trash on the ground, or continue in my efforts to make the world a more beautiful place. A garden of Eden, or at least a place where you weren’t repulsed by the very vision you needed to fuel your dreams of the Coming.