Pink eye (on my leg)

For some reason today I stopped when a homeless man flagged me down in the Grocery Outlet parking lot, Santa Rosa. I had some time to kill before a 12:30 showing of Be Kind Rewind. Despite my lapses into misanthropy, I have been feeling lately like it's good to connect with fellow human beings sometimes, hear what's going on in their lives, share what's going on in yours, realize the we're-all-in-this-togetherness of the world. And it's true that everyone is fighting some kind of battle, or multiple battles, with the world, others, or themselves. Compassion, tolerance, and the principle of charity (a critical thinking/philosophy term that basically means the benefit of the doubt) are things to keep in mind.

So this obviously off-kilter homeless old guy approaches me, and I don't remember his first words, but it was not an aggressive request for a handout. (Although at some point in our strange conversation he did ask, and I gave him four pennies which was honestly all I had not counting some quarters I desperately needed to do some much-needed overflowing laundry.) He wanted to connect physically with me, so offered a knuckled fist, the "potato" handshake as I learned from Les Claypool it's called, where you don't shake hands but connect knuckles. I was relieved. He was dirty, of course, but also had some kind of eye problem that I hoped wasn't a monster case of pinkeye. He explained without my asking that he'd been in a fight in San Francisco and gotten the deeply bloodshot black eye surrounded by swollen purple flesh. But he broke the other guy's legs. Then he laughed and said he was kidding.
He was wearing a purple suitcoat that was sun-faded and covered in some kind of hair (dog?). Jeans, a T shirt. He was holding two paper cups one in the other filled with what looked like cheap beer. I knew if I listened and engaged him I wouldn't get rid of him. But he had a sense of humor, was off his rocker from life and drink, and for some reason I found myself having a mad and darkly humorous talk with him.

He was a Navy Seal, got the GI Bill and two degrees. He had "a team of lawyers" suing the Santa Rosa PD for how they treated him. He then shifted gears abruptly and asked if I would be his best man for his wedding.
When's the happy day? I asked.
Summer, oh I don't know. March 17th. Saint Patrick's Day, he slurred.
Oh, shit, I got called for jury duty that exact day. I'm sorry. (I was telling the truth.)
He placed his cup on the trunk of my car and lounged against it. Oh shit, I thought, he's making himself at home on my car. We talked for awhile longer, mostly him doing the talking, and I told him it was nice meeting him, I wished him luck, but I had to go.
Luck has nothing to do with it, he said. It's skill.
Good point, I concurred.
Young man, he said, are you Irish?
I'm Scottish and Irish, I said proudly (quoting a Jerky Boys phone prank). (I'm Dutch, Scandinavian, and English.)
Then he told me all his ethnicities and genetic homelands, in one slurred, long Germanesque word that was kinda like: I'mScottishIrishGermanFrenshhAmeriganBlackfootInneeann.
I got in the car and locked all the doors with a button. He was at my window lightly rapping a dirty finger. I cracked it a bit.
God bless you, young man.
I rolled it down a bit and potatoed him again. God bless you, sir. Now, listen, you have your beverage? Good. Don't forget about your stuff on the sidewalk. (No shopping cart but some luggage and whoknowswhat.)
I carefully pulled out and waved to him. He was already onto the next person, regaling them with tales of his Navy Seal days, team of lawyers, and ethnicities.
I would have liked to have videotaped him when he was talking with me, or at least gotten an exact transcript of his talk. He had told me about his family, how he had served his country, gotten educated. He believed in God. He just wanted someone to talk to. Even if some of his talk was the ecstatic truth, his heart seemed in the right place. He wasn't nonsensical, didn't seem schizophrenic, wasn't dangerous or unpredictable. He was enjoying his beer in the sun on a summery day in late February. He panhandled, but he took the time to get to know you, and you him. He had a certain integrity, dignity, and respect about him, and a respect for others. I was glad I took the time to learn a little about him rather than just ignoring him or escaping, even though I was eager to wash my hands.
This isn't some hobo-with-the-heart-of-gold after school special bs, but he was a character who was interesting, living a dangerous life, and despite his homelessness and fucked up appearance and whatever problems, mental or otherwise, he had, had a certain life about him that many "normal", gainfully employed, pillar-of-the-community taxpaying people lacked.

I love A Clockwork Orange in a big way, but I didn't consider this nameless guy a "filthy old drunkie" that I had condescending contempt and violence for. We are probably altogether too judgmental of others, myself a bad offender, when everyone is wrestling with their own lot in life and the complexities of being human. This guy was fucking druuuunk at eleven a.m., but why not? Does time really matter? So he was a little eager for the cocktail hour (at 4 p.m.). So what. He was trying to dress in a somewhat respectable manner with the purple blazer. I toast him.

Fare thee well.