Outside the Walls

The Man, who had nothing and belonged nowhere, sat motionless on the cemetery bench as flakes of snow drifted gently down. There was no wind. It was Christmas Eve and he was alone, so there was no one to complain of his ragged presence. Few came here on this night. So he sat, undisturbed, and imagined himself frozen blue beneath a blanket of white, melting away to nothingness in the thaw, a few ravens hopping about and cawing as if alarmed at his vanishing. Of course that wouldn’t happen.

He never cried anymore, though he used to, over almost anything for a time there. But now hope was gone. Shame was gone. His dreams were gone. With those things, his tears had gone, as well. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

It was nearing midnight. There was some small illumination from decorative lights and the streets outside the cemetery. The Man noticed, in his peripheral vision, motion among the gravestones. He didn’t turn to look. He wasn’t afraid or even curious. He was beyond caring. Something was headed toward him, though, difficult to discern amid the falling snow and darkness, and it brought with it a glow.

The something that approached was not human. It appeared to consist of gossamer and soft, shifting, pastel light. Fairy, genie, angel or spirit of empathy and goodwill, it had often been mistaken for those things, but there was no name for what it was. It was a benign Being of some sort, let it go at that. It halted before the Man.

“Greetings,” it said.

The Man looked up at the Being confusedly, as if awakened from a doze.

“Oh, hello,” said the Man. “I’m sorry, most — people — don’t speak to my sort. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Why are you not at home or with friends on this holy night?” the Being asked.

“I have none, of either.”

The snow began to fall more heavily, creating little piles on the Man’s shoulders and lap and uncovered head. He made no move to brush it away. The flakes didn’t appear to touch the Being at all.

“Are you cold?" the Being asked. "I could provide you with warmer clothes. A coat, boots, a hat and gloves. It would be no problem.”

“I’m fine. I don’t mind the heat or cold much any more.”

“You must be hungry. How about a big Christmas dinner — turkey, dressing, all the extras?”

“I don’t have much of an appetite these days,” the Man said. "Such a meal would be wasted on me. Thanks anyway.”

“A bottle?”

“I don’t drink.”

“How about a companion? A cheerful, loyal dog, perhaps, to keep you company?” 

“Better not. When I go, the poor animal would be left alone with no one to care for it.”

“Money?”

“What would I buy? I sold all my possessions long ago, and the money didn’t last long. I always needed more.”

“There must be something,” the Being insisted. “I have powers beyond those of men; you’d be surprised at what I can conjure. Is there nothing I can do for you or give you that will make you happy, perhaps change things for the better? It’s what I do, you see. I try to bring comfort and cheer.”

“Maybe, once. Maybe yesterday, or years ago. A person changes, he reaches a point of no return. I don’t really know when the change occurred. This is hardly the first Christmas Eve I’ve sat alone in the snow, though. I believe you want to help, but it’s been too long for me. I think I’m beyond even your powers to aid now. It’s peaceful here. I believe I’ll just sit for a while longer.”

The Being was saddened by this, its inner light dimming briefly,, but it accepted the Man’s words, understanding at last. “I see. I wish I had come before, when I could have done something. I am very sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” said the Man.

“I’ll stay with you a while,” said the Being.

“Thank you.”

They waited silently. Some young people walked along a bordering street singing “Kumbaya” as a distant church bell struck midnight. The Being watched a small cascade of snow tumble to the bench as the Man vanished. 

“I will return here to see you next year,” said the Being, and went off to offer what joy and succor he could to others. Before it was too late.

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Apparently some people believe that if they aren’t making noise, they don’t exist.

About fifty feet from where I’m writing these words someone is flying a drone, which sounds like gigantic prehistoric mosquito in search of a victim of commensurate size, maybe a stegosaurus. A few minutes ago a vehicle passed by on the road exuding what sounded to me like 120-decibel flatulence. On an almost nightly basis, and this is no exception, a cadre of young persons with evidently nothing better to do park their vehicles in a park specifically designed for small children, and proceed to laugh and swear loudly, banging on the climbing bars and slide to produce a thunderous racket. Better to self-identify as an obnoxious twerp before others have a chance to label you, I suppose. It’s quarter to eleven on a Thursday night in Yourtown USA, and it sounds like I’m at a rock concert.

In addition to incessant traffic noise, we’ve all experienced drivers who insist on sharing their insipid musical tastes with the rest of us. Your neighbor may have a dog that barks at the least excuse and requires discipline (either the neighbor or the dog). There are shrieking children in the supermarket, boorish patrons in restaurants, loudmouthed drunks in bars, airplanes overhead, sirens coming up the road, and a great many people turn off their television only when they aren’t home (some sleep with it on). We are constantly bombarded with noise. For many it’s become their natural state of existence.

Some years back a friend of mine came from the Midwest to visit. Just after sundown, as we stopped to stretch our legs beside a desert road somewhere near Tuba City, he cracked like a piñata. When the sound of the car cutting through the darkness stopped, the radio faded and our conversation had paused, his ears were filled with a sudden silence. He wigged, and nothing would do but that we urgently resume our journey, complete with background noise.

There is a popular myth among motorcyclists, that ‘loud pipes save lives.’ Well, they don’t. Loud pipes merely make everyone else on the road hate your guts and wish you ill. And take it from a veteran of thirty years experience, the last thing you want to encounter when sitting on top of a V-twin engine at highway speed with zero protection between you and the asphalt is someone in a car or truck who has taken a dislike to you.

It appears that some people find it utterly impossible to have a good time without emulating a Mongol horde. What sporting event would be complete without voices raised in inarticulate, manic riot, lauding one team and/or deriding the other? Political conventions, backyard barbecues, the classroom when the teacher steps out, casinos, bar fights, lynchings — the masses do not revel quietly. Even when decorum would imply quietude, some cretin will always violate the peace. Take movie theaters, libraries, motel rooms and campgrounds as examples of this. As Denzel Washington’s character in the 2007 film American Gangster said, “The loudest one in the room is the weakest one in the room.” There’s always somebody.

What does all this racket serve? To push back the darkness? To proclaim a virility that can’t otherwise be demonstrated? To belie an otherwise milquetoast existence? To prevent unpleasant self-reflection? Ford Prefect, the alien vagabond in Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, theorizes that “If humans don’t keep exercising their lips, their mouths probably sieze up.” Ford ultimately rejects the notion as overly cynical. I don’t agree, but then I’m a grumpy old man who doesn’t like noise, so what do I know?

What I do know is that I talk to myself almost nonstop, often, I suspect, to circumvent the stress of considering my living conditions (I sometimes have to make a conscious effort to shut myself up just to fall asleep). But I don’t condone such cowardice, in myself or others. Better to seek the quiet and heed what we’re so desperate to drown out. Better not to disturb the serenity of others in our desperation. Better to be aware of the noise we create, and, bluntly speaking, to shut up once in a while, or at the very least tone it down. In the words of Henry David Thoreau, “The silence rings; it is musical and thrills me.”

So, shhh. What are you so afraid of?

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Homelessness is not a source of much joy. I take great solace, though, in two things: reading and eating. I’ve discussed my love of books previously, but don’t think I’ve said much about my dietary habits.

I like to cook, and don’t enjoy eating with a bunch of strangers, so I’m fortunate to have a camp stove and a small, occasional income. Beef jerky and chips get old quick. Only rarely will I go to a food pantry. Normally I subsist on canned soup, instant mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and pb&j on crackers (bread doesn’t travel well in a hot car). Now and then I’ll have Manwich on flour tortillas, tuna salad or fried chicken from the grocery-store deli (if I’m feeling lazy). I eat well enough, when I can afford to — it’s a good thing I don’t panhandle, I’m too fat to claim starvation. Obviously I can’t prepare anything that requires an oven or microwave or crock pot (sadly, no frozen pizza for me, and how I miss my beef stew!). I must do my best with a few pots, a skillet and a gas flame.

And I do fairly well, if I say so myself. Biscuits and gravy are a treat. Stir fry with beef, bell peppers, broccoli and onion is heavenly. Smothered hamburgers rock, and chili is a convenient standby (I’m only just recovered from a serious cayenne-pepper mishap in the latter dish — ouch!). My specialty is angel-hair pasta with my own sweet and spicy red sauce (no jars!). I’m a man of simple tastes. A life without black pepper and sweet onions would barely be worth living.

I doubt you’d expect the homeless to dine so well, and most don’t, even those who can afford it. I stay away from gas-station hot dogs and textured-vegetable-protein cheeseburgers. I place a certain importance on my meals. It may be unsophisticated fare, but the preparation distracts me and gives me purpose, and the eating releases endorphins which are desperate to be free. Prices are going up, so I may soon be forced to alter my eating habits unless I secure gainful employment or my Venmo account (see the fine print down at the bottom of the page near my so-handsome bio photo) awakens from its coma.

I hope the reader doesn’t begrudge me a decent meal. Who am I to be living so high on the hog? I don’t have a job to speak of, I live in a car and loiter a lot, do my taste buds really deserve to be catered to? Those who have read my articles in the past will know some of what the street person endures: cold in the winter, hot in the summer, nasty looks and harassment, never being sure from whence will come one’s next dollar or shower, hiding to sleep at night. Ah yes, the carefree and irresponsible life of the homeless! We all take our pleasures where we find them.

Indeed, life is a veritable picnic, and what would a picnic be without insects? While I never invite them, they’re never shy about joining the party. I’m often the unwilling host to ants, large and small, black and red, some merely annoying, others that bite, and flies, of course, and bees who eagerly abandon the goldenrod to sample my bacon grease. I’ve no objection to the other visitors I receive, the lizards and birds. The reptiles show no interest in my food, but I’ll willingly share a crust or chip or cracker with my feathered friends.

Outdoor dining carries with it other minor irritations. I seem to have inexplicably gained a weird ability to affect the weather. Every time I fire up my camp stove the wind commences to blow and gutter my flame, wasting gas and preventing an even temperature, increasing my cook time and sometimes burning my meal. It can also lead to harrowing misadventures with powdered spices — like cayenne pepper.

Food is one of the essentials of life, and while I sometimes question the value and point of my continued existence, my appetite remains unaffected. This must be a sign that I’ve not yet given up, right? I choose to think so. Hmm now, what’s for dinner?

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote a novel interspersed with brief recipes, hoping to affect the reader on a level more visceral than intellectual. I’m not sure that it worked.

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With the exception of most insects/bugs (walking sticks, tarantulas, butterflies, scorpions, ladybugs, fireflies and praying mantes are okay by me, and I can tolerate moths), I like animals. Dogs, okay. Cats definitely. Hamsters and guinea pigs, whatever. But I’m not just talking about domestic critters. In Arizona we have a good assortment of wildlife, and over the past thirty years I’ve spent a fair amount of time outdoors and off the beaten trail, and seen more of it than the average Indiana suburbanite (me, in another life) can claim.

As a new transplant, I was surprised to encounter bighorn sheep when I worked at the Grand Canyon and pronghorn antelope along highway 89. I’d thought these ungulates endemic to the Swiss Alps and the African savannah, respectively. My first jackrabbit left me befuddled. I’ve since seen ringtailed cats (on Mingus Mountain, which experts assure me is north of their range, though evidently they neglected to tell the beast itself), porcupines (usually roadkilled), foxes and one badger (on the Embry-Riddle campus, where I once worked).

Arizona is host to roughly 560 different species of birds, but I won’t dwell on the subject, since there’s a column for them elsewhere in this publication. Still, I always welcome the sight of the golden eagle, the desert jay, the magpie, the hummingbird, the quail, the woodpecker and roadrunner. There’s even a warm spot in my heart for the ubiquitous, comedic raven. I once saw a raven trying to plunder the contents of a discarded plastic grocery bag while being pulled along by the wind. He could have simply let go, but was apparently intent on reinventing parasailing.

I like all reptiles — fence lizards, skinks, garter snakes and rattlers. There was a time when I was awed by rattlesnakes, but I’ve seen enough of them now — diamondbacks to Mojave greens — to be somewhat jaded. I’ve even been struck by one (thankfully he got a mouthful of boot instead of ankle, and scared the mortal crap out of me), but that was my fault. He was stretched across the trail sunning himself and I almost stepped on him. No harm, no foul.

I have a sort of love-hate thing about coyotes. I can enjoy their deranged yipping and the fact that they’re an untamed canine, while despising their predation of domesticated animals. I remind myself that they’re merely following their nature, but I don’t have to like it. My brother back East informs me they now have coyotes there, as well, which we never saw or heard as kids.

Skunks are pretty amiable as long as you don’t scare or harass them. Owls evidently get a kick out of dive-bombing pedestrians, but I’ve never heard of one actually attacking anybody (though they are a problem around pets). The javelina has some bad habits, but isn’t much of a threat to anyone, except maybe a dog who insists on showing him who’s boss. I’ve seen several bobcats (at Embry-Riddle and elsewhere), and they showed more arrogance than aggression.

With two friends I was stalked by a mountain lion one evening as we walked down a road in Seligman. None of us was armed, and while I could hear it pacing us through the brush I only saw it in vague silhouette as it finally crossed the road ahead of us. I’m not sure if my friends saw it or believe that I did. I saw another, though, much more clearly, behind a grocery store in Chino Valley in the wee small hours. I stopped short and an expletive escaped my foul mouth. He glanced toward me before disappearing into an overgrown ditch. I turned around and went the other way.

I chased a small bear (my first thought upon seeing the creature was, “Wow, that’s a big dog!”) through the forest on Mingus Mountain, camera in hand, till I realized how mind-numbingly stupid that was. A short time later what I assume was the same bear was tranquilized and relocated for the crime of eating a watermelon left out by some campers. This was grossly unfair. People come to your house uninvited and leave a tasty treat laying around, and you get evicted for eating it? Not cool at all.

We can’t know how much longer either of us will be around, so let’s give animals their space, and enjoy their occasional presence while we can.