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9:32 Thursday night. I am pouring endlessly over an aggregation of fragmentary lists—a few organized sheets, and several small scraps of improvised paper, reminding myself of things like, "bring bedding props, pick up 9 volt battery for CD player, buy candy, bring a pair of pliers and get more duct tape." My solicitous examination and re-examination of everything I've already written down for the sake of retaining does nothing for my ability to relax. Tomorrow, 40 high school seniors will be delivered to the doorstep of my place of employment with the expectation that I will teach them something valuable, and show them a good time in the process. I am preparing for Friday's high school field trip in the only way I know how—restlessly.
My temporary idée fixe is interrupted by an instant message. Heidi asks if I'd like to go downtown and hear a band. Immediately, I recognize that I won't sleep tonight if I go, but this thought is seasoned by the knowledge that I'm unlikely to sleep if I stay. In the grand scheme of things that are good for my psychological well being—on this day—hearing a band seems a brilliant idea.
We leave for downtown, speaking loudly over a chorus of latter-era Switchfoot, weary and enthusiastic. I feel free for the first time tonight.
We pull up to the curb and exit, careful to park on the side of the road not subject to a constant blitzkrieg of pigeon droppings. We wander through the faint sizzling sound of late night sprinklers slaking nearby lawns, delivering clumsy, calculated steps to avoid the trails and puddles of accumulating water. We approach a parking meter, not at all unlike every parking meter we have already passed, but for the lone and pensive old man leaning his arm overtop to rest.
As we draw close enough, he begins to speak to us. He tells us that he has no money. He tells us that he is from Somalia, but has lost his papers. He tells us that he needs enough change to stay at the homeless shelter, or he'll have to sleep under the bridge. He tells us that God knows that he is in need. He scans our faces for recognition.
Heidi's eyes are transparent, and I see her struggling. "I'm sorry," she tells him, "but I can't give you cash. If you want to come with us I can buy you something to eat." His eyes brighten, tangibly, and he says, "over at Subway sandwiches?" "Sure," Heidi replies, and we're off.
I ask the man his name, and how he came here from Somalia. His name is Mohammed, and he tells us of how he traveled from San Diego to Jacksonville with the carnival. How his bag was stolen with his social security card and working papers. How the carnival abandoned him without pay at their last stop. The story of how he came from Somalia is lost in dialogue, but we have already arrived at Subway.
"Get anything you'd like," says Heidi, and Mohammed orders a twelve inch roast beef sub, with a chocolate chip cookie. Heidi approaches the counter to pay for the order, and the cashier eyes our trio with what I can only describe as a semblance of disgust. He swipes her card, and she begins to sign the receipt. The cashier looks at her, looks at Mohammed, looks at her again. "You know, he was just in here eating fifteen minutes ago." Heidi looks up at the cashier, nonplussed, but does not respond. She looks down and finishes with the receipt. The three of us walk out of the restaurant in silence, and when we arrive outside, Mohammed thanks Heidi. We shake hands, and he says that God will bless us.
I am so conflicted.
I feel anger—I've felt it from the moment the cashier revealed that Mohammed was eating at Subway only 15 minutes prior. And yet strangely, or not so strangely, I am not angry with Mohammed. I am angry with the cashier.
I'm certain, scam artist or not, this weary old man had no idea when or where his next meal was arriving. It doesn't matter if he was choosing this path, or if this path was thrust upon him. Why do so many people believe that choosing to live off the charity (or naivety) of others makes for an easy life? A thing is not easy by virtue of being a choice. Perhaps he was an addict. Perhaps he was a liar. Perhaps he picked out these two credulous girls a mile in the distance.
So what.
I can't blame Mohammed. I am Mohammed. There are days when we are all Mohammed. There are days when I am so subject to my appetites, such a slave to my own desires, that I am numb to God's faithfulness. There are days I cannot wait on my manna from heaven, so I trick my neighbor out of his. And the cashier—perhaps even meaning well in all his condescension—becomes my accuser, too.
I cannot begrudge him his twelve inch sub and chocolate chip cookie.
Heidi choose to love this man as best she knew how, and it was beautiful. Perhaps there is something that gives me hope to know that humanity can still be scammed.
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Posted by kaileyH on 2008-07-09 20:44:22 | Rating: | Views: 54
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hi there :)
i really liked the way you explored this...the truth or falsity of the facts as they present themselves is really immaterial...giving honestly can never be really wrong.
welcome to thoughts! ;)
cheers!
:)
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Posted by badlydrawnstickman
on 2008-07-09 21:33:02
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"A thing is not easy by virtue of being a choice. Perhaps he was an addict. Perhaps he was a liar."
It really doesnt matter, does it?
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Posted by roe
on 2008-07-23 01:55:56
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