Robert Thomas
Fabula Argentea, Jul./25
It looked like a garbage bag or heap of refuse, and I ran up to shoo Bruiser away. He always gets into things. But I froze. It was not a garbage bag but a tattered leather jacket. And tattered jeans and old running shoes without socks. And grey hair.
A tall, thin man.
I recognized him. That’s what startled me, really. Lying still and surrounded by flies. He’d been crouching against a tree and toppled over. His face was gaunt and stubbled. His eyes were open, looking up.
He first came round to the house in the middle of the COVID lockdown. “Just looking to put together some change for a meal.”
My dad, slightly amused, rushed upstairs and brought him down a five-dollar bill.
His name was John, according to a neighbour who immediately texted Dad to warn him of the man’s persistence. Dad replied with amusement that he hadn’t been spending his money on anything else.
But he kept coming. Several nights later he came back at night, and we could hear Dad shouting him down, telling him not to come at night or too often.
So he came during the day. Or rather, he didn’t come but happened along when we were working in the yard or reading on the front porch. Mom was not impressed that we would give him anything. And Dad could not keep it up.
“Can I ask you a question?” he would say. “I’m not begging. Never begging. I’m just trying to put together some change for something to eat.”
After a few handouts, Dad became hard and determined. “Not tonight,” or “my name isn’t Papa, and I can’t help you right now.”
And then he passed again, while we were reading on the porch just a few nights before I found him. He asked how we were doing. “Fine, yourself?” was Dad’s surprisingly pleasant reply.
He turned. “You’re asking me how I’m doing?”
Awkward silence.
“I’m starving and I’m stranded. Can you help me at all with some change?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I felt my pocket.
“I have some stuff…”
“No,” said Dad. And then low, “He’ll just keep coming back.”
“The boy says he has—”
“We can’t help you tonight.”
“OK then.”
He turned and shuffled away, hands in his pockets, head bowed.
I looked down at the hollow eyes, and the familiar, tattered clothes. And I felt in my pocket. I pulled out a handful of change. It was the same change. Exactly. It’s hard to spend money in a pandemic. I looked at the handful of quarters and dimes and dollars. I had not spent any of it. I glanced from my trembling hand to the pathetic corpse, and back again, and back again.
I called for Bruiser, with a wet throat. I looked into his eyes. I wiped my tears.