GRAND CANYON: THE HOMELESS ANGEL

Who can say what form an angel may take? On a late July morning, in the shadow of the Parthenon in Centennial Park, an angel came in the form of a tough merchant marine down on his luck.

I got out early that morning, determined not to encounter my wife. I wanted no part of her and wished with all my heart that I’d never laid eyes on this city. It felt like death. It was strange how I came to be there in the park that morning, my newspaper spread out before me and a large cup of coffee doubling as a paperweight to keep the paper from blowing away. It was my habit in times like this to take long walks but it was not my habit to hang out anywhere unless to catch the bongo players and the whirling rainbow dancers on summer Sundays. I avoided contact with other people. If a homeless man approached me I would endure it for no more than a few minutes before moving on. I’d give him a dollar or a pocket of change and be on my way.

It was equally strange how this exceptional man happened to be there at this particular time. It was highly unusual that the cops hadn’t hustled him out of the park and shuffled him off to the other side of town. It felt like it was meant to be.

He looks me over and sizes me up, pausing here and there, trying to gauge my receptivity before traversing the last few yard to approach me.

“Mind if I sit here a spell?”

His voice has the twang of the Deep South.

“It’s a public park.”

I’m hoping he’ll make his plea, take a buck and shove off.

“So it is.”

He plants himself on the bench across from me.

“Nice day.”

Oh no, I tell myself, he wants to talk.

He asks me if I’ve seen a guy with a black cowboy hat, a golden Palomino or some such thing embroidered on it. He informs me: Not another like it in the world.

“Haven’t seen it or him but then I haven’t been here that long. You might want to ask the folks over there.”

He doesn’t take the hint. Maybe he’s already asked them. He seems to know everyone in the park and they know him. It reminds me of the subway station in New York. He explains that someone stole his hat during the night. He doesn’t know who but he refers to the thief as them.

He was drunk and he makes a point of admitting it. They stole a bowl of chili he’d planned for breakfast as well. He didn’t mind the chili. If they had asked, he’d have shared it with them. He understands what it’s like to be hungry. But that hat is another story. It’s a lowdown dirty deed to steal a man’s hat.

I agree with him and wish I could do something about it but I can’t.

He tells me how he’s come to be living among the Nashville homeless, sleeping in the park. He’s a merchant marine on extended leave. Call it wild oats but he hasn’t gone back. He wanted to plant his feet on the earth, get a feel of the country and mix with the common folk. Like Wiz he’s an Alabama man. His check from the merchant marines is overdue. He had it sent to a friend in Nashville but he’s had a world of trouble trying to make the connection.

I can’t help wondering what kind of friend would not offer a play to stay under the circumstances but I let it pass. He says he once had a check sent general delivery to New Orleans but it took two weeks. That was two weeks too long. He doesn’t trust the postal service and figures they stamp general delivery with Last Priority.

Here in Nashville he’s found himself in the middle of a raging controversy that has made the front page of the Tennessean and the local news broadcasts. It seems they want to ban the homeless from the parks altogether and clear the streets of them. It’s bad for business. He says he’s got a high-powered attorney from Alabama on the case and expects to meet him later in the day. He figures the lawyer will want him to get arrested and he’s willing to along with that. I embrace his cause as noble and just, wish him luck, and figure they’ll have their hands full if they tangle with this man.

His name is Reed and I believe everything he tells me. Everything about him tells me it’s true. Except for the wrinkled look that comes from sleeping off a drunk in the park, his appearance is neat, his clean white shirt worn open, his new blue jeans, an odd looking pair of high-top tennis shoes, his greased back hair combed and his hands and face washed. He has the look of a sailor, tough as nails, slim and tightly packed. His nose is flat like that of a boxer who’s taken a few blows. Put him in the ring and he could have been a contender.

After each story or commentary, told with rigor and the expression of a carnival barker or a big tent evangelist, he checks in with the same remark: I don’t mean to be preaching to you. I know you don’t need to hear this or maybe you do.

His dark eyes are piercing, gazing into mine and I surmise he’s decided he believes my sincerity just as I believe his.

Yes, my friend, I do need to hear this. We all need to hear it as often as it takes to shake us from this debilitating lethargy: It can’t happen to me. If we close our eyes, ship the homeless out of town under the cover of night, pass an ordinance that declares the homeless are no more, then somehow the problem will cease to exist. There ought to be jobs for all at any cost. As long as there aren’t jobs and shelters for everyone then the parks should be opened as a refuge and sanctuary. Tents and shelters should be put up with food, health care and clothing. Arts and crafts should be taught until the parks become a home and the pride of the civilized world.

He notices my impression of his high-top shoes and tells me his philosophy of helping a man in need: There’s always someone more needy than you are. He tells me about an old man who could hardly walk, his shoes two sizes too small. Reed had a new pair of Nikes, good walking shoes, and gave them to the old man who thanked him two or three times and shared his wine. Later a man who had witnessed the transaction gave Reed the shoes he’s now wearing.

He says: That’s how it should be, people helping people.

He pauses as if to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. Then he speaks the thought I believe I was meant to hear: Yeah, I’m down on my luck. I’m a drinking man. I’m a workingman but a drinking man and I like to fight and cuss. But I know one thing: God don’t give us no temptations we can’t handle. Says so right in the scriptures. God don’t give us no trials we can’t bear. As long as I keep my head up, I know I’ll be all right.

I take a few moments to let it sink in. Then I speak: Brother, you are a preaching man and the best I’ve ever been blessed to hear.

Like the old man with the Nikes I thank him two or three times and tell him I’ve got to go. There’s something I’ve got to do. I pull out my wallet and give him a twenty.

“I know it doesn’t make much difference but there it is. It belongs to the world. Spend it any way you like.”

He takes it with a smile and makes it a point that he never asked for it. He tells me one more story about going to church on Sunday, where they blocked him at the door and told him he wasn’t properly attired. He blew fire and brimstone and threw the scriptures back in their stunned and self-righteous faces. They invited him in but he changed his mind.

“I can see this ain’t a house of god after all.”

With that we parted. I walked back home holding on to the one thought that had changed my water into wine. I hoped it would have the same effect on my wife as it had on me.

I walk in to find her in the same cold and bitter mood that greeted me that morning. I want desperately to speak the words that had been delivered as if by some divine or mystical voice but I can’t speak them to a face so cold. Suddenly, as I stand motionless, I see a change come over her. Her face softens and she says: Is there something you want to say to me?

I pause and speak the words: God doesn’t give us any trials we can’t bear.

She waits, looking into my eyes, and flies into my arms.

Thank you, preacher man. Thank you.