Johnny Dirt

This is a story that I wrote for a writing class (also some time ago) after having seen soooo many men, and at times women too, stand there at the street corner … this should not be happening in our country, at the very least not to our Veterans, for they are those that gave their all for us to have what little or much we have … they now have … nothing.

Johnny Dirt
Ragged around the edges as he stands there in his second hand clothes, unshaven and somewhat on the ripe side, holding his sign, as he stands there on his street corner.
Not making eye contact as cars come to a halt not feet from him, he stands there demurely gazing down at the ground, still hiding what he feels, shame. Even after all this time there is still a shimmer of pride in past accomplishments in spite of the smudge of defeat on his soul that is as visible as the missing teeth, two uppers and one lower gone, a long time ago. His nails are dirty and his hands cracked and crooked as they hold up the misspelled sign “will werk fer food”, still not looking up.
Military clothing, or what once was a remnant of a Camo jacket, keeps him warm during the mornings, possibly at night as well as he makes his way down toward the river.
Bent at the waist and leaning to one side, probably an old wound, a Vet, maybe decorated, probably another that slipped through the cracks. No way to tell through the matted hair what the original color might have been, the sun shines just right giving an illusion of blond from days gone by.
Sign set aside, he mumbles to himself about what I can not hear without getting too close and trampling on his pride even more than it has been this day.
Loosely holding on to sanity I am sure as he continues to answer questions asked of him, with the occasional cackle and shout. Scaring himself with the volume and not wanting to draw even more attention to himself he fiercely whispers to keep it down, not wanting to make acquaintance of “the Man” again today.
Momentary lucidity as he looks up and we make eye contact, making me feel his shame, and I feel dirtier for having done so.
Age indiscriminate, anywhere between 20 and 200, the street takes its toll and gives naught in return, his eyes have seen things that populate my nightmares and haunt my days. Crimes forgotten but burnt deep inside his soul, his mind able to hide them well for the consequences would be too terrible should they surface.
His tennis shoe in stark contrast to the combat boot with no laces. Maybe that is the reason for the halfhearted shuffle, or more old wounds.
One of our own stands there, my son, my brother, my father, there but for the grace of God, Me …

… When my reverie was broken by a casual “Here ya’ go buddy” as another quarter clinks into my cup from the next car in line. There I was, just standing there watching that Man, the one in the car, two lanes over, the one that actually looked back and let me, look … in.
Probably on his way home to house and Wife with 2.3 kids and dog as a pet.
A drone, done for the day. What I once was, a very long time ago.
My dream, dreamt and made to wake too soon, and now I am afraid of the long sleep, so my time is spent dreaming past dreams and counting on the power of Shame to make my cup filleth over.
My boot lost days ago, was the better of the two, but fortune did not smile on me when finding a solitary tennis shoe to replace it with … they could be bare.
The ones that want to talk you to death are the worst, they want your life in the 10 seconds it takes the light to turn and their sins are absolved as they pass feeling somehow cleansed for having talked to that “Poor Man”.
Those that have it hard, those that have life’s stamp on them as having come hard by what they now share, those are the ones that bring a flutter to my soul.
Those are proof there still lives … Hope, in the breast of Humanity and that all is not lost in the end.
The faceless “Here ya’ go buddy” my anchor for the day, bringing me … back again. My Home …tonight, on the beach, maybe a bottle for a companion, toasting having made it to the end of yet another day … awake.
Counting my bounty, I head to the store for liquid release. Trying hard not to think of perceptions, pretending to be … normal, but reality screams “Wino, Bum, Outcast, Scum.”
Skimming along on the edge of the gene pool, barely retaining my grip I see what they see, and am appalled as “Hope Lost” stood there before them, an empty husk of a Man.
And it becomes too much, too fast, too furious as the fire of guilt rages in my head that only liquid release can bring peace and understanding, bring glimpses of bliss and Eden, the liquid release that lets me see … inside of some of them … until the cup speaks again.
Coming out of the liquor store, my brown bag filled with solace, I am approached by the Man that I had seen earlier on the street corner.
Thinking I was to be the recipient of yet another buck, I stood still.
“How about allowing me to give you a home cooked meal? You know everything homemade, the works, no strings attached. I promise, please?”
Dumb struck; I edge my shoulders up as in preparation to a beating and ask, “Why?”
“Because I can,” said the Man from the car, “and because, I have been where you are now not too long ago, and thanks to a home cooked meal I am now where I am and wish to repay a favor owed”
“Tell me how over dinner?” I ask.
With a smile on his lips a curious “How?” escapes.
“How the meal “saved” you?”
“You know what? I might just do that” and laughed from deep down inside and extending his hand at the same time, “My name is Bill Williams, Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
His grip was firm and not at all like my own limp noodle of an abused hand.
We shake, “Mine is Johnny.” I halfheartedly croak as he leads me to his car.
The ride to his house was short and uneventful and we arrived wrapped in a bubble of silence, he not knowing what to ask without sounding condescending and I not knowing what the truth was anymore, so unable to answer either way.
My liquid solace still gently wrapped in its brown paper bag snuggling up against my armpit as it whispers visions of release from the mundane.
The house, the wife, the children and the dog (I was right), all of them extremely pleasant and very understanding to a fault. You know the Storybook family, the Walton’s or the
Cleavers, they really do exist and there are aliens that live among us.
I need a drink bad.
The food she prepared was … it brought tears to my eyes, as did everything else as I sat and wallowed in memories of days gone by. Her name was Samantha, the children Sarah and Sean and of course the dog Boomer. All like in a dream.
I lived for half a day another mans life, and the other half reliving mine.
He was kind enough to drop me off back where we had started after my refusal of his offer of a bed for the night.
As I stand there watching his tail lights grow dim in the distance I hope he understands how thankful I am for his simple kindness and his story.
“Honey look what I found, he must have left this here by accident” Samantha gasps as Bill enters the door after having dropped Johnny off again, “I found it wrapped in the napkin on the table.” Looking down at her outstretched hand, he is thunderstruck by understanding and is filled with a sorrow that tears at his soul as the tears well up in his eyes.
There lying in his wife’s hands was the answer to so many questions asked and unasked and the reason for Johnny’s silence and reluctance. Johnny’s payment for a moment of a life shared was his Purple Heart.

“You want to know about Johnny?” “There is not much to tell you about Johnny. Johnny was always a quiet kid and pretty much kept to himself.” Says his older sister. “He would always be sitting somewhere off in the distance and read.” Laughing loudly she said again “Him and his stupid books, look what it got him.”
“Johnny went and joined the Army as soon as he was old enough to get away from home and see the world, he always wanted to see what was out there you know?”
“I really couldn’t tell you much about him other than he was my little brother and we grew up in the same household, kind of like a shadow you know?
Just always there in the background. Never caused any trouble to keep the beatin’s to a minimum, you know?” as her look dwindles off into the distance
“How is he by the way? Haven’t seen or heard from him in years. You say you know him? I hope he is doing Ok.”

“What’s his name? Johnny you say?” asks the liquor store clerk. “I never get … you know … close to those kind of folks, I know it don’t rub off or nuthin’ but you just never know.” He nervously laughs.
“But ya, I remember that guy”, as he studies the picture I show him. “He was one of the nicer ones, always had a thank you at the register. And that was all he ever said.”
Hoping to get more from him I grease the way with another $20 only to have it rejected along with giving me my original $20 back he added. “Hey if you see him give him the $40 for me would ya? But tell him not to spend it here.”
I leave the liquor shop knowing little more about Johnny, but also knowing that he had touched lives wherever he went.