He had tattoos on his face, not the gorgeous curves of the Maori tattoos that follow the contours of eye and jaw, but a crude and motley assortment, seemingly done without thought – jailhouse tattoos – a Celtic cross on one cheek, unbalanced by a larger pair of dice on the opposite temple.
He caught me out in the open. I couldn’t escape. I was struggling to start the mower and he came, walking rapidly and talking a line I’d heard before – a story I couldn’t confirm and which didn’t really make sense. His message: I’m a good guy. I work and am willing to work more. I have an emergency and can you help?
When sis and I were about four and six, dad took us to town in his new ’53 Chevy to run some errands. He parked on main street, fed the meter, and left the two of us to our own devices. (I know, I know, but this was 1952.)
Time passed and dad didn’t return. Looking out the windshield, I noticed that the meter was running out. I only knew that when a meter runs out bad things could happen and it had to do with the police. I sort of panicked.
We jumped out of the car. I sent sis one direction and I went the other. I entered stores and begged for some change, no luck until a shoe salesman gave me a nickel. I fed the meter. Dad returned and was annoyed at what we had done. Oh well…
Now, this guy didn’t qualify. He asked for a small loan. I said I don’t loan money but I would give him something. He’d probably done this to a hundred people or maybe not. I didn’t care.
Jesus, and a shoe salesman, taught me that it’s not about the merits of a beggar’s case, it’s about me the giver. It’s about where my heart lies. Whether my man was in the same position as a kid looking for a nickel or not didn’t matter. I just wanted him to be.
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