Mister Clean - Part 1
The older faces told me that they had given up a long time ago, and now actually enjoyed their life of resignation.
Every week the faces came. The majority of them were furrowed with deep wrinkles--cracked, worn, reddened, as if time chiseled them with the dull blade of misery over and over again. The older faces told me that they had given up a long time ago, and now actually enjoyed their life of resignation. After a while, a hand-to-mouth existence was far less stressful than the lives they had walked away from. After a while, who they were or what they were in a former life didn’t matter anymore. After a while, hope was no longer a word with meaning, fate was far more becoming. Tattered and threadbare, wrong-sized, mismatched, none of the clothing mattered, for it was something, and something was more than nothing.
But there were faces that bothered me more. They were young, still joyful, still strong, still hopeful. Their faces were misguided, misunderstood, betraying lack of knowledge, lack of skill, lack of experience. Their faces were unheard, unseen, and unloved. I didn’t tell them directly, but I judged them silently, thinking they were all too young to be tossed, to be forgotten, to follow the trail of their hard-worn predecessors.
Ahmed had a young face. Somewhere his mind had gotten lost in the thin place between dream and reality, and he found it difficult to communicate in this world, the world of socially acceptable. I helped him one time rescue a purple bean bag chair left on the curb next to trash cans, obviously no longer part of someone’s future. I loaded the chair into the back of my Prius and took it to the park where Ahmed lived.
As if he were king of the park, Ahmed sat proudly on his purple bean bag chair, basking in the glory of found treasure. As I would drive by the park, I would take a side route just to see Ahmed sitting on his chair, sometimes reading, sometimes napping, sometimes looking off as if he had more dreams to conquer. He would see me drive by and he would raise his hand in royal fashion, a single palm extended upward and a nod as if everything were perfect in his world. And then one day, the chair was gone and so was Ahmed. I asked around what happened and with a bit of whimsy and surprise in their voices, the locals told me that he had joined the Army. I chuckled to myself, for weeks on end he told me that was his dream–to become “all that he could be.” The old Army recruitment pitch was swallowed whole by the king of the purple bean bag.
Donny had an old face. The old faces didn’t have such dreams. Their future had the time limit of today. Like the other “lifers”, those who chose to live on the streets, dreams were relegated to the reality of the moment and the moment consisted of what could be gained today. Like the others, Donny wore his heartbreak on his face–worn, wrinkled, deeply furrowed by the below-the-belt kicks that only life could deal out. Even though Donny lived outside behind a building next to a cinderblock wall, he showed no interest in the winter coat giveaway that I had coordinated. Whenever I saw Donny at our Wednesday night dinner in the park or at our Friday morning donut and coffee time, he always looked the same to me. He had thinning hair, more thinning than growing, and his unkempt hair always looked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blonde or gray.
But when Donny would come to church on Sunday morning, his hair was always combed neatly and he wore the same blue cardigan, the same gray pants, and leather loafers, giving him a very elegant look. Samantha, my generous assistant, gave away toiletries on a consistent basis and Donny gratefully accepted his bag of necessities. It was obvious that Donny made good use of Samantha’s generosity, because every Sunday morning he was clean-shaven, looking every bit the quintessential churchgoing man. Donny especially liked coming when I was preaching. He liked to probe my Bible knowledge after the sermon, asking me thoughtful theological questions even if they had nothing to do with what I had talked about. I never asked Donny what his story was all about, but I was always curious about my church going friend.
Donny was one of the few “lifers” that actually came to church. The others didn’t mind it, and in fact, greatly appreciated it when I brought church to them in the form of meals and donuts. It wasn’t unusual to see Donny miss a Sunday or two, but he always made sure to be there whenever I was speaking. So, the first Sunday I spoke and Donny wasn’t there, I took note of it. The following Wednesday, Donny was a no-show at the park mid-week dinner and the same for the following Friday donut and coffee morning. RJ, my very knowledgeable co-conspirator, knew the inside story of every one of our regulars. One morning at one of our breakfast briefing meetings, RJ had some intel on Donny, and he was especially anxious this day to give me the information.
RJ chuckled, “You’re not going to believe this, but I think Donny’s in love.”
I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my emotions, “What?!”
“Yeah, he met a woman over at St John’s a few weeks ago at their feed and he remembered her from years ago. They talked and she remembered him, too.”
“Is she homeless, also?” I asked.
With raised eyebrows, RJ brightly said, “No! She has her own apartment here in the area.”
We both stared at each other at this highly unexpected plot twist. Then RJ added to the speculation.
“So Donny got a job at a junkyard over on Western in South Torrance driving a forklift part time.”
“He has a job?!” RJ was beaming with the news and my excitement encouraged him more.
“Yeah, she told him that if he wanted to date her he had to have a job.”
Then leaning over the restaurant table, over our breakfast, he whispered a secret to me that I already knew. “She doesn’t know he’s homeless.”
“Oh...” I winced.
“But wait, there’s more. I didn’t tell you but I got you involved. He asked me for a favor but I didn’t think I could help him out. I said I would ask you.”
“Sure. What’s up?” I asked. I tried not to think about the hundred and one possible scenarios this favor might require.
“Well, he hasn’t been to a laundromat in quite a while, so he’s wondering if we could help him wash his clothes.”
This was not one of the scenarios I had imagined, it was so simple yet heart wrenching to take in.
“Tell Donny it’ll be my pleasure.”
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I love your stories, Steve.
Another awesome story about your chosen friends. I really like the way you write, I feel like I am there in the story. And the message is always heartwarming too. Thank you for sharing!