Philco

by Ken Mansfield

  I am bouncing between feeling trapped in this place and being liberated by it. This surreal existence inspires me in such unusual ways. While I feel it is my purpose to be on the move, I am finding a deeper purpose in less-defined motion. It’s like being suspended in a single place offering multiple reflections.

  I enter through a creaky screened door and catch the fragrance of the food that waits in presentation behind the slanted glass fronting the deli counter. The place has the cool presence of an aromatic root cellar. For the first time since I came into town, I see more than one person before me. They are obviously the owners, no doubt husband and wife. Just as you would expect from a “Mom-and-Pop store,” they are properly adorned in their white aprons, and I like the way they are holding each other’s pickle-stained hands. Their names are hand-stitched across the top of the aprons. His lettering is simple, blocked in black, letting you know that his name is “Lou.” Her initials are a more frilly style with pastel colors that read “C.J.” They are seated on small, matching wooden stools and leaning back against the butcher-block table behind the counter waiting to take my order. They both sport wavy, shiny black hair tightly aligned around their faces, and although their matching white chef’s hats look ridiculous, they are strangely appropriate for the scene. He has his hand on her left knee—her right hand covers his.

  Lou says, “Hi,” and C.J. asks if I need help with the menu. They introduce themselves and apologize for not shaking hands—you know…sanitation concerns and the pickle smell. I am getting used to my name as well as the ritual of introductions and offer without hesitation, “Nice to meet you; my name is Philco.” Wow, that feels so natural, and even better than that, I realize I actually like my name. C.J. tells me I am the only person to come into the deli so far that day and they were beginning to get bored. It is obvious Lou likes to talk and my hesitation in deciding what to order prompts lively chatter during the delay. It isn’t long before the three of us are sitting at a big table in the cool dim light of the deli, and I listen quietly as Lou shares stories about food and customers. C.J. is dutifully quiet, bent to task, folding cloths into napkins and other chores while Lou tells one tale after the other, getting excited, becoming very loud at times, with a litany of hand gestures, eventually messing up more napkins than he has folded. It’s like we are family, skipping the “getting to know you” phase, sitting as familiarly as if we had done this many times before.

  After a few minutes, or maybe after an hour or so, we are interrupted by their second customer of the day: a tired old man who appears to be down on his luck. C.J. gets up and takes his order for a cup of coffee to go, waving off his offer to pay. As soon as the man leaves, Lou suddenly becomes very quiet and begins talking about an unusual fellow, somewhat like this man, who used to come into their store about every other day. I am not sure, but the person’s name sounded something like Harlan, or Marlon, or maybe Garland. What I am sure of is Lou’s tone when talking about him—one of fondness and respect. I can also tell that Lou and C.J. have a soft spot in their hearts for this man. I hadn’t noticed where the fine silverware came from during this shift in atmosphere, but Lou is now gently polishing a beautiful serving spoon with a soft napkin using the same caring strokes that Old Blue Pete used on my shoes. The reverent, easy motion of his hands and the pacing of his words unite into the character of the story about their experience with this man. My dad, Floyd, told stories in a similar cadence—except the timing of his words were accompanied by soft strums on an old Spanish guitar. As different as these men were, there is an uncanny similarity in this moment. Lou talks while C.J. leans back looking past his silhouette created by the dim room and the bright sunshine outside the front window.

  A Woody Guthrie song plays on an old radio in the back of the store. Lou is flying solo with his tale…

  GARLAND OF FLOWERS

  [LOU]

  LOU LAYS THE SERVING SPOON down on the table, carefully sliding it over to C.J. He rises as if in slow motion and turns to the storefront window while gazing up and out through its upper edges into a graying sky. He isn’t so much “looking out” as he is “leaving to” another place. C.J. taps me on the wrist and smiles knowingly. She leans over and whispers, “See ya,” in my ear and quietly heads for the back of the room. As she leaves, her hand trails from my wrist down to the tips of my fingers as if to hold my attention. Her touch fades and she gives me a look and nod to let me know that Lou is going somewhere special. I turn to the window and listen to words that appear to be coming from a distance, bouncing off his muted reflection in the glass.

  “With a given name like Louval it shouldn’t be difficult to understand why I insisted people call me Lou. I have personally experienced the heartbreak of being homeless and living without family or anyone to cling to in tough times. Even when I was growing up in a stable home environment I was always worried that would happen—that things could go wrong—and so I lived in constant fear that someday I would end up out on the street alone. Well, you know, Philco, it has been said that what we fear we create, and that is exactly what happened to me. Years of homelessness in time turned into a hopelessness that created a deeper ache in my gut than hunger ever did. But a miracle happened one day that more than made up for my devastating life in the shadows. You see, what happened is an angel came along and lifted me up out of that desolate mire through their kindness and godly actions.”

  Lou steps back from the window and turns his gaze to me, “That someone is now my wife.” He let the import of that statement set in for a moment while glancing to the back of the room where C.J. is working…and then, almost as an aside, explains, “She didn’t like her given name either, so we share the bond of having renamed ourselves. She chose to use her initials C.J. to be her official forename, and, don’t ever ask her what they stand for!” He turns back to the window.

  “To this day I can sense the pain and bleakness of abandoned people whenever I come in contact with them. That is why my heart and my hands are always open to give them encouragement and support whenever I can. Owning a small town deli with the obvious leftovers at day’s end was made to order for someone like me. This food never goes to waste and I have been privileged to feed some very fine people over the years.” He pauses once again, his stare going even deeper into that space outside the deli. He lowers his eyes and places both hands, palm out, against the glass.

  “I remember one person in particular as if it were yesterday.”

  Lou’s animation and timing both come to rest as everything in the room fades softly into his story. “At the time, we owned a small but very upscale deli located in a quaint college town close to the eastern seaboard. This was in our early days before moving west. Garland was the town tramp there; and though he had never done anyone any harm, caused any damage, or became a nuisance in any way, he was unwanted. The city council and the people who lived on the hill above the garden park where he slept at night had tried just about everything to get rid of him. He was cluttering up their pretty little town. They were always waiting for Garland to mess up and for someone to come forward and testify against him. But he had done no wrong and his worst deed was feeding the birds in the park—a kind old man simply sharing his meager food supply with them.

  “When he came into our little gourmet shop, customers would either step aside, or, in many instances, leave. Some would just go outside and stand there until he left, and only then return to place their sandwich orders. They were either afraid of him or maybe they just had a hard time facing his poverty.

  “C.J. and I were drawn to him, and we reached out to see if he could use a little help during bad weather spells or when we sensed he was not doing well. He would always politely refuse, and about every other day he would come in and offer forth enough money for one of our deli sandwiches. I loved watching C.J. from the other side of the store while I was stocking shelves. When she made Garland’s sandwich, she would pile more food between two slices of
bread than any human had ever done before. She would hand him her ‘Garland Special,’ and he would hold out his gloved hand filled with loose change and crumpled bills. Garland would wait for her to pluck the amount of his tab from this offering. Almost every time there would be a few coins left over and he dutifully deposited the excess in our little tip jar. The tip jar was a lonely vessel and received very little attention from our well-to-do customers whose demands and expectations were plenty; but, Garland always fed it with his excess just like he did the birds in the park.”

  Lou’s affection for Garland was catching and I was all in. I wanted to know more about him. His cadence was slow and measured, which allowed for access to the dialogue without a sense of intrusion. “What did he look like?” I asked with my eyes closed waiting for Lou’s words to cast an impression.

  “It was his eyes. It is funny, but even though wrinkled skin and unruly eyebrows framed them, those eyes were remarkably soft and young. You had the sense they were getting ready to cry or laugh—whatever it was you couldn’t avoid them or escape the tender beauty lying deep within. It was hard to get a good look at Garland though, under all the long scraggly hair, floppy hats, year-round scarves, and baggy, layered clothes. He carried a worn but well-kept leather shoulder bag that looked very expensive. It was the kind of satchel a hip land baron would have next to him on the seat of a Cornice Rolls Royce. He didn’t carry it over one shoulder as would be typical of that sort of bag. Instead, the strap crossed his chest and hung on his left shoulder, and then he would cover his left hand with his gloved right hand to press the bag against his body. It seemed that bag was his only container of possessions, and his body language suggested that whatever was in there were things he held dear.”

  “We found it very interesting that his name was Garland and that he slept in the flowers. We would joke with him, and, over time, gave him the official title of ‘Garland of Flowers.’ He accepted this in the nature in which it was intended, and I believe it even gave him a sense of pride and a feeling of position. But, around town, attempts were heating up to extricate this odd man from their lovely streets. Any time a trash can was turned over or a porch light bulb was missing, Garland was blamed. All the unsolved mysteries of this fashionable little town were attributed to Garland as the chief suspect. The accumulation of trumped up charges started having a snowball effect, and this mild man was becoming guilty by the sheer number of accusations.”

  C.J. calls softly from the back of the deli, “Hey, Philco, get Lou to tell you about the break-in.”

  I look up, expecting Lou to jump right in. He looks over at me and I realize he is waiting for me to do as C.J. has requested—to ask him to talk about a break-in. I feel very engaged now and ask with great interest, “A break-in, Lou; what’s that all about?” At that moment I become acutely aware that I am in unfamiliar territory. A strange new sensation overcomes me—I feel at home here. Lou becomes more alive, even animated, as he settles in to a fascinating tale…

  “One night our little store was broken into, but the thief either gave up easily or was frightened away. When we opened the front door of the deli the next morning and discovered the intrusion, we were happy to find we had minimal damage. We had to replace a bent cash drawer and a broken window. We figured we were very lucky that after six years this was our only invasion. To keep our insurance intact, we filed a proper police report and sent a copy to our insurance company. Of course, Garland was the ‘person of interest’ to everyone but us. With no proof and our refusal to proceed any further, the matter was closed. Besides, we were heading into the holidays and were becoming concerned about Garland, as he was not looking well. By contrast, our little village was vibrant with all the colors of autumn and the soft crispness in the seaside air made life feel like a dance of pleasures.

  “We became very aware of our blessings that year after spending a wonderful Thanksgiving with friends and family…but our minds and hearts kept finding their way back to Garland and his situation. After the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, which was especially profitable for our little business, we decided to put together a bunch of goodies into a stylish picnic basket and take it to Garland. Well, once we got going we found ourselves having so much fun that we began piling all kinds of things in the basket. We put in offerings of expensive canned, jarred, pickled, and preserved gourmet goodies as well as fine linen napkins, silverware, imported can openers, and on and on and on. We were having a ball loading up this treasure chest for Garland. By the time our ‘feeding-Garland-frenzy’ was over it practically took the two of us to carry the basket out the door. After so many years, we knew his ways and his hidings and left our little holiday gift where only he could find it in the park. We walked home hand-in-hand like two kids. In bed that night we tried to imagine how pleased Garland was going to be with his unusual blessing.

  The next morning, about five minutes after we opened the store, the local sheriff entered with the picnic basket in hand. Garland was in tow behind him, held tightly in the stern hands of the hapless deputy. It took C.J. and me about a nanosecond to see where this was all going because the smug look on the Sheriff’s face told the whole story. Obviously, they had their culprit and the break-in had been solved. Now they had a reason to cleanse our perfect little town of this scourge. Before the sheriff could say a word, C.J. took the basket out of his hands. I turned to Garland and began talking to him as if the officers were not even in the building. I apologized for leaving his favorite Polish sausage out of the basket and C.J. immediately retrieved the biggest one we had from the meat counter and placed it under the lid. She made a small production out of wrapping it in even nicer linen napkins than the ones we had already given him. I just kept running off at the mouth, speaking directly to Garland. I told him I was so glad he came back to the deli because as soon as I got the store open and running I was going to come looking for him to let him know that I forgot to give him his change. Ignoring the officers even more offhandedly than I was, C.J. placed the picnic basket into Garland’s free hand. At the same time, I was taking money out of the cash register. I apologized to Garland and told him that he had better start taking better care of me—he knew how forgetful I was becoming. From now on, he needed to keep an eye on me because sometimes I may forget to give him his change. I then began counting out the money I owed him. ‘Twenty, ten is thirty, five is thirty-five, three ones and 67 cents— 38.67 dollars, right?’ It was then I realized that he had received the money in the gloved hand that never left the leather shoulder bag. The only other time I had seen him lift that hand was when he would give C.J money for his occasional sandwich purchase. It seemed fitting to me that the hand he gave with was also now a hand he received with.

  I walked Garland out the door chatting all the time to him with my hand on his shoulder suggesting that next time he should consider that Zinfandel I had recommended to go with the salami and cheese he had selected. I walked back into the store and, after exchanging a quick look with my wife, she continued our little act almost as if on cue. She turned to the officers, apologized for making them wait, and then sweetly asked if she could help them with anything. They mumbled something and then shuffled off into the early morning light. C.J. and I never said a word about it to each other all day—it was hard to talk because we were so busy smiling.”

  Just as in the moment in his story I can see reliving the experience is still so special that once again it is hard to talk…he has the biggest smile on his face. After a long pause Lou’s smile fades and he continues…

  “They found Garland in a final sleep in the flowers a few mornings later. There was no sign of the basket or any of the food. His leather pouch was gone. Later that day we were called to the local attorney’s office where we were asked to be seated for a reading of Garland’s will that had been prepared and witnessed by the attorney and his assistant under Garland’s instruction. It was addressed to us and very brief. The attorney read aloud the few words carefully
handwritten on the back of our deli menu.

  “To Lou and C.J.: You are my ‘soul heirs’ and the contents of my bag are entirely yours.

  “The attorney then opened Garland’s leather pouch and handed us the contents: a bag of birdseed, a bankbook, and a Bible. The names on the savings account were his and ours. The balance was over 3 million dollars and the last entry was 38.67 dollars. The bankbook had been used as a bookmarker and the Bible lay open before us. Matthew 25 verses 35 through 45 were clearly highlighted.”

  “We ran into Garland’s attorney almost a year later at a high school ball game. He said he wasn’t supposed to break client confidentiality, but figured Garland wouldn’t mind if he told us. Originally, Garland’s will left his entire estate to the town for beautification and cultural projects that it could never afford. Failed charity drives for needed projects never drew enough support or contributions from the town’s wealthy locals to accomplish these goals. He had designated, in that original will, a large sum for the park and the surrounding sidewalk areas for ponds, playgrounds, and beautiful flower gardens. We were shocked when we heard the words of his last request and could only imagine how the town would feel if they knew how their judgment of this lovely man had been so wrong. What was especially intriguing to us was the date of the change of beneficiary in the will. Garland had suffered for years keeping his offering of forgiveness and fortune alive until the day after the break in at our deli. I think the town had finally pushed the wrong button when they questioned his dignity and honesty. Like the day we teamed up with Garland in making the Sheriff and his addled henchman the recipients of their own failed folly, we were once again unable speak to each other all day. But, this time our smiles were hidden beneath our tears and a sense of loneliness when we discovered what a wonderful friend we had in Garland.”