Chapter 9

At one time Gerald had a home. But when he left for college, his mother had sold the house he grew up in and Marian finished high school living in an apartment. That certainly wasn’t a home. As soon as Marian got out of school she got married and moved into a real house in Seattle. She didn’t consider the apartment a home. Gerald lived in an apartment while he was in college, shared with Brian. But neither of them considered the apartment home. “Home,” said an old adage, “is where the heart is.” Well, Gerald’s heart lived firmly in his chest. The home that most people talked about always seemed to Gerald to be where their stuff was. His friends were constantly running home to get their ball glove, to eat, to watch TV. The idea of home was meaningless, Gerald had once asserted in an essay in the college newspaper. “The idea of ‘home’ may actually be the root of all conflict. If you have a home, you have to protect it. Even nations war over boundaries in order to protect their homeland. The notion that a nation, a people, a culture, or a race might have a home means that they have something to fight for. Home is what is threatened by different ideologies. Home is what people establish to provide a safe environment to raise their children. But our increasingly transient population is laying waste to that concept of home. Where settlers once put down roots and children grew old and died in the same house that they were born in, today the world is shrinking and people move hundreds of miles simply to take on a new job or marry a lover. Perhaps one day the world will become so small that we will all consider it our home and join together to protect it rather than spend our lives fighting over it.” It was a good, if controversial essay, Gerald thought. Of course, he would never actually give up his own home. When he and Lori were married, they would raise children in their home and those children, while they might occupy a different building, would always have a place to come home to.

Now the concept of home seemed completely foreign to G2. His heart was in his chest where it belonged, and all his “stuff” was in the canvas bag he slung over his shoulder. That seemed to be all the home he ever needed. Some hundred miles down the track, Mad Max showed G2 the video that was cut together from what they had filmed. Mad Max narrated and Mary’s video cut to scenes of G2 flying in the wind, his tag on the car, his puzzled look, his cardboard sign. Following the closing remark, the camera zoomed in on the heart tag of the pair and then cut back to G2 who was smiling and nodded to the camera as he said “God bless.” The train pulled into Omaha and Mad Max and Mad Mary jumped out. “Gotta find a place to plug in and recharge the batteries,” Mad Max said. “We’ll find a WiFi hotspot and upload the video, too,” Mad Mary said. “God bless you, G2.” G2 kept on the train to Atchison, then jumped off and headed further south toward Kansas City. Maybe he’d go on down to Texas.

Technically, Nate wasn’t a panhandler. He told folks that, including police who happened by. Nate was a street musician—an entertainer. He was often seen near the public market in one city or the city square in another. Nate was always careful to set up where people did not have to step around him to pass on the sidewalk, but had easy access to the small guitar case that he set out to collect donations. Technically, Nate told the police, he wasn’t asking for money at all. He was simply performing for the joy of making people happy and some of them saw fit to tip him. He played on his ukulele and sometimes his harmonica—occasionally both at the same time. Sometimes he sang. Nate also told stories. Usually funny stories. Sometimes stories that he made up on the spot about a little boy or girl who happened by and in the story had a great adventure flying on a dragon or battling pirates on the open sea. Nate was a busker with a bicycle and traveled all around the country playing his ukulele or telling stories.

Some places in the country require licenses or permits for busking, but these are more often required for playing on private property, like a shopping mall, than in public parks, streets, or centers. A busker is more likely to be arrested or told to move along if he blocks a thoroughfare, is too loud, or aggressively solicits money. Nate was none of those, and so he got along pretty well with the police in most places. Since Nate had a bicycle, he was also likely to spend some of his hard-earned money on a room at the Y, but the pack on his bike included a small tent.

The other thing of interest that Nate’s pack included was a coffee pot.

“I used to drink the finest espresso,” Nate told G2 one night when they shared a campsite. Nate couldn’t help but tell a story if he was able and G2 didn’t interrupt. “A 4-shot Americano. Now that’s real coffee. I couldn’t go a morning without a cup of coffee, I tell you. I could drink a double-espresso right now and sleep like a baby all night long. It wouldn’t bother me at all. I just like coffee. It’s not like an addiction or anything. It doesn’t really affect me. But a day is so empty without it. I know everyplace that serves free coffee. When you’re out on the open road, you look for those rest stops where the local Kiwanis are serving coffee to keep drivers awake. If you are in town, you go to Trader Joe’s or Cost Plus. They always have a sample pot of their best brew for people to try. If you’re careful, you can get two or three of those tiny cups they serve without people getting mad at you. But times have been hard, G2. Sometimes you are just too far away from a free cup o’ Joe. And that’s why I have this.” Nate reached into his pack and pulled out a coffeepot. It was dented and fire blackened, but G2 could still read the words marked on the side that said “Nate’s Pot.”

“The problem is that coffee’s got expensive. Just can’t go in and buy a pound of ‘8-O’Clock’ anymore. But I got a deal. I went over to Whole Foods and they give away coffee grounds from the espresso machine. Every time they fill up the tray, they dump the grounds in a bag and give it to people for their gardens. I told them I’ve got a garden and would like some grounds. They give me this bag of coffee. So I just scoop up a bunch of the used coffee grounds and dump them in the pot, cover it with water and let it boil about ten minutes. You’ve got to let it sit for a while after you take it off the fire. Gives the grounds a chance to settle. You’re still going to end up chewing your coffee, but won’t be that bad. You pour the coffee off the top of the grounds and it’s just as good as Starbuck’s.” Nate had been preparing a pot of coffee all through his story and offered G2 a taste. G2 didn’t have a cup, but Nate let him sip out of his. The coffee was strong and bitter and left bits of grounds between G2’s teeth. But, he guessed that if he were alone in the cold, a cup could warm you up after a cold night on the ground.

“My granddad loved coffee,” Nate continued. “Lived up in the mountains in West Virginia and still had a wood stove that heated his house and on which he cooked all his meals right up till the ‘80s when he went to live in a home. I remember as a kid going to visit him and seeing a big old porcelain coffeepot on the stove. It was always there. Granddad would make himself a rasher of bacon and an egg for breakfast on that stove every morning. The eggshell would go right into the basket with the coffee grounds. That’s where I learned you could reuse the coffee grounds. Granddad would add a scoop of fresh coffee on top of yesterday’s coffee grounds and just set the pot on to perk away. When the preacher came over to visit, it was occasion for fresh grounds. Granddad would perk up a pot on the stove and then the preacher would fill his cup with hot water and put just a couple spoons of Granddad’s coffee in the cup. Then they’d laugh about the preacher coffee and play gin rummy all afternoon.”

Nate lapsed into silence as he sipped his brew. G2 took a tiny sip of wine from his bottle. Nate nodded his head. He understood.

G2 sat outside the baseball stadium with his sign held in front of him. Sports crowds were good. He had walked through the parking lot on his way to his favorite entrance gate and inhaled all the delightful aromas coming from the grills on the backs of truck beds. Men and women were cooking hot dogs and chili. The coals were sizzling. The air was filled with excitement and laughter. People had come before noon for the 4:00 game and a few were already pretty drunk. As G2 passed a truck with a crowd of men and women, he couldn’t help but turn toward the smells and grill. His step must have hesitated because in a moment he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, startled, to look into the face of a man whose eyes were bleary with drink. G2 was prepared to run as soon as the man loosened his grip, but the low gravelly voice, though slightly slurred, was not antagonistic.

“You eat today, man?” the man asked. G2 thought for a moment. No, that had been yesterday. He shook his head. “Dolores! Get me a plate with a dog and some tater salad and bring me a bottle!” There was a stirring on the bed of the truck and a redheaded woman moved to the tailgate to look down. “Who’s your mommy, Buddy?” she asked to the entertainment of the group. “You are, darlin’!” he said. “Who’s your little friend, then?” Dolores hollered back. Everyone looked at G2. “He followed me home. Can I keep him?” Buddy called back. “Only if you promise to clean up after him,” Dolores responded and then passed a plate of food and a bottle of beer down off the truck to Buddy. Buddy handed the plate and bottle to G2. “Can’t go to a ball game on an empty belly, feller,” Buddy said, patting G2 on the back. “Tuck in.” G2 didn’t wait for a second invitation. He scooped up the hot dog and ate it in three bites. He swallowed a bit of beer to wash it down.

Beer was different than wine. Wine was meant to be savored. G2 always let the wine sit on his tongue, no matter how cheap or bad the wine was. It was drinking the wine that comforted him, not the result of being drunk. Wine was sometimes sweet and sometimes sour and some were so dry you needed a drink of water to wash them down. But beer was bitter by comparison. Beer was made to wash food down with. You drank it on a hot day to cool off, or after a bite of hot food to quell your tongue. Beers could go down one after another and never be noticed until you were passed out under a freeway overpass somewhere. G2 didn’t bother to savor the beer or hold it on his tongue. He swallowed it after every bite and had an empty plate and an empty bottle in minutes. He looked up at Buddy with a smile on his face and said, “God bless.” Everyone on and around the truck had been watching him eat in silence and let out a bit of a cheer. “I think he likes you, Buddy,” Dolores called. “You run along now, old man,” Buddy said taking the empties from G2 and patting him on the back again. G2 bobbed again and turned to hurry away. “Aw, weren’t that nice,” G2 heard someone say as he moved away. “Buddy’s got a big heart.”

G2 belched and realized that he didn’t dare breathe on anyone while he was panhandling because unlike wine, beer left a telltale reek on his breath. G2 chose a submissive pose and sat against a light post about ten yards from the gate. He propped his sign against his knees and put his cup in front of him and lowered his head to his knees. This way no one would smell his breath and G2 could depend on the sign to give each passing stranger a good God bless. G2’s position also enabled him to keep an eye on the cup. You had to watch for little kids, especially, though occasionally another bum would try to slip a bill out of your cup, too. Whenever G2 had a bill in his cup, he slipped a hand out and moved it into his pocket. People could look at a cup completely full of change and still figure you hadn’t made anything, but two dollar bills in the cup and people stopped giving. Too many people thought bums on the street made more money panhandling than “honest people” made working their jobs. When the crowds had passed and the game had started, G2 stirred to gather his things together. He was stiff after sitting on the pavement for so long and he needed a bathroom or a convenient wall to piss against. A few feet in front of him, a ticket scalper was looking at the half a dozen tickets he hadn’t been able to get rid of before the game. He looked around, but no one was waiting for a last minute bargain. “Fuck,” he said softly. He walked over to G2 and stuffed a ticket in his cup. “Enjoy the game,” he said as he walked off.

G2 didn’t know much about baseball games and players these days. Occasionally some fellow would talk about the damn Raiders or something, but G2 wasn’t sure if they were talking about baseball or some other sport. He hadn’t been to a baseball game since he was a kid. But what he did know was that baseball stadiums had bathrooms and he could clean up a little without having to go to a shelter. So he packed his sign in his bag with his cup and took the ticket to the gatekeeper. The ticket taker looked at the ticket and at G2 and squinted regarding what to do. She called another ticket taker over to her. “He can’t have a legit ticket, can he?” she asked. “Why not?” her companion responded. “Scan it and see.” She pointed a device at the stub of the ticket and her machine beeped. “See?” said the other ticket taker. “Nothing wrong with his ticket. “But he’s a...” she started. “He’s a bum,” the other responded. “But look at him. He’s an American bum. Baseball’s an American sport. Any American with a ticket has the right to see a game.” He waved G2 through the gate. “Second tier, 211 Section.” G2 headed for the stairs.