The Phone Man

I had just stepped out of Subway after picking up a sandwich for my mother when he started to shout for me.

“Hey man!” and “Yo! Hey!” filled the air, statements that I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring because of where I live. Generally when people shout these things at me, they want you to loan them a cigarette or buy them beer or, on most occasions, give them money. So for the first twenty steps — thirty, maybe, I wasn’t counting — I ignored him. The shouts started to get louder, which I attributed to him getting closer, so I finally looked up.

“Yeah?”

He asked if he could use my phone.

Immediately my mind started to flood with thoughts of what was going to happen if I gave him my phone. Maybe he would stab me and run away with it, or perhaps he would bash me in the face with his hand full of heavy metal rings and leave me bleeding in the parking lot while he drove away with both my car and my phone. For some reason I could only think of the worst outcomes, and not the fact that — maybe — he just wanted to use my phone.

After recovering from my momentary panic, he finally made his way over to me and told me his story.

He was supposed to be meeting his brother out here to help him with a car detailing job (“Oh great,” I thought, “He’s going to hand me a business card.”), but had been waiting here for a half hour after his brother had failed to show up. The reason he wanted to use my phone was so that he could call his brother and find out where he was.

“You can put it on speakerphone, man, I don’t even need to touch it.”

I thought about it, and proceeded to pull out my phone before he said “I’ll even pay you man, how much ya’ want?”

This admittedly scary looking man, sweating profusely, was offering me money to use my phone. He removed a wad of cash from his jeans and started to unfurl his bills. Tens, twenties, fifties and — Jesus, did I see a Benjamin in there? — ultimately I refused his money. “It’s a phone call, man, don’t worry about it.” I told him, handing him my iPhone.

I don’t know why I went from fearing that the man would stab me in broad daylight to trusting him with an electronic that, admittedly, I treat better than I would my own child. Was it the cash? Was the offer of money a reason to entrust a man with my most prized possession? Was it his openness? Or maybe my trust sprouted from fear, as if to say “Oh man I better give him my phone before he kills me.”

I don’t know why, but I’m glad I did.

He called his brother, and discovered that he was in the wrong place. You see, this man was not from around here — he was from Tennessee, actually — and was just here to help make a few bucks with his brother. After hanging up, he handed the phone back to me and thanked me over and over again. “God bless, dude, you’re a great man, have a great day!” he kept saying in different iterations as he shook my hand.

He went his way, I went mine. I’m glad I could help, but I feel a sense of shame for thinking the way I did.

The Wanderers

One of them is older — he’s tall and white, both in skin color and in hair color. Another is slightly younger, though still relatively old — he’s black, skinny to the point of nigh frailty, and balding. The third is another white man, younger than the other two though just as scruffy — black hair turned to brown by the same star that reddened his otherwise paper white skin.

They gather, one by one, throughout the night. First the white haired man, then the bald one, and then the sunburned one. They steal metal chairs from other tables and, together, sit in front of Tropical Smoothie (which, by the time of their arrival, has long been closed for the night). Most of the time they don’t talk; they simply sit there with their bags of collected items and trash and bare necessities. On occasion I’ll hear one of them say something that causes the other two to chuckle, but most of the time they’re quiet.

I’ve talked to the white haired man before, if only briefly. I walk into the store, he says “Good evening!” with a great, wide smile, which immediately releases a stench of alcohol. The balding one seems to come from just beyond the road, somewhere behind a nearby grocery store. I’ve seen the sunburned one before, usually standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign that pleads for spare change.

“God Bless”, it says.

One day, I saw another man — this one strapped to a wheelchair, his right arm and both legs seemingly deformed — roll to the man standing on the street corner. The wheelchair bound man pulled a bill (could have been a single dollar, could’ve been a twenty) and stretched his good arm out to the man with the sign. The sunburned man shook his head and held his hand out, shaking that as well, fervently denying the man opposite him — vehemently against taking a fellow wanderer’s money. Nonetheless, the wheelchair bound man held it out, adamant that he take it.

The three of them sit there at the table for hours and just stare out into the void. Cars and people passing by, unless someone reaches out to them they generally sit in silence.

I’m nothing like them, I tell myself. I have a job, and a home, and a car. But some nights I sit here, by myself, and I stare at them. For all the things they lack — whether it’s a home or a family — like me they come here every night. They come here and they sit and wonder and, sometimes, laugh. While I sit alone, they at least have each other. They may not even like one another, but in their stoic silence is a particular, visible bond. They’re here together for however long, their only consistencies in life, and then disband.

I don’t know why. I don’t feel particularly pushed to ask why. But like me, they’re here.

The Smoker

She sits alone under the carport, a shield from the downpour that surrounds her. She’s older, but not elderly, and “slightly overweight” – something she says her recent back surgery caused. I’ve talked to her once before, and she explained that the pool gave her relief from her pains, both physical and emotional.

“Floating supports my back,” she told me, “and going under keeps everything in my head quiet.”

A couple of months ago she told me about her mental state and how her ex-husband had pushed her to driving a shard of glass into his stomach. He survived, and she was left with a scar in her palm (she held her hand up to show me – there was no scar). Psychiatrists had prescribed her a number of pills to take daily, but according to her they’re doing more harm than good. She says they add voices, rather than remove them. Her family is the root of her problem, she tells me, “The bane of her very existence” — having cut her off from grandchildren and financial support. She now lives with her daughter and grandson – the only two people that haven’t yet abandoned her. She explains that were it not for them, she would not be alive today.

She once told me that this, her current existence, is hell.

She sits under the carport smoking one cigarette after another after another. Even from my spot, some twenty feet away, she appears blank. Maybe it’s the gloomy weather, but she seems more depressed than usual today. On occasion I’ll see her outside smoking, usually standing and pacing – today she’s sitting in a purple lawn chair, staring into the many thousands of raindrops falling in front of her.

Four cigarettes, and she consumes each one down to the butt. Hot orange tip after hot orange tip.

After she finishes her last cigarette, she reaches for another but the box is empty. She sets it back down on the little square table to her left side, and proceeds to dump the ashes into the little patch of grass that would – I suppose – be called her front lawn. It’s no larger than three feet wide by five feet long.

Even without cigarettes, she remains seated for the next ten minutes, staring idly into the rain. When she attempts to breathe in, her first real breath I’ve seen while watching her, she coughs. Hard enough to make her bend over and hold her chest, but not hard enough to make her go inside. I rarely see her outside, so I’m not sure if the cigarettes are what’s killing her or if, ironically, it’s the fresh air.