Glen Never Came Back

Here it is, the end of the week already, and the excitement is palpable. Will the cops show up, next time, to stop the drug deal I watched last night? Will the cat upstairs ever stop screaming? Will my supply of tequila hold out?

And what about Naomi?

For answers to this and much, much more, let us consult the iPod, shall we?

As I do every Friday, I cling to the idea that the morning’s playlist during my commute has prophetic portents.

Why not?  Humor me.

Better by You, Better Than Me by Spooky Tooth*
The 59th Street Song (Feelin' Groovy) by Simon & Garfunkel
The Impression That I Get by the Mighty Mighty BossTones
Black Swan by Thom Yorke
Your Touch by The Black Keys
Ford Mustang by Serge Gainsbourg
Here It Goes Again by OK Go
Tukka Yoots Riddim by US3*

Someone from your past, quite possibly a hippie -- or at least someone without shoes -- will return.  That's the impression that I get.  Do not touch his Mustang, either the car or whatever you kids are calling things these days.  If you find you must touch that Mustang, I suggest the rhythm method so often employed by the Tukka youths.

I have no idea what that means.






Excuse me, ma’am? Would you have any spare change? God bless.

There is, of course, no such thing as “spare change”.  I have a spare tire, conveniently kept about my middle; and at one time had spare brain cells, judging from past behavior.  But spare change?

Scene:  the alley, two years ago.  In a seasonal battle involving salt residue, gravel and various bits of trash, I have once again entered the gardening ring.  The alley taunts me, yearly, a barren stretch of precious city ground.

I shall conquer it.

Dirty workpants, layers of long- and short-sleeved t-shirts, dirt smeared on my face in no doubt an attractive fashion, I have been clearing weeds and sundry bits of trash for one cold, windy hour when I hear a throat clear behind me.

It is a man: sallow, tired, he wears a filthy jacket wrapped tightly and belted with rope. Hatless, his dirty, dishwater blond hair blows in the wind.

He is a young man with old eyes.

“Do you have four dollars?”

“What?”

He looks around, his face completely impassive. “I need seven dollars so I can sleep inside tonight. Can you give me four?”

I pat my pants’ pockets.  “I don’t have any money out here, and I’ve got all this to clear before the sun goes down.”

He stares at me, almost childishly.  “I need seven dollars,” he repeats.

“Well, I don’t have seven dollars,” I say, peevishly.  “Now if you want to help me with some of this, I can run into the house later and see what I can find. I know I can find around four.”

He looks away, his eyes following the alley. It is getting dark, and the wind is coming up.

I hold out the shovel.

He takes it.

“You turn it over,” I say, “and I’ll grab the weeds, OK?”  I smile.  “What’s your name again?”

His name, he tells me, is Glen.  He offers nothing more.

Ten minutes on, Glen removes his coat. I can smell him, a sour, sad stench screaming for a hot bath.  He isn’t yellow anymore, though.  He might even look a bit pink.

I ask him if he is okay.

He says he is. 

It is then that I realize, with Glen standing over me, shovel in hand, that perhaps my kneeling on the ground, blithely shaking the earth from the desperate roots of the evicted weeds may not be my brightest idea to date.  I picture the neighbors finding me with a shovel embedded in my forehead, the words “I just wanted seven lousy dollars!” spelled out in gravel and homeless weeds on the ground next to my body…

Glen, however, manages to fight the urge to beat me to death with a shovel and we are done in less than 20 minutes.  I run into the house while he waits in the alley.

I return with six dollars and a bottle of water.

“This is all I have,” I say. “Seriously.  I wish I had more.”

He looks at me, looks at the money.  He takes it gingerly from my hand, puts it in his pants’ pocket.  He puts his jacket back on, re-secures the rope around his waist.  I hand him the water.

He says nothing and walks away.

“Come back in the spring, Glen,” I call after him. “There’s always work to do.”

He doesn’t say a word. 

Glen simply walks away. 



* My picks of the picks.  Honestly, I like all of these...