The Saga of the Homeless Oak Ridge Boy (Part IV)
The homeless guy that throws trash at me when I come out to go to work in the morning is gone.
I have no idea where he's gone, or what he'll do, or if he's throwing trash at someone else, but since I asked him about The Oak Ridge Boys, he has not returned to his post outside my building.
I can't help but think that had I not crossed the line and spoke to him directly, our relationship would not now be over.
Damn it!
The boundaries were well defined. Why did I do it?
I was an inside dweller, an outlander in his world. I -- of the freshly shaven face, and the neatly folded newspaper, and delicious-smelling coffee -- was the thorn in his side, the bane of his existence.
Oh, cruel fate. Cruel, cruel fate.
But we were simpatico on a certain level as well. For who else would receive the banana peel on the shirt in such good humor as I? Who else could dodge the plastic water bottles, and the bags of cat litter, and the big circular trash can lid with such grace and appreciation?
The dance was not big, but it was beautiful. It was real. And it was ours.
Some might say I was his antithesis, but I don't know if that's entirely true. It could be. I don't know. God, I just don't know.
Perhaps he did see me as a demon of sorts. Perhaps I was a Fisher King type of spirit whose evil existed only in his wine-addled mind. Perhaps the trash he threw was his only weapon, his sword against a vile beast from beyond the locked doors and curtained windows. It's not completely implausible considering the circumstances and his quirky demeanor.
Still, it's difficult to accept that he saw me as a monster. There was never any conflict between us. There was never any intentional ill will on my part. Were I his demon, I must have seemed the friendliest demon he'd ever encountered.
On the other hand, maybe to him I was a god, and the pieces of melon rind and tuna fish cans were his sacrifices unto me.
But if the sadness I feel and the anxiety about the loss of my nemesis are what gods must endure, I shall reign on high for no homeless man again for as long as I draw breath. I am out of the god business.
I am so tired.
Oh, little bearded trash man. I miss you, pal. Perhaps you really are just on the road, singing with The Oak Ridge Boys. I'll go on believing that you are.
I have no idea where he's gone, or what he'll do, or if he's throwing trash at someone else, but since I asked him about The Oak Ridge Boys, he has not returned to his post outside my building.
I can't help but think that had I not crossed the line and spoke to him directly, our relationship would not now be over.
Damn it!
The boundaries were well defined. Why did I do it?
I was an inside dweller, an outlander in his world. I -- of the freshly shaven face, and the neatly folded newspaper, and delicious-smelling coffee -- was the thorn in his side, the bane of his existence.
Oh, cruel fate. Cruel, cruel fate.
But we were simpatico on a certain level as well. For who else would receive the banana peel on the shirt in such good humor as I? Who else could dodge the plastic water bottles, and the bags of cat litter, and the big circular trash can lid with such grace and appreciation?
The dance was not big, but it was beautiful. It was real. And it was ours.
Some might say I was his antithesis, but I don't know if that's entirely true. It could be. I don't know. God, I just don't know.
Perhaps he did see me as a demon of sorts. Perhaps I was a Fisher King type of spirit whose evil existed only in his wine-addled mind. Perhaps the trash he threw was his only weapon, his sword against a vile beast from beyond the locked doors and curtained windows. It's not completely implausible considering the circumstances and his quirky demeanor.
Still, it's difficult to accept that he saw me as a monster. There was never any conflict between us. There was never any intentional ill will on my part. Were I his demon, I must have seemed the friendliest demon he'd ever encountered.
On the other hand, maybe to him I was a god, and the pieces of melon rind and tuna fish cans were his sacrifices unto me.
But if the sadness I feel and the anxiety about the loss of my nemesis are what gods must endure, I shall reign on high for no homeless man again for as long as I draw breath. I am out of the god business.
I am so tired.
Oh, little bearded trash man. I miss you, pal. Perhaps you really are just on the road, singing with The Oak Ridge Boys. I'll go on believing that you are.
posted by Sam Ogden at
9:48 AM
1 Comments:
Sorry for your loss. Not to be trite, but not unlike a dance, all good things must come to an end. Keep his memory close to your heart and you will find joy and happiness. It will be difficult, but eventually you must move on. God bless.
By
Bret LeCamus, at 11:34 AM
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