Rip Van Winkle

A few Saturdays ago I helped with the community ­council’s monthly book sale. 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 coat rack for my Honda Element at the Pep Boys on El Cajon Boulevard. 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 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 a while, 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 known for over 40 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 20 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 okay, 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.