On the Great Lost Flock

or,

One man’s spare change is another man’s bread and butter. And whiskey.

“Gimme any state, I’ll give ya thah capital.”

The words were gravely, and spilled from a mouth missing several of it’s dirty yellow teeth. It floated on a cloud of bad whiskey so strong it might have stung my eyes, had I not already averted my gaze in defensive prepration. I kept my own eyes on the street ahead, and away from his.

“Come on, man…any state.”

I looked. His eyes were glassy, and held lunacy and delight, with no malice. He wasn’t desperate, he wanted me to play with him. His look reminded me forcibly of our dog, tail wagging and expectant.

“Alabama,” I said.

“Montgomery, man. Easy one. Gimme anotha.”

Swear to God, I thought it was Birmingham. I suck at this game.

“Maryland.” I know this one.

“Annapolis.” So did he. His eyes weren’t the only thing dancing now. He’d been shifting around since this game began, almost doing a little jig. Now, one of his feet began to lift ryhtmically off the ground, then back down again. He was having the time of his life.

“North Dakota.”

“Bismark, boy, I got’em all.”

My hand had already dug out all the change in my pocket, and I reached for my wallet as well. I see so many homelss people, get pestered and lied to and conned regularly, and always go away feeling a little greasy. I wish I could help all of them, but I simply can not. I don’t care if they’re spending the money on liqour or drugs. It’s not as if these people are a warm meal and a shower away from getting it together. Most of them are at least as crazy as the Capital Man, a lot of the rest are outright liars. It was just something about this man, wearing his tattered red sweatshirt and torn pants, without a shred of hopelessness. His skin was dirty, his face rippled with scars, yet it was a smiling face. His smile broadened and changed when I handed him my small bit of money, my entry fee into his little game. It was grateful, a bit sad, large and winning. He repeated “Thank You, suh, thank you,” as he shuffled on down the street, asking his question again, looking for new players. Most ignored him as I had tried to do, and I stood and watched as he crossed the street, moving on, thinking to myself that they were all missing out. They all had the chance to be touched and make a very real friend, as I had just done. I watched his shuffle, still alomst dancing, still smiling until he was almost obscured by the 6th Street crowd.

“MINNESOTA!” I yelled suddenly, surprising myself, tears rising.

His skinny arm thrust upward forward, the last parting wave of a hero off to war.

“SAINT PAUL, BABY! SAINT PAUL!”