Encounter (Part 2)

(Continued from previous entry)

From my journal, July 31, 1971, New Orleans, Age, 20:

Last Friday, my brother N– and I were going to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant with some family friends, and we parked the car and took the Algiers ferry across the river. There were few people making the trip over on this particular run, but one of them was a hapless, rather elderly man about 60, although the hardships of life showing readily on his sad face could have aged him well beyond his actual years. He held a worn paper bag in his hands, carefully, almost reverently, clutching it at times as if it contained a priceless possession. His entire appearance, from clothes to mannerisms, could have personified skid-row. Something he did, though, struck me as strangely, but pridefully tragic.

I noticed that shortly after we had left the landing, this old man began walking slowly from one person to another, requesting, I surmised, small change. With a hestiant, but still apathetic feeling of disgust, I looked away, pretending to ignore his approach. He mumbled something to N– and I, which I could not understand, in what must have been his slowest, saddest asking tone, perfected by years of mechanical inflection. When he looked at me, I instinctively said I had no change (which happened to be true in this particular case, though I probably would have said the same thing regardless), but N– abruptly indicated that he wanted to know if we had a cigarette. We had none, of course, but I was caught in an unexpectedly embarrassing situation, and again had to refuse the man something I would have willingly given him. He passed on impassively and requested, I assume, a cigarette from someone about 18 holding a sleeping bag under his arm. No cigarette there, either.

When he sat down again, I could notice a look of frustration on his face. He was once again oblivious to everyone around him and seemed shrouded in the bitterly degrading search for a used butt on the floor around his feet. He picked one up and brushed it off, checking the amount of tobacco still left on the crushed out cigarette. The slightest glimmer of expectancy passed away to failure once again as he dropped the butt on the floor. I was staring right at him, and he suddenly looked up. I quickly averted my gaze and could only sit there opposite him thinking depressing thoughts of what utter loneliness must be like.

As the ferry approched Canal Street, he got up slowly and walked toward the exit gate, giving the illusion that some destination awaited him. The ferry jolted to a final stop and the gates were thrown open. The old man was one of the first out, but he trudged very slowly and despondently up the ramp. Everyone had soon passed him by, hurrying on their separate ways, and as N– and I passed, I wondered how many people had given him a second thought.

Two hours later, we returned on the ferry at sunset, having enjoyed our delicious Chinese food. Getting off on the Algiers side, I spotted the same old man, slightly hurrying to the ferry landing to make yet another trip across the river.

How can these people survive? They are regarded as bums and subhuman, but I am sure they have cherished memories of carefree childhoods just like the rest of us. They are errant, unfortunate human beings, cast aside and spit upon by society beacuse they “don’t find work.” We are so ignorant of their real plight. I wonder whether behind their fascades of acceptance to a way of life in which they have grown accustomed to merely surviving, each in his own way longs for some chance of rebirth, if only the mere recognition of his basic humanity.

A dark shadow, a spectre of age, that looms all too close to the future if one would allow it to be. I saw these sad souls in my youth and wondered “How can this be?” and the images haunted me, re-inforcing my determination to never let that be my destiny. Sometimes, being so observant of life, can crarve craters in a human soul, my friend! Beautiful entries!

He could be any of us…and probably is. He is the personification of that loneliness and helplessness we all feel at some time or another. We all know what it is like to be turned away from at a time of need. We all know that sometimes simply surviving means longing for one person to reach out to us. Perhaps, that is why this encounter struck such a memorable chord….

Sad tale, friend. I always feel so horrible when I see someone like that, as if I’m somehow part of the problem rather than part of the cure. Of course, each man makes himself. But it still makes me falter and think. It also scares the hell out of me. What if that will be me in thirty years? Take care.

What a fine eye, heart, and writing spirit you already had at that early age. Of course I’d imagine the entry means even more to you now. I always want people to remember to celebrate the younger self that they once were, and here you give that self due recognition. So many parallel lives to ours; yet at core, it’s all part of what it means to be human, isn’t it?

Encounters like the one you have so masterly described are things that can skew someone’s whole perception of the world. I think each one of us holds a fear that, one day, that might be us…

Many of the same thoughts run though my head when I see ‘these’ people. But I also think that one day, any day, I could be one of ‘these’ people. What I always remember though is that ‘these’ people are really people and are us, all of us. If we don’t all look the same, act the same, and smell the same, no one wants anything to do with us. Sorry, I kind of rambled on.

Life can be very cruel and arbitrary. And it can be beautiful and merciful. It’s a strange paradox.

I wish I could sit on the sands of Folly and talk with you for hours…

There were a lot of these people in my town as I was growing up. They would sit in one park near the business district. I would always feel so sorry for these people. It made me realize early one we are responsible for our future, and I did not want to be in that sad situation. Kids are too sheltered today..this kind of contact and exposure to the real world is what forms character. [brickpaver]A3

i wonder if he ever got his cigarette… do you think he might still be alive ? quiet reflections here

Thank you for the kind comment you left me. I aspire to write as well as you. I have a homeless friend from stockton. I cant say much here, but I would have no regrets living his life, regardless of how unfortunate the outcome.

I read this last night, but could not get a note to post. Slow going on OD tonight, too, but wanted to stop back by. As always, wonderful entry…Hoping to get up that way soon, will keep you posted…Hugs,

itsbreeze

November 7, 2001

lovely, lovely writing

Bramble

November 8, 2001

Encounters such as this haunt me too. I think they scare me because I can picture myself in that position and wonder how it would feel.

A disturbing glimpse, Oswego. Isn’t it strange how we can momentarily connect with a stranger and his or her presence can rise up and confront us. I’m curious to know what you make of this moment, thirty years later.

fine writing – I especially enjoyed these since I just returned from NO

20 years old and write like that! Love your words here!

Still true, still true. I wonder if I am not that man but for some slight differences in my life. Thank you again, O.

Edelweis

October 29, 2002

And I keep saying you are a real fine writer!!! And at that age!!! Wonderful how well and profound you tell about the man and your thoughts and feelings! I also wonder about persons like him and about their past and their childhood. What brought them there and in such situation? Long for some chance of rebirth?…I really wonder! Thanks for sharing this thoughtful entry. Have a nice evening 🙂