FIREWORKS, celebration. Last month ripped from the calendar, twelve new ones tacked up, a new year, with pictures of puppies or flowers. Resolutions, nostalgia.
In ancient times — somewhere in the mists of the late 1990s, let’s say — I lived in a big, old, termite-riddled Winnebago in a trailer park on the southernmost end of Prescott. This was a primitive era, understand, when electric cars were considered science fiction and the Blackberry mobile device was suspected of being powered by witchcraft. The park is no longer there; they were erecting some huge building there last time I looked, I don't know what, across from the Days Inn. It was a fairly scuzzy place back then anyway.
That's where and when I met Clarence. He stood five-foot-something and if he ever had a full meal he might have tipped the scales at 115 pounds. He was in his late sixties, I suppose, clean-shaven, gray-haired, soft-spoken and autistically shy. Wouldn't say boo to a goose (whatever that means), and if he did the goose would have laughed in his face. No aggression in his soul, totally gentle. He was a street person long before I ended up that way myself. Does anybody remember Clarence? If you've ever seen the TV show South Park, they may have based the character of Butters on Clarence.
One day I awoke and was lying idle in bed watching my cat, who seemed fascinated by something outside the driver's side window. I got up and stumbled in that direction to investigate. Perhaps he was witnessing a crime, or some javelina had wandered into the park looking for empty beer cans or pizza bones to munch on. Crime and peccaries were both common in that neighborhood, but neither was in evidence right then, just a little old fella in what appeared to be a frayed and patched one-piece mechanic's coverall. He was wiggling his fingers and talking to the cat through the window.
I got dressed and went outside, and he started apologizing, said he saw kitty as he was walking by and wanted to say hello. “Do you think I could pet him, maybe?” So I went in and fetched out my tabby amigo and Clarence was enraptured. Nonamé (the cat) took it with feline stoicism. Thereafter Clarence would visit the cat on his way to the Salvation Army in town and say hi to me if I was around, which he didn't seem to care much about either way. I’d give him a can of beans or something now and then, but he never asked for anything except that once, to pet Nonamé.
One day I was eating an Arby-Q sandwich (I told you this was in the Bronze Age) when Clarence wandered by and the cat was sleeping out of sight. When the old man asked where his buddy was, I showed him the sandwich. “Times have been tough,” I joked. I thought he was going to cry. I had to drag the cat out to prove I was only kidding and restore Clarence to his usual equanimity.
I once gave Clarence a Eureka Back Country one-man tent I had in a storage bin. I knew he stayed somewhere on the edge of town in the woods, and those tiny bright red tents they gave away at the Sally were garbage. I don't remember if I ever saw him again after that, though I did see what was left of the Eureka.
I was driving north up White Spar Road from somewhere, and off to one side my eye caught the green and gray nylon flapping in the wind. I sped past, then turned around and pulled over. It was the shredded remains of my old tent, half collapsed among a stand of trees. Didn't bode well. Hadn't seen the old man in a while. Light snow on the ground. Tent was empty.
A cop later told me Clarence had apparently died in his sleep, in the tent, and remained there a while undiscovered. By people, anyway. The local fauna had found him, however, and shredded the tent to get at him. Several people driving by had noted coyotes concentrated in that spot for several days and reported it. Good God.
I still don't want to picture it, and I never told Nonamé. My resolution is to not end up like sweet, old, gentle Clarence.
Sorry for the bummer. Happy New Year, readers.
