by W.H. Harrod
“This is amazing,” said Terrance aloud as he pulled into the Boys Club parking lot and failed to discover any available parking spaces. The large parking lot adjacent to the modern new facility—which Joseph Right was instrumental in the creation of—couldn’t accommodate another car. Attendees parked on the residential streets as far as a block away. Pretty good for a soup kitchen operator whom no one knows anything about, mused Terrance as he trudged the half block to get to the facility just as the service started.
Hurriedly finding a seat in the rear of the auditorium, Terrance commenced to make note of all persons of prominence in attendance. The Mayor and the entire city council were there, along with most of the prominent bankers and businessmen and women of the community. State and federal politicians were also well represented. A gaggle of aides accompanied the former Governor and the current Representative to Congress. Essentially, if you considered yourself a member of the Who’s Who of this small area of the world or if you maintained aspirations of becoming an esteemed member of this group, you were in attendance. The scores of former street people disbursed throughout the building stood out from the finely attired upper crust of the community like tulips sticking up through a late spring snow. Amazingly, these dissimilar groups mingled with ease. None gave any hint that they felt out of place or noticed the great economic and social differences that existed between them outside of this building and this solemn occasion.
The opening speaker welcomed everyone and commenced the individual introductions from a lengthy list of speakers as Terrance scribbled notes. As the service proceeded, he couldn’t truthfully say that anyone said anything to increase his knowledge base regarding the demised. Still, he sat quietly, listening attentively to each speaker who paraded to the podium while beginning to lose hope of hearing anyone inform him of anything new about Joseph Right.
Do any of these people really care as the landlady claims, or are they here to be seen? When is someone going to tell me something about this man that hasn’t been written in the papers already? The parade ultimately became tiresome. All the suits and ties essentially said the same things—a great guy, totally unselfish, always ready to help anyone, and who never thought of himself, only those he dedicated his life to helping.
Right about the time Terrance began to think that the parade of prominent personages must come to an end, his wish came true. One last speaker, notable at first only because of his dress, walked to the podium absent the fine raiment of his predecessors. His clothing was most likely purchased at a store that catered to the blue-collar working class. The worn, but clean, blue denim shirt, khaki pants, and heavy brown work shoes set him apart from the other speakers. A black man, he looked to be in his late thirties. Never to be mistaken for one of the civic notables in attendance, he exuded a calming confidence as he made his way up to the podium.
All right! Terrance sensed a reason for optimism. Finally, we’ll have a first hand report. Surely this guy will know something about the man. It occurred to Terrance that he most likely wasn’t the only one there who wanted to hear something else about Joseph Right other than the great guy, wonderful civic leader stuff.
This speaker produced no cards or notes to assist him, nor did he exhibit a hurry to get started. He simply stood for a time looking out over the entire room and nodding his head as he recognized many of those present. His booming voice caught many by surprise. “My name is Isaac Diggs, and unlike the community leaders who spoke before me, you people don’t know me. It’s because of the efforts of one man that you don’t. You see, I wasn’t on the path to becoming a contributing member of this community. I was on the path that was, for sure, going to cause me to end up in prison for the remainder of my life.”
“I was an angry young man and worse, I was a potentially violent young man. I had a huge chip on my shoulder towards society. I felt I was being treated as a second-class citizen by a society that didn’t want me, so I bought a gun and decided I was going to do something about it. To this day I’m confident I would have except my first intended victim turned out to be a man unlike any man I have met before or since. I stuck that big ugly gun up to the side of his head that night in that dark parking lot down by the river where only the down and out and the drunkards go after dark, and I told him I was going to kill him. He said a very strange thing to me then. He said, ‘Why would you do something like that to yourself?’”
The speaker paused for a moment. “There was no fear in his voice. He displayed no fear at all. I told him he had it all wrong, I was going to do something to him, not me. I heard him laugh then. He asked me again, ‘Why would you do something like that to yourself? I’ll simply be dead. I won’t have any problems or feel anything, but you’re going to have to live with this for the rest of your life. Because you thought so little of yourself, you got mad and decided to punish yourself forever. You’re willing to do something so destructive that you can never take it back, ever. What a horrible thought to have to live with. Besides, if you do this, you’ll be ignoring the reason that you and I are here together in the first place. Believe me, if we ignore the real purpose that gives our lives meaning, we’ll never achieve anything close to happiness and peace of mind.’”
The speaker let these words soak in. “I was amazed at this man’s calmness. I told him that this purpose thing he talked about was a bunch of bull. Nobody ever told me about a real purpose before. Then the guy smiled at me and said, ‘Well, I guess that will be one of my jobs today, so let’s get to it. First, give me that gun.’ As he reached forward to take it from my hand, he said, ‘You’re never going to need this again.’ Then the man calmly turned away and walked over to the riverbank and threw the gun as far out into the stream as he could. I remember being amazed at my lack of resistance. I just stood there. Something about this person’s actions—his calmness, his sense of purpose completely disarmed me in every way. When he returned from the river bank and got into his beat up old van, he backed up to the spot where I stood, pushed open the passenger door, and told me to get in, and I did.”
“I had no idea where we were going and when I finally asked him, he simply told me we were going to find my purpose. You know where we started that search? It was standing behind a soup kettle at the homeless shelter ladling soup to hungry and homeless people. Day after day, that was my only job. I asked him how long I had to do this because I hated seeing all those poor, hungry, pathetic people with that hopeless look standing in front of me. The guy would smile and tell me to be patient. It was coming. So I asked him what it was. Again, he told me to keep working and be patient. So I did. I was desperate, and I knew I had nowhere else to go but back to that riverbank to try and find that gun. I stood there day after day for a month not saying a word to any of the hungry people who kept coming up to that soup bucket. That is until one day when this thin, ragged, red-eyed old man who came in for a meal several times a week stood before me with his tray—cold, weak, and half-starving. As I reached forward to ladle him some hot soup, the only food he would get that day, he said something that cut through me all the way to my hardened soul. He said, ‘I don’t know why I keep coming back here to bother you folks? I don’t have anything or anybody to live for. Probably be best if I just froze to death out there under that old bridge.’”
The big man stood unmoving for the longest time. When he did start to speak again a distinct quiver in his voice could be heard. “I don’t to this day recall thinking of the words that came out of my mouth for the first time as I stood there behind that big kettle nor did I make a conscious decision to say them, but they came out. I said, ‘Hold on there, old-timer. Don’t go giving up yet. We’ve all got some purpose for being here. You keep on coming back; you’re always welcome here.’ The force of those simple words coming from my mouth transformed me right then and there. I realized I wasn’t alone. Instead, I was a member of the human race. Just like every person on this earth, I had a purpose for being here, and he was standing right in front of me—scared, lonely, sick, hu
ngry, and in need of a good word from another human being. Right then, I became completely human for the first time in my life. That hungry old man helped save my life that night some eighteen years ago. Helped me to go on from there to dedicate my life to helping my fellowman—by serving soup, by searching under the bridge on cold nights to bring people inside where they could survive for one more day, and by going on to start several businesses that provide opportunities for people who need jobs.”
Halting yet again, the speaker reached into his hip pocket for a handkerchief. Then without any hesitation, he wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose. After replacing the handkerchief, he continued, “I’ll never forget that night or the look of relief on that old man’s face as long as I live. Just as I will never forget the man who stood before me without fear that night long ago down by the river under the bridge, a good man who saw something other than a crazy person with a gun threatening to kill him. A decent man who knew exactly what he was doing when he put me behind that soup bucket and kept telling me to be patient and wait for the purpose I was looking for to be revealed. No, I will never forget that man, and I will certainly miss him. Miss him as I have never missed anyone else in my life. For that good, decent man was Joseph D. Right, and I will always cherish his memory, and for as long as I live, I will try to live up to the lofty standards of decent behavior he instilled in me and so many others. Thank you Joe, I miss you, my old friend.”
Not a person moved. Terrance had his wish. Here was something new. “Well okay,” said Terrance rather smugly. “This will help.” Maybe he would be able to put something interesting together after all. Now he needed to get back to the office and check on the private investigator’s information from Joplin.
CHAPTER NINE