Paul pauses for a moment as if musing on the M.G. thing and then continues his story. It feels as though he is turning a page in his recollection, but the good part is that now he is talking to me with eye contact and gesturing. This is great I think.
* * *
“We ate silently and then he courteously got up and went about his way. Being more drawn to this unusual person than having sense enough to leave him alone, I decided to ignore all proprieties and decided to make the seat next to him at meal time my new dining spot. Now there were two of us at the long lonely table in the corner. The first week I must have made about thirty conversational entreaties, and barely got a handful of guarded, single-word responses in return. Getting nowhere fast with this approach, I decided, instead of asking him questions about himself, I would simply sit there each day and talk about myself. After about a month of my non-stop chatter, he knew more about me than my mother probably did—that is, if he was listening. I was totally focused on why he always ate his dessert first. Actually, obsessed with finding out probably would be a better description.
“One day I received some tragic news from home. I was so absorbed in my pain that I went through the chow line on autopilot, barely putting anything on my tray. In order to be alone I found a table in a corner on the opposite side of the room. I sat down by myself, raised a bite of food to my mouth, put it down, and started crying. Embarrassed, I put my face in my hands and waited for the pain in my heart to go away. I didn’t hear the clink of a tray being set down beside me, but I became aware of a hand on my shoulder. It was Midge.
“‘Do you need someone to talk to?’ he asked.
“I had been waiting for this moment for a long time, but Ward, M.G. needed to work on his timing. Startled by the intrusion, I could barely muster enough words to explain that I couldn’t really talk to him at this time. Without looking up, I replied very softly, ‘Sorry, man, I just need to be alone right now.’ To my surprise, he sat down beside me and started talking.
He told me practically his entire history; how he grew up in an orphanage after being discovered by a security guard who found him in a shopping cart in an alley behind a Montgomery Ward Department Store. The guard nicknamed him Ward, which later became his official last name. He was taken to the nearby police station where the officer in charge had him rushed to the hospital because he was so malnourished he was on the brink of death. The doctors realized that what they thought was a tiny infant was actually a young lad between the ages of eighteen months and two years old. Once they knew he could survive outside the hospital, he was taken to the local children’s home where the revolving night and day staff raised him until he could walk. All attempts at discovering his identity and finding family or someone to claim him failed. It looked like the orphanage was stuck with him, so they needed a first and middle name to go with Ward in order for him to become an official person. Because of where he was found, they decided on Monte Gomer. Yes, that’s right…Monte Gomer Ward, and the record in his file at the orphanage was the only place his new official full name existed until he joined the Navy.
“The orphanage was not a very nurturing environment and Monte Gomer Ward had a hard time competing because of his frailty. They didn’t get dessert very often, and when they did the older kids would snatch the sweet treasure away from him before he could sit down and eat. He found if he wolfed it down immediately he could avoid having his dessert hijacked. The rest of the meal followed this dulcet beginning. He ran away from the home at fifteen, lied about his age, and joined the Navy. They were a little more lenient in their enlistment screenings at that time because they were in dire need of new recruits. As they had no way to question his place or date of birth without any birth records, the Navy created his first actual documentation. He not only found acceptance in the military, but also had a real identity for the first time in his life. He was an official entity. He had a name, he belonged somewhere, and there was something very special about having a title: Seaman Recruit, Ward, M.G. of the United States Navy.
“He blamed God for his unfortunate circumstances and, in callous pecking order, ranked mankind as a close second. Early on in his fractured existence he decided not to have anything to do with either of them. He kept personal interaction to a minimum, educated himself, and became possessed with the only goal he ever knew, which was to advance in rank and make the Navy his home. He was up for Chief Petty Officer and was already studying to advance to Warrant Officer. Attaining the goal of being commissioned as a Warrant Officer was the only way an informally educated enlisted man could actually achieve an official officer’s rank with the prestige and privileges that went with that military class status.”
The tempo of the story Paul lays out increases and pulls his focus away from the waters. He once again turns and really gets face to face with me as if to explain things of importance. “You see, Philco, the Navy was his family. He had no need for civilian clothes as he had no one to visit. Besides, he really did not like the outside world. He told me that I was the first person in his thirty some-odd years who had ever said much more than ‘Hi’ or ‘Get out of my way’ to him. He told me that today he was excited when he got up in the morning because he had made the decision that for the first time in his life he was going to thank someone. He couldn’t wait for me to bring my tray to his table at breakfast and just couldn’t believe it when I went to the other side of the dining hall. When he saw me crying he said it made him think of himself and how many times he had cried alone. He told me that he wished just once someone would have comforted him. Now he was going to cherish this moment forever because comforting someone else was sweeter than he ever imagined. He said if I wanted, he would be my friend, and then he asked if he could go to chapel with me next time I went.”
Now Paul’s gaze was dead-centered on my eyes. “Get this man…that little guy turned my pain around, and instead of feeling sad about losing someone dear to me, I felt this incredible sense of peace. I realized how blessed I was to have had that person in my life and was happy for my memories of them. He had never had any one meaningful in his life to lose before. By simply reaching out, he had his first friend and his first act of kindness all before noon on the first Monday of the month.”
My understanding nods become my form of conversational response to the pauses that follow his punctuated statements. He brings the tempo back down as he continues. “We went to chapel together the following Sunday, and I could not believe the incredible look of awe on his face as the fresh message of truth was imparted to his waiting heart. As his trust level increased, I began taking him beyond the confines of the naval base. He loved the term ‘exploring,’ and that is what we did instead of just going places. He had never been to Seattle, and whenever we had the same liberty days we would catch the ferry over in the early morning to experience the cool gray mist and then have a full day of ‘exploring.’ We never sat inside the ferry where it was warm. Instead, we stood the entire time on the bow, holding onto the railing of that tremendous transport, letting the spray coat our faces until it would run down into our collars making the tops of our shirts wet. He laughed with his mouth wide open, almost awkwardly, as if he hadn’t had much practice at being happy. I told him about how I loved the wind and how I had a ritual where I would watch the wind and look for God in its midst. He picked up on my rather abstract concept, and just like a child, immediately became an enthusiastic participant.
“We would wait until evening to ride the ferry back from the city because that’s when we could watch the wind together in the night air with our eyes closed without anyone watching us. I loved observing Midge because he was the best wind watcher I ever met. Nine times out of ten, he out-watched me, and I had been watching the wind forever. He also had better ears for beholding the wind’s words than I did. He told me all the things he heard God say and almost choked trying to get it all out because he was so excited.
“On the mornings following
our ‘explorations,’ we’d share breakfast at our private corner table in the mess hall. He would tell me how well he slept after watching the wind on the Seattle-Bremerton ferry. His excitement was contagious. I had learned the joy of all these things so many years ago, and through him realized I had forgotten how incredible some of the simple things in life were when they were new. Not only did I relive them through his exuberance, I found myself drawn back in to their innocence and fondly remembered so many forgotten pleasures of my growing up years.”
Paul finally leans back against the bench, drops his head back, and squares off his line of sight to the sky. He becomes kind of pensive…
“Don’t get me wrong Philco.” I shake my head left and right which has replaced my verbal “no.”
“M.G. Ward was an intelligent man. What I loved about him was that he had never learned dishonesty or posturing, so there was nothing between what he felt and what he expressed. I was still his only friend, and because of this he was always very open about his feelings when he was around me. This was possibly the highest compliment he could have paid me. I was surprised at the depth and speed of our evolving friendship. More than that, I was amazed how his mind and personality grew over time. I initiated this whole thing because, quite honestly, I felt a little sorry for him. I was trying to be nice to someone who looked lonely. Now I was the one who was looking forward to being with him. As he grew bigger inside, it appeared as if he was shrinking physically before my eyes. His child-like nature made it seem appropriate, I guess, so I never really gave it much thought.”
“He attended chapel with me on Sunday mornings, and we’d spend Sunday evenings in our own little two-man Bible study—talk about a parched soul drinking up the living water! We would talk about the Lord and His grace and goodness and forgiveness and blessings. Then we would retrace the years digging up the roots of Midge’s bitterness against God and man, and during these special times, I planted new seeds in this childlike garden. But I never stopped teasing him about his habit of eating dessert first. I told him that life was the corned beef hash and Heaven was the real dessert, and he was doing it all out of order. Even with that, I still could not get him to eat his dessert last. He would always change the subject and tease me about how I hated being called PP by the bigger kids and how embarrassed I would get. He would put me in my place by reminding me that at least I had a real name for them to play with and that they only used words instead of fists to put me down.
“As our friendship continued to grow, I became even more aware that he was getting smaller inside his already loose dungarees. He quit going out on what I dubbed his ‘Mystery Thursdays’ and eventually began skipping meals. He came in to the mess hall the minute the doors opened, got his dessert, ate it standing up, and then headed straight back to his room. I didn’t push for an explanation because I figured we were close enough at this point that he would tell me what was happening when the time was right.”
Paul stops almost as if he is beginning to choke up and there is a slight quiver in his voice. He lowers his eyes from their focus on the sky and stares into his hat, which is crumpled now, clenched in hands that are lightly shaking.
“One day when Midge didn’t show up for dinner for the third time in a row I knew something was wrong. After eating alone, I went by the barracks and found his room empty. The sailor on watch told me that the medics had taken him to the intensive care unit. I ran up the hill from the barracks to the hospital. Because I was staff, I was taken directly to his bedside where I found him hooked up to every piece of equipment in the hospital except the vacuum cleaner. He was bleeding internally from virtually every cancer-ravaged organ in his body. He joked that he never told anyone at the hospital about his pain because he was afraid they would put him on a diet and he wouldn’t get dessert anymore. We laughed and then cried together. I reminded him once again that Heaven was the real dessert, and we laughed some more. It was then that he told me about his ‘Mystery Thursdays.’”
Paul pulls his hat up onto his chest as if he needs something familiar to hang on to. He closes his eyes, starts moving his hand around the rim of the hat almost as if he is caressing it. The words come with noticeable difficulty now—the cadence broken and sad. It surprises both of us when I reach out and touch him on the shoulder…
“It’s okay Paul; I want to hear.”
“You see, Philco,…um, the reason he always left on Thursday evenings, was because in the orphanage where he grew up, one evening a week prospective adoptive parents were invited to come by the home between 7:00 pm and 9:00 pm to select a child. The pain of being passed over for so many years led to him disappear during this weekly intrusion. He knew, as he grew older that he had become less marketable, so he would leave just before the line-up. He walked around nice neighborhoods for hours pretending he was on his way home. When he told me that, I could not stop crying…so, I grabbed this wonderful little man in my arms…and I…I held him like I was his mother. Then he asked me to open the window by his bed so we could watch the wind together.
“After a while two nurses came into the room and interrupted our favorite pastime. I was asked to leave so they could tend to him. As I was leaving the room, I noticed his dinner tray waiting outside the door. I noticed that there was no dessert on the tray and ran down to the mess hall. Much to my delight, I found they had prepared chocolate cake that night. I talked the cook into giving me the biggest piece of chocolate cake that had ever been placed on any U.S. Navy dinner plate, and then I went and set it on the metal tray outside his room. I told the night corpsman at the desk that I was Midge’s only family and to please call me if anything happened. I went back to my bunk and fell asleep, finishing the cry that he had interrupted a few months back.
“I was awakened about an hour later by the night watch, telling me someone from Intensive Care had called and that I should come right over. Half running and half dressing, I sped to Midge’s room. When I got there, the room was empty and the bed had been stripped. I was told that after I left, he ate his evening meal, laid back in the bed and died. I walked over to the open window—the curtains were motionless—there was no wind.
Through my tears I looked down at the tray on his nightstand.
He had cleaned his plate but left the cake untouched.
Monte Gomer Ward had saved the real dessert for last.
FOOT WORK
[PHILCO]
LEAVING MY SAILOR FRIEND, I walk to the edge of the pier to watch the closing of the day and the beginning of a stunning sunset. I like the feeling of being alone but not lonely. Though I am adrift with the wind there is a certain comfort in knowing I have no ties and no place calling me back. I look out and away into the magnitude and magnificence that stretches out to sea as a rainbow sun implodes into the horizon. I touch my cheeks and they feel parched and crackly from dried tears and the salt air. Time disappears and only the lessening light has meaning as it unites with a wet chill. Together they dictate my next move, which is to turn around and walk slowly back up the pier to the hotel. My feet make no immediate sound when they hit the planks; instead there is a delay like when you hear a sound from far away.
I stand before the entrance of the Palace Hotel studying its ornate sign. I decide not to enter. Instead, I am drawn to explore the town and turn left, facing away from the hotel. As I walk down Main Street, I feel lost in the emptiness of this place. If there is a diminutive form of anticipation, that’s what’s happening at this point of my journey. I’m experiencing oddly muted expectations that further disclosure is in the air.
Even though Hurricane Hills feels like a ghost town, I find as I travel farther along the street, this deserted hamlet seems to be developing around me, revealing itself in pieces as though it is turning back into what it used to be. It morphs into something increasingly bigger as I stroll from one end of its once ratty old main street to the other. Before my very eyes, it is filling out with trees, side s
treets, businesses, and mailboxes on almost every corner. I find I am in a “thriving city”—the thriving city described by the old codger at the hotel. After a few blocks, I get the sense I have moved from the “nice part of town” into the “lower” side. Right about where it feels like it is changing complexion I spot a big black man sitting down on the cracked leather seat of his shoeshine stand. He is watching me very pensively and he knows I am coming his way.
He jumps down from his perch as I approach and motions for me to take his place. I crawl up into the warm seat and he begins shining my shoes. I can only see the top of his head as he works in rhythmic silence. Tightly curled salt and pepper hair thinly covers his scalp, which is shiny and smooth like polished brown leather. There is a strange “two-ness” in this moment—just him and me—and the world falls away to a motionless blur in the matter of yards surrounding the shoeshine stand. The wind feels like it is blowing straight down on us from directly above with no slant or angle or swirling. If it had visible definition it would be a softly illuminated shaft with feathered edges. There is something happening here and it is coming from above or from within. I am too off course at this point to know. I do know, even as I am sitting on high, that royalty is kneeling below.
His gentle countenance, old eyes, cocoa-velvet skin, and gray-white stubble adorn a face with history written in its lines. There is weathered tapestry in the large servant hands on my feet, the left hand following the right in rhythmic strokes, bent to the task before him. He wears a wide, dark band that covers the front and back of each hand, almost as if he is covering something up. His motion has that same liquid movement that sailor Paul had when polishing his old brass telescope, creating an odd similarity between the two men. I had noticed his shoes when I walked up, and they spoke of a depth of meaning slightly beyond comprehension in normal terms. It was the contrast of their perfectly-shined exterior and worn-thin-with-age appearance. They spoke of loving care, forced simplicity, and godly order.
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