Duke Cunningham Can't Have Gun
Don Bauder 9:47 p.m., May 25
A few Saturdays ago, I helped with the community council's monthly booksale. It kind of shoots the weekend in the ass, but it's one of my few connections with people in the neighborhood because of my odd work schedule.
After we finished, I got a new coatrack for my Honda Element at the PepBoys on El Cajon Blvd. Then I stopped by a little neighborhood park nobody ever uses to move everything around and install it.
The only water source in the park is a single drinking fountain toward the back of the place. The day's work done, I went over to get some water to wash off my hands and feet, not sure whether I'd go back home or head out to the beach to catch the sunset and maybe spend the night in my freshly-organized ride.
Lying there by the fountain, looking like Rip Van Winkle, was an old fellow with a gray goatee and a bald head. He was wearing headphones, and lying on his back, sound asleep. I wondered at first if he was dead, but saw his chest going up and down lazily.
After a few seconds, I recognized him. He was once one of my best friends and still is, really, a kid I'd known since grade school. He's been homeless and hanging around the neighborhood for the past 15 years or so. I see him once in awhile, but not that often.
It was the oddest thing. I just stood there and watched him sleeping peacefully for a minute or so. It gave me the funny feeling that, for all that's wrong in the world, it can't be completely bad if someone I've know for over forty years could be lying there in the shade snoozing away as if he hadn't a care in the world.
Well, I arranged everything back in the car and took a last look his way before shutting the doors and taking off. He sat up, scratched his head, and seemed to recognize me. I came over, he stood up, and we talked about things for twenty minutes or so. He'd had a seizure a few weeks back while walking along the avenue, and woke up in the hospital without a clue to how he'd gotten there. Years of substance abuse have made him prone to episodes similar to epileptic seizures. He sleeps in the dugout of a Little League field near my place. He's part of the neighborhood; I love him like a family member I don't seek out or see much of, and he loves me. I'm happy when I see him. Our conversation is punctuated with made-up words and expressions and sound effects that maybe two or three other people in the world--people once close to us--would understand.
I'm doing quite OK, living in a whole other world apart from his, and thankful for what I've got. I take nothing for granted. A homeless person with substance abuse issues isn't the normal profile for people I hang with. But he's my friend, and I enjoyed spending some time with him on a sunny afternoon in the early fall. And for some reason, the sight of him snoozing there under a tree in the shade is an image that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Comments
nan Oct. 31, 8:34 a.m.
GOD does live in old men...and ppl who choose their friends not by their circumstances but for heart reasons...u qualify
CuddleFish Oct. 31, 8:41 a.m.
Great story, thanks for this, I could relate.
"Our conversation is punctuated with made-up words and expressions and sound effects that maybe two or three other people in the world--people once close to us--would understand."
This gave it a whole other dimension.
SDaniels Nov. 1, 1:50 a.m.
I can totally relate, kstaff. There is a lady who "lives," or sleeps, rather, across the street from my building, on the cold bricks of a side door of an old historic Victorian. She is in a wheelchair and has multiple health issues, so when I go out late at night for a smoke, I check on her. I'm always astonished to see her bundled up and snoring away, despite the intensity of the cold, which drives me back indoors after ten minutes--unless she's awake, and we sit and chat awhile.
Today, we sat on the sidewalk and had a discussion about books--mostly Stephen King. Like Rip Van Winkle, it's been years since she's had a steady media diet, and while she can remember back to Kubrick's The Shining, or the filmic version of Carrie, she doesn't know any films that have come out post the year 2000. It is like she stepped into a fuzzy portal, and everything from "before" has receded, while new memories resist manufacture. True, the drinking doesn't help...
CuddleFish Nov. 3, 11:20 p.m.
Congratulations on your win, kstaff, great writing!!
FullFlavorPike Nov. 4, 9:42 a.m.
Well done. Now write some more--we could use more material in the blogspace. So much bandwidth, so little time!
antigeekess Nov. 4, 6:26 p.m.
Congrats, kstaff. Lovely story. Keep us posted on your friend.
kstaff Nov. 19, 2:59 p.m.
Oh well, what do you expect from a free publication? The first three paragraphs, buried in the LETTERS section on Page 70 of this week's hardcopy. Wasn't aware I'd sent them any letter.
Why ask for bio info and a digital photo? Went to some trouble to get the latter.
Was gonna give my dad--and my friend--a copy, since neither use a computer. Dad always says this is such a nothing publication anyway.
Thanks for the money, SD Reader.
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