Coffee Shop Characters (Robbie the homeless guy)
by John Earp
Robbie cradles a paper coffee cup in his scarred hands, sits alone at an outside table in the shade, stares at the sun. Skinny as worn twine, bony knees crossed like a girl, the veins on his arms pop up purple as red-dirt worms. His heavy knotted beard is the color of prison flannel. His oily black hair is yanked back, pulled tight in a greasy string of pigtail. He’s worn the same black tee-shirt eight days running. Nice big logo on the back is from some Daytona biker bar. Sour odors rise off him in filmy waves: stale sweat, shaky fear.
He says, “ The world don’t even know I’m here. Had a family once, bunch of sisters and brothers. But I been on the road so long I can’t even remember all their names.”
He says, “Homeless is a cruel way to live. I can’t take the cold weather. I get cold? The world don’t care. I go hungry? So what? Life’s got a stone face, and it ain’t got no heart.”
He says, “I got what I can carry right here in this bag. Got a cell phone and a switchblade. You never know. But I ain’t gonna beg. You beg, you ain’t got no pride. I’ll die before I’ll beg. I been livin’ this life forty-four years, ain’t never begged once. A man that begs ain’t even a man. Beggin’ is what dogs do. I ain’t got no respect for beggars.”
A small group of young Christians, freshly scrubbed, innocently clueless, and newly topped off with hot-shot holiness, takes the table next to Robbie. “Hey Robbie. You want a coffee and a bagel?”
“No, man. I don’t accept charity.” Robbie’s eyes glitter. He’s lived off this riff for decades. Robbie says, “I seen these kids a million times. They want to go back and say, ‘Hey, we talked to this homeless guy.’ They’re always good for a coffee. Maybe a sandwich. They preach to me about God and how I’d be better off getting’ a job. I listen to ‘em.”
“So, I’m gonna get a cup and a bite. You want one too?”
Robbie, real softly, “I ain’t askin’ for it, you see?”
Robbie says, “Some church people came by the shelter once, put us in a bus, and took us to church with them. We all sat together in the back. Lots of good people didn’t want our stink in their church. They gave us some soup and a sandwich after it was over, but I ain’t goin’ back there. I ain’t goin’ where I ain’t wanted.”
“No, man, you ain’t askin’. I get it. But I’m just gonna get one for me. You want one too?”
“Coffee’d be good. Bagel too. But I can’t pay you back.”
“Yeah, Robbie. I know.”
The lively glitter in Robbie’s eyes fades to hard as granite. His face falls vacant, goes empty. Trapped.
Robbie says, “The past is the hardest thing to run from. I been to a thousand towns. I stay a while, then I’m gone like a ghost. Years trail out behind you like smoke. In your mind the whole thing’s a shadow. 1963 I was nineteen years old. My old man come home drunk, took a swing at me. I walked outta his house and been walkin’ forty-four years. I been all over: New York, California, New Orleans. But I never went back to Buffalo. Never wrote ‘em a letter, never made a call. I used to feel bad about all that. But, you know, screw ‘em. They’re probably all dead by now anyway.”
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Robbie says, “The government ought to take care of homeless people, give us houses to live in and good food. They got all kinds of money they just throw away. They should do better by us. There shouldn’t be no homeless in this country.”
Robbie’s got a ragged sense of pride that runs right up his spine. His posture is perfect, his manners cultivated as a judge. He draws on his pipe like a college professor. “Only past I got is yesterday. Only future is tonight. Sometimes the cops come by and roust me out of the park. Shine their lights in my doorway. They say, ‘Move on, Robbie, or you’re gonna go to jail.’ I say, ‘Let’s go.’ I mean, three hots and a cot for three days, and the City pays for it. Jail’s a lot better than the street, you know? I don’t drink, don’t do drugs, don’t beg or bother anybody. I’m the world’s most perfect vagrant. Just leave me alone, okay?”
Robbie says, “These Christians kill me. They say, ‘God loves you, Robbie.’ I say, ‘Okay, so where’s the Big Mac, super-sized? Hows about a new shirt? God gonna give me a pack of Marlboroughs? They say, ‘He don’t love you like that.’ I say, ‘That’s the way I need to be loved.’”
He says, “Most of them are good-hearted, but I scare the crap out of them. They don’t know what to do with me. Most of them see me, but I never get noticed, you know? And whenever you talk about God to homeless people, all we want is to get a bed, or a meal, or a smoke. If all them good-hearted people really cared, I wouldn’t be like this.”
Robbie says, “I mean, I know how to pray. Who doesn’t? I pray in my own way. But the God I pray to ain’t got too much interest in bringing me comfort.”
John Earp
Author of "Sweet Heavenly Daze", a lighthearted, witty, profound, and poignant glimpse at religion that is a little different from popular faith.
John's website: SweetHeavenlyDaze.com is a delight to explore.
Thanks John for the article... J.
Wolf
