The sign seemed stuck on "don't walk." Behind me, a warbled attempt at speech leaked from a bricked alley-and I did what I was told not to do.
I looked.
The sign finally changed, and the crowd stepped from the curb in synchronized detachment. Except for me. Planted on the sidewalk, I peered into the alley again while dodging a well-dressed horde of impatient Yanks.
He was sprawled against a damp brick wall. A sliver of light angled across his midsection. The bum's jacket appeared to have been tan or olive in its original state, the dirt and stains now giving it the appearance of an oily rag with thin lapels.
But maybe he wasn't a bum; maybe he was just homeless.
He lifted one arm and attempted a wave, though gravity pulled it down. Perplexed, he looked down at the arm as if to ask, "Why'd you do that?"
"Ya gots fifty cent?" he mumbled. "Quarter? ... Jes' anything, mis- tuh."
What struck me was not his appearance, nor even his language, but his method of collection. An office-sized water jug, complete with bluish tint and thin plastic circles molded into the middle, sat at his feet. It was half full with water, and a smattering of coins lay across the bottom.
He saw me staring at the jug and reached over and thumped it with his forefinger. "My bank," he said slowly. "My quiet little bank."
"Just a second," I said, digging in my pocket for change.
He glanced at my shoes, thumped the jug again. "Thems fine shoos, suh. Thems really fine shoos."
I counted my coinage. "All right, I have five quarters here. But you have to answer one question."
"I saids them was fine shoos." He pointed at my feet, but his eyes locked on my hand.
"I know the shoes are of good quality, but I need you to answer a question."
"About da shoos?"
"No, not about the shoos.... Why the water jug? You fish out the coins every night?"
His face went blank, his unkempt head moving up and down, bobbing in the sluggish rhythm of the listless. "Why? 'Cause I'm special. Verrry special."
"You're what?"
"All my competition, them guys use cups. Makes a coin rattle. But I let 'em fall soft in the water ... float down in my jug. That way nobody know 'bout it but me and the giver. That why."
He looked exhausted from that bit of conversation and let his head drop. My first quarter fluttered quietly to the bottom. I reached to drop in the next one and felt his hand jerk my leg.
"Hold it," he said. "You gotta grin when you do that."
Startled, I stepped back, pulling away from his grip. "You want me to smile?"
"Nah, I wants to see you grin. Nobody in this town ever grin no more."
I grinned so big I had to shut my eyes. But when I opened them again, he was already asleep, his breathing shallow and indifferent.
After dropping my remaining four quarters in rapid succession, I watched the last one flutter left and lean against the side, as if hesitant to complete the journey.
I returned to an empty intersection and that same stubborn sign, the little square goblin stuck once again in a white light of opposition. So I figured it was time for a bit of New York nepotism. I Jaywalked.
Across the intersection, I made my way down New York's generous and well-lit sidewalks, wondering all the while how that bum works his jug technique in winter.
For $240 a night, I was expecting something more than a bed, one window, and a TV. Perhaps a crow's nest and an ocean view. The long, emerald green curtains were a nice touch, though, parted slightly where I could see a sliver of Times Square from my perch on the sixteenth floor.
While staring out across the city, I considered life's momentum-from midnight walks on a beach to wacko dates with Plan B; from Dallas to Carolina, from Carolina to Manhattan; from Bossman Tate Brophy to Yankee blue blood Vince Galbraith.
On the corporate ladder, there is no rung labeled "bliss."
Sleepy now, I closed the curtains and returned to thoughts of the bum and how a man arrived at such station, his meager 401k at the bottom of a water jug. With only a bedside lamp for illumination, I sprawled across the bed, on my back, still in my T-shirt and pinstriped slacks.
Me and New York.
New York and me.
Me, New York, and a fat, year-end bonus.
New York, me, a fat, year-end bonus, and becoming the boss of Vince Galbraith.
Full of myself, I decided a bit of counterbalance was called for-a brief consultation with the Gideons, sitting there unused and all shiny atop the dresser.
As had become my habit, I turned to the quick-and-easy Proverbs, stopping this time in row fourteen, seat twelve.
"There is a way which seems right unto a man, but its end is the way of death."
This did not seem applicable, so I set it back on the dresser and walked to the window for another gander at the bright lights.
I woke to the blaring of cab horns. Friday morning in the Big Apple. There was nothing on my agenda except travel, and the plane didn't leave until noon.
Aboard the subway, lost in Manhattan, I wore jeans and a black golf shirt, another feeble attempt at conformity. The quickening pace of wheelon-rail slowed abruptly, and I grabbed hold of a pole, trying to gain some semblance of bearing. But they'd marked each stop with a new color, and I couldn't remember if my color was orange or yellow and Mr. Brophy said don't talk to the bums and don't look at anyone on the subway, so now thorough confusion set in because yesterday I was above ground in a taxi.
A multitude departed the subway, and I was up the crowded stairs toward daylight, asking myself what a person tries to see in New York City when they only have an hour.
The answer, I reckoned, was that you try to see it all.
Some eighty floors later, the elevator door slid open. People gasped; there was too much to take in. And I still didn't believe King Kong ever climbed this thing, this monstrosity, this Empire State Building. Curious and excited, the patrons wanted to go up higher, but the usher said no and cautioned everyone to stay behind glass.
I walked a hurried circumference, absorbing it all, each rectangular pane revealing a new aristocracy: first Brooklyn, then Soho, now Greenwich and Midtown, Harlem and Jersey and Queens. There's Liberty with her torch, and an empty Ellis Island where various spices of the melting pot first pledged allegiance.
Twenty minutes and I had already seen it all.
Tourist ferries circled the harbor, while tiny yellow ants-formerly taxi cabs-eased through the streets below. Such loftiness made for a good place to think, and I was thinking Vince Galbraith would offer me the job. My take-home pay would double, but housing costs would triple.
I wanted the job. Would tolerate Vince.
Beside me, two elderly ladies were placing coins in a viewing scope. One pointed it to the west and said in a slow, Irish accent, "I believe I can see the entire fruited plain, dear."
"Let me look," said the other, crowding in. "You can!"
They spun their scope to the east. "And there's me brother Paddy in Dublin. If you squint you can see him hoisting his pint. Wave at him, dear."
Shoulder to shoulder, they giggled and waved at Ireland.
Briefly, my thoughts turned inward, and I considered that maybe-like Allie said during our walk on the shore-God really does give direction.
I watched the yellow ants cross the Brooklyn Bridge, watched them blend with tiny trucks and shrunken buses. After a few minutes, I turned my back to uptown Manhattan, and from behind the glass, I imagined a breeze in my face. Another tourist boat circled Liberty, then my line of sight raised up and out over the hazy southwest.
I took a wild guess at longitude, stood on my toes, and waved at Ecuador.
The Circle of Nine gathered again in Steve's living room, the room with the lime-tinged rug chosen by the tall blonde to whom all things lime-ish merited great value, but who preferred her romance in no other color than invisible.
Chips and colas were scattered about, Stanley and his plaid Bermuda shor
ts sat across the circle, and Tuesday's stock quotes were embedded in my eyelids.
In his Laguna Beach T-shirt, Ransom brought our meeting to order. "I thought we might try for a deeper level of manly accountability," he said. "So in a few minutes, we'll break off into pairs."
And I figured the married guy would be the odd man out, since nine isn't divisible by two ... except maybe in South Carolina, because I heard in some South Carolina public schools they'll let a kid spell Louisiana without vowels, then send him along to the next grade as if he were God's gift to linguistics.
"But first I wanna talk about our not becoming sponges," said Ransom. "We're all gonna become overweight sponges if we just soak up spiritual data and never get out into the world to be squeezed."
Steve rubbed his hairy leg and tried to look sophisticated. "So then a community full of spiritual data-soakers would be called, what ... spongedom?"
"That's a good word, dude. Write that one down."
Steve clicked his pen.
"Hold it," said Stanley. "Are you calling the great city of Greenville spongedom?"
"I am," said Ransom. "Well, parts of it."
"I don't think so," said Stanley. "My knowledge and understanding of God's omnipotence is directly attributable to the antidispensational theological stance of our church leadership."
"Huh?" Steve said through a mouthful of chips.
My turn. "Yeah, me and Steve agree with Ransom."
"You're just a rookie," said Stanley, his cheeks puffed out.
"And you," countered Ransom, pointing his pen at Stanley, "you are the captain commander of all sponge forces."
We were postponing the inevitable, so I began the process. "When do we do the I lust/you lust confessional?"
Ransom rolled his eyes. "Wait till you pair off. While you were in New York, Jay, we discussed how we might try to make ourselves useful in the community. Maybe take on a project, a weekend of service to someone in need. This could be our opportunity to be squeezed." He scanned the circle. "Do we acknowledge the plan?"
We nodded our heads, acknowledged the plan.
"Okay," said Ransom, "you dudes break off into pairs now and try to be tough on each other, be accountable. We'll discuss the work project when I finish my tacos."
I did not want to be held accountable; I wanted to be the leader who is married and gets to eat tacos.
With a hopeful expression on his young, collegiate face, Barry asked if we could once again monetize his navy blue Nike cap. He removed his lid, holding it out to solicit our cash. But Stanley said donations were a one time deal and that Barry needed to learn humility. I silently pleaded with God not to pair me off with Stanley.
Steve and I manipulated the pairing-off, however, and ended up partners.
"Go in there," he said, pointing toward his kitchen. He swiped a chip from his Cubs jersey and motioned for me to sit at the breakfast table.
Mismatched dishes overflowed from his sink; matching baseballs adorned the windowsill. Alone now with Mr. Sneaky, I figured it was better to be the asker than the askee.
"So, how many denominations for you, Steve-O?" I asked as casually as possible.
He folded his arms and said, "What are you talking about, Jarvis?"
"You know ... to meet women. How many churches have you rotated through during your seven years in Greenville?"
Steve fidgeted with a pencil, then glanced at the pretzels and soft drinks on his kitchen counter. "I don't remember. Is that what we're supposed to discuss?"
"In a roundabout way. So, how many?"
"I just wouldn't. . . "
This was fun, being the asker. "C'mon, how many?"
"I'm not tellin' unless you do."
"Okay, so how many?"
The Cubs logo deflated across his chest as he sighed and gave in. "Only three," he said. "Pentecostal, Methodist, and of course, North Hills Presbyterian. Now how about you, Jay Jarvis? This is two-sided accountability, ya know."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry ... only Presbyterian for me."
Steve looked disappointed. He got up from the table, walked to the counter, and opened the pretzels. "Jay, have you heard that rumor about a group of girls in this town who've developed a spreadsheet that ranks churches by the quality of men?"
I took two pretzels and ate them one at a time. "Did hear some rumblings about that. The audacity of those girls."
Steve reached for the Pepsi, unscrewed the top. "It's crazy out there."
"Whose autograph you got?" I asked, nodding at the baseballs in his window.
Ice cubes rattled his glass. "Sosa and McGriff."
"Cool."
He paused to let the fizz diminish. "Your dad play sports, Jay?"
"Taught me the curveball. Yours?"
"Good knuckleball, decent curve. Wanna refill?"
I nodded my head. "Thanks," I said, taking back my glass. But the fizz went up my nose, smiting me for my impatience.
Steve sat again and slurped his drink. "So tell me ... would Jesus do it?"
"Would he do what?"
"You know, would he drink a brew on the beach."
I set my glass on the table and leaned back in my chair. "Is this what we're supposed to talk about?" My question, however, was only an attempt to avoid the subject; so little data existed in my Jesus file.
"We can talk about anything we want," said Steve. "It's just the two of us. And man, am I ever glad I didn't get paired off with Stanley."
"Me too."
"So, would he drink the brew?"
"Stanley?"
"No, Jesus."
"I dunno. Maybe. He might be inconspicuous about it."
"So what are you saying ... that God's own Son would wrap it in a brown paper bag?"
"What I'm saying is that I do not know. I do not know if he'd drive fast, eat slow, wear a Stetson, or hitchhike. So as to the matter of whether he'd partake or not, if I say yes, it makes him look like a wino. But if I say no, it makes him look legalistic. So the only reasonable answer is, it depends."
"So your answer is the same as Allie's?"
I paused, thought it over. "Seems the most reasonable."
He gulped the last of his Pepsi. "You miss her, don't ya?"
He was right, although more than missing her, I mostly thought her refreshing, one of the very few unjaded people currently inhabiting the planet. "Never met anyone like her."
Steve stood and dumped his ice in the sink. "Let's not talk about women."
"Okay. Let's not."
"So how was New York?" he asked.
"Big and eccentric," I replied. "And the interview went great, considering the interviewer was a jerk."
"You're not moving there, are ya? I mean, you just got here."
"Corporate America, my friend. They own us. And the money is very good." I thought, for a brief moment, that Steve looked downcast at the possibility of me moving.
But then he just shrugged and began loading the dishwasher, talking as he racked. "I do have one serious question, Jay. I haven't been paying much attention in church lately and feel like ..."
"What's the question?"
"About why it says fruit instead of fruits. I don't get it."
Pausing for effect, I framed my answer the Presbyterian way. With food. "Near as I can tell, it seems to be saying that each bite contains the whole ... like soup instead of LifeSavers."
Steve poured liquid detergent in the slot, then turned and raised an eyebrow. "Not bad for a rookie."
I held out my glass. "More Pepsi, bro."
Tacos gone, Ransom beckoned the rest of us to recircle our chairs around Steve's lime-tinged rug. "Okay," he said, wiping his chin. "We gotta decide about the volunteer project, our weekend of service. Any ideas yet?"
Steve walked in, twirling a dishrag. "I checked with Habitat for Humanity," he said, "but the Baptists have all the volunteer time filled through November."
"That's over two months away," said Ransom. "Too long a wait."
"I called th
e lady who leads Women of the Church," offered Stanley, sprawled in Steve's blue corduroy recliner. "They could use some gardening help."
"Gardening?" asked Ransom. "Did you say gardening? No way. This work must include the use of power tools."
"I'm no good with power tools," muttered Stanley.
"But you're pretty good with the women," Barry said. "Tell us about Rona."
"No," said Stanley.
"Oh, c'mon," said Ransom.
"No!"
"How many dates?"
Stanley looked at the floor, crossed his feet. "Seven."
Ransom grinned and said, "Nice going, Stanley, you surprised us all. But now we gotta take care of business." He said how pitiful that nine men couldn't come up with one good suggestion to make themselves useful in the community. "Guys, do we not know anyone outside of our yuppie circles?"
Silence.
"C'mon, dudes," pleaded Ransom. "Surely we can come up with at least one name."
Our second long silence grew unbearable, so I raised my hand. "I may know of something. It's a long drive, but this old preacher has a house that needs work down near-"
"Back down at the coast?" asked Steve, interrupting.
"Yeah, somewhere north of Charleston. Sounded like a dump. It's in a place he called the lowcountry, whatever that means."
"I'm not driving all the way to the lowcountry," said Stanley.
Ransom rubbed his chin as he considered my offer. "Jay, you're not talking about that guy who ... the shark guy?"
"That would be him."
When Ransom asked me to call Asbury, I was a tad reluctant, for there was no telling what would happen if I hooked up with him again.
During my drive home from Steve's, a Lexus cut me off from the turn lane. I flashed my brights, the beam reflecting off a chrome-plated fish glued to the back of the trunk.
He made the light. I did not.
But I stifled road rage and used the extra time to contemplate the fruit, small samples from each basket, the good and the bad.
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 16