"What?" he yelled as he battled against the noisy
interior of his 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. He was at a signal on the access road.
The signal that stood right next to a once magnificent edifice. A monolith
erected in order to bring a professional Basketball team to San Antonio. An abandoned home. It wasn’t always that way.
Sacrificing all in the hopes of future glory, the abandoned
land of Viva was traded on nothing more elusive than hope. An architectural
triumph was constructed known as the Alamodome. Yes we built it, and they came.
San Antonio
landed a professional basketball team; The San Antonio spurs. So for 5 years
glory and life lived at the stadium. Then the owners no longer had use for this
old area. Now they wanted a new one built with more skyboxes. So the Alamodome,
once home to NBA champions, was abandoned.
Glory days long gone it was relegated to the hope of the occasional High
School Band competition. So in the shadow of the abandoned home of dreams,
stood its personification—a vagrant holding a crude cardboard sign. No doubt to
someone, somewhere, he also once had a future filled with hope, filled with
promise...and then something, who knows what, simply happened. How it changed
and what it changed remained unanswered.
The only known was that it did bring change. Etched on the flimsy sign he bore, written
crayon no less, was a simple sign "$".
The vagrant, a little dirty, stood on the corner waving to all passersby. His
worldly possessions, which included a sleeping bag, were all collected into a
green military sack near his feet. A mangy black dog affiliated in a loose
confederacy with the human, sat in the shade under the bridge. The driver saw this man well before he
approached the intersection. The driver wanted an easy day. He had no money, he
had no energy, and he just wanted to get home. As such, he hoped to make the
light. Hopes that were dashed when, just as in fall, the green turned to amber.
Slowing down the bug he continued the smile at the pedestrian. All the vagrant
did was smile back. In some form of mute understanding, and possibly grace, he
even lowered his cardboard sign. Then this troubadour began to mutter
something. The driver, confused by the noise couldn't understand so he yelled
out "What?"
Smiling the vagabond continued in his mutterings. Intrigued, the driver rolled down the window
of his bug, 10 revolutions of the handle to be exact. While this open window to the world did
increase the volume of his engine, it did however allow the musings of the drifter
to be heard. What were the words of
wisdom: “Couldn’t get it outta third
gear.”
Perplexed, unsure both of what he had heard, as well as
wanting to make sure he heard what he heard, the driver, replied “What?” The vagabond repeated and expanded: “Couldn’t
get it outta third gear. I had a friend
who had a bug, not as nice as yours.”
The driver nodded as both an agreement that, yes his bug was nice, and
to show the conversation intrigued him.
“We were in Corpus,” he continued, “he let me drive it down
the road, and I was going great.” Then
the troubadour began to make shifts on a gearshift that existed, and depressed
and raised his foot on a clutch pedal that existed, even if it was only in his
mind—it existed. “First,” his hand moved
to second as his foot engaged and released the clutch. “Second” herein the
bodily movements followed. Apparently
this was successful, for the very next word yelped was “Third” with
accompanying movements. But then, true
to his word, when he yelled “Fourth” his hand on the gearshift was unable to
find it, despite the fact that he had engaged the clutch. Looking back at the driver, the wanderer
concluded his tale with the summary statement “Couldn’t get it outta third
gear.”
Through this simple tale of
non-sequetor, the driver found he felt camaraderie with this man. It could have been his complementary
acknowledgement of his bug. It could
have been the bind of the beetle brotherhood.
Or… oops, the driver couldn’t dwell on it. He was at the behest of a diminutive electric
device. A traffic signal. It stood as a centurion demanding obedience
for the sake of social order. It had
changed to green. As the driver he must
go. He said goodbye to the vagabond
soul, engaged a clutch, while his hand found a first—both of which
existed. On his way to the next
sentinel, I mean traffic light that would once again stop his journey, the
driver reflected. The story may have
been a bit jabberwocky, but he hoped that he would see him again on his return
two days later.
Two days later the driver had
found himself on the same access road.
As the road began to decline to the underpass, he found himself looking
eagerly to hear from the minstrel. As
more of the horizon was revealed on the decline, he discovered his friend of
the road was there. Well, he was there,
his bag was there. But the sign was
gone; whatever loose confederacy had tied him to the dog had been torn
asunder. When someone does not have a
lot, the absence of anything is noticed.
This time the changing of the
lights displayed a full year. A green
spring through the fall amber and winter red were all warmly greeted. This halt in the schedule gave him the time
to show his care, by inquiring about the absences. Just as in the prior conversation, this one
also transcended the transfer of capital.
“What happened to your sign?” the driver asked with genuine
concern. The driver was told, “Well the
Cops came yesterday.” Curiosity piqued
the driver listened as the man continued, “They gave me a choice, either I
could throw away the sign, or they would take me to jail.” Laughing, the man said “…and I guess you can
tell what choice I made.”
The driver, glad to see this man
live his pursuit for freedom, reminded him of the consequences, “Yeah, but they
would have fed you. Do you have enough
food?” To this, the man, like the
frontier American mythos, non-chalet replied, “I got ways.” “Well what happened to your dog?” the driver
continued while he also began to look at the signal, as if he could ask
permission for the light to stay until the conversation was complete. “About the dog,” the man answered, “like I
told you, the cops came yesterday.” As
if it knew that it had held time long enough, the signal now changed colors. The driver, willing to comply, both said “Bye
now,” as well as waved to the man left behind.
In his rear view mirror he saw the man continuing the wave until he had
passed over the next hill.
The next time he was on the access
road, even though it was only three days later, the weather had turned
cold. Upon the horizons revealing that
the man was still there, the driver was excited to see him. The traffic signal obliged by ensuring it was
red. This time the man, the driver,
asked the man, the troubadour, if he wanted a cigarette. The troubadour said no. The driver, concerned due to the weather,
asked the minstrel if he needed a ride to a shelter. The vagrant said he would be good. The driver queried further. “Well we stay in an abandoned building that’s
haunted.” The driver was taken aback,
“Haunted?” The minstrel continued,
“Yeah, the ghosts like me, and because it’s haunted the cops stay away.” Well, the driver thought to himself, that’s
pretty sound logic. “You sure your
okay…got enough food?” the driver, who begged to help, was refuted. “No, I’m fine.” The signal was merciless this time as it
changed. Boldly announcing that the
conversation should be finished as drones must work. The driver, however, rebelled. If only by staying just a second longer, “You
sure everything is okay.” “Yeah,” the
man said, “everything ‘ll work out, it always does. Life takes care of itself my man, takes care
of itself.” With that the driver,
encouraged by the horns behind him, said goodbye.
The driver was determined. The next time he would be on the access road
before Christmas Break. He had decided
to bring some canned food he was going to be donating to a food drive and
cutting out the middleman. He had even
bought a manual can opener to further assist the sage he had come to know. Boldly he passed over the hill, only to find—his
horizon empty. The man was gone. But in the drivers mind, he lived still.
On his trek home the driver
reflected on the man. The speaker of
gibberish who was also a speaker of truth.
A man in motion who stayed just a bit talked to another man in motion
who stayed just a bit. By taking time
out of their lives the two friends of the road had been able to come to a
deeper knowledge of the other. The
driver would give thanks this Thanksgiving, and to make sure others gave
thanks, that food, went to the food bank.
