Commoner the Vagabond

  Chapter 9

 

  Over the next couple of weeks, James and Brother got to know each other pretty well. The ex-airman, breaking out of his shell, allowed the caretaker to enter his room and saw the drawings he was working on. As usual, they betrayed his fascination with flight. Some of his artwork did have dark undertones, however, as scenes of violence permeated a few. When asked if they were representations of his nightmares, he stated he didn’t know.

  On one occasion, after picking up James’s meds from a local pharmacy, the two went over to the park at Green Lake and sat on a bench. It was a warm sunny day. Scores of runners, boaters and skaters were out and about. Brother encouraged James to join in the fray, which he thought about earnestly. By his own estimate, he must’ve put in at least 100 miles in Lackland and Vandenberg, but then decided that simply sitting on the bench watching others exercise was enough for the moment.

  Near the end of summer, the maintenance man from Woodland Park Presbyterian church retired. Marion approached James and told him about the open position. It was only part time but at least it paid, albeit minimum wage. He spoke to the elder and was hired.

  It didn’t take long for James to become acclimated to his new job. Using his experience from working with Brother, he swept in and around the church, raked leaves, restacked the missalettes, bibles and other books in the pews, and generally kept the building neat and clean. He even maintained the piano in the church. As tempted as he was to just sit down at the instrument and play, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Although he was encouraged by the elder and others to play, he simply respectfully refused.

  Later that year, a new parishioner started frequenting the church. A solemn, stout and well-dressed man of about 45 years old, he always seemed to be wearing the same clothes every week. He brought it to the church’s attention that he was, in fact, homeless and sleeping on a friend’s couch in his living room. The elder spoke to Marion and Rose and asked them to assign him a room at John Calvin. The ladies agreed and gave him the empty room on the second floor next to James’s. Explaining that he would be required to work to at least subsidize his room, he agreed.

  Drew moved into his new room the next day. Traveling lightly, he carried only a blue leather suitcase and a black carry-on bag. Marion and Rose introduced him to Brother, the only one at home at the time. The caretaker offered to help him with his luggage, but he kindly refused, explaining he could do it himself. The ladies then watched as Drew ascended the stairs to the 2nd floor with his things. When he was out of sight, Brother turned to the ladies.

  “Something about him doesn’t sit well with me,” he admitted.

  “Why? Rose asked. “He seems to be pretty genial.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Brother explained, “but he seems, I don’t know, kind of aloof.”

  “Give him time,” Marion suggested. “He’ll come around.”

  “How much do you know about him?” he asked.

  “Not much,” Marion admitted, “but that’s what this house is for, to help men get back on their feet.”

  “We’re not judges,” Rose added, “although I must say, I am a good judge of character.”

  “Hmm,” Brother murmured, rubbing his chin. “I hope so.”

  Drew met the other tenants later that night. They invited him to join in a friendly game of

  ‘Pass the Trash’, a stud poker variant that works well with five to seven players, but he turned it down, explaining gambling was what brought him down in the first place. Since James also wasn’t playing, he thought he’d go upstairs and keep him company.

  He knocked on the artist’s door.

  “Come in,” James answered.

  Drew opened the door and entered. James, lying on his stomach in bed, was creating one of his Cloud City illustrations. When he saw the new face, he sat up on the side of the bed.

  “Hey,” James greeted him. “You must be new.”

  “My name’s Drew,” he stated, extending his hand. “They moved me in next door.”

  “I’d heard. Nice to meet you.”

  “What are you drawing?” Drew asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just doodling.”

  “Can I see it?”

  James shrugged.

  “If you want.”

  He handed the newcomer the unfinished drawing. Drew looked it over, scanning it intently as if examining a Van Gogh.

  “This is impressive,” he stated.

  “No, it’s not,” James disagreed. “I only just started.”

  “But I can see the outline of what is to come. Your proportions are right. Depth of field is correct. I like the cloud idea. Very original.”

  James eyed the stranger with curiosity.

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Drew bragged. “I’ve seen good art and poor art. I’m not an artist myself. Hell, I’m not even a connoisseur, but I’ve been around enough to know what’s

  sellable and what’s utter rubbish. This has potential.”

  James emitted a slight smile, his cheeks suffused with a blush.

  “Well, Commoner,” Drew closed, “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll be around if you want to talk or show me more drawings.”

  “There aren’t many,” James admitted.

  “That’s okay. I can get you a large sketch pad if you want.”

  “You will?”

  “Not a problem,” Drew promised. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The next day, not only did Drew bring the artist a spanking brand new sketch pad from an art supply store, he also gave him a set of colored pencils, a fine-point multicolor marker set, and an ink set featuring pens of different thicknesses. James thanked him immensely, apologizing for not spending his own money as he had started paying part of his own rent. Drew reassured him it was okay and, if he needed anything, he knew where to find him.

  With his new supplies, James dived headfirst into his artwork again. With his history of starting but not completing the follow up to his first illustrated comic, he sought to at least give it another try. To help him expedite his writing, Drew let James use his prototype 80386-computer running the recently introduced Microsoft Windows 1.0 system. Primitive but promising, James focused primarily on its word processing ability, shaping his cloud story in it as often as possible.

  During the rest of the year, he occasionally ate dinner at the home of Marion and Rose. Their cozy cottage, nearly two miles away from James’s house, was a vine-covered wonder within walking distance of Green Lake. He thought the land around it was badly in need of landscaping, but the ladies thought its rough, unfettered exterior suited them just fine.

  Rose was a good cook, explaining that her years working in the kitchen at a downtown hotel sharpened her skills. When she prepared her meals, it was done with so much care, and was so well-presented, that James hated tackling it.

  “These meals should be photographed,” he used to say.

  “I’ve tried to get her to write a cookbook,” Marion pursed, “but she claims she hates the spotlight.”

  “Maybe she’s just shy,” James suggested.

  Rose not only enjoyed cooking for her friends, she also cooked for the church at their fund drives and “Help for the Homeless” workshops. Her beef stew was a big hit. Using succulent cuts of meat, wave-shaped carrots, perfect cubes of russet potatoes and gently simmered spices, the homeless lined up around the block to taste her cuisine.

  James also volunteered at those and other church functions. He assisted with their Toys for Tots campaign, collecting bags of donations from area supermarkets and medical centers. He also helped with their Can Drive. Every few months, they’d set up receptacles in area supermarkets where patrons are encouraged to donate one can of food for the homeless. Because of the church’s close working relationship with a local food pantry, James also donated some of his time there. Indeed, he eventually became so occupied with external duties
that he neglected his own artistic work. When he returned home he was so tired that he often went straight to bed. Drew had even moved his computer into James’s room, but the young volunteer was just too fatigued to bother with it.

  On one rare day when he wasn’t volunteering, working or collecting donations, he spent the afternoon and evening with Drew at Southcenter Mall in Tukwila, WA. As neither one had a car, Drew paid for a taxi to and from the mall some 16 miles to the south. They went to a movie (The Running Man), ate lunch, and did scores of window shopping. James, still fascinated by the unknown, spent a lot of time perusing the goods at a Science Discovery store. Drew bought him a die cast model of an antique bi-plane and a 1:18 sized Conestoga wagon, both of which required full assembly. As it was nearing Christmas, James considered them as presents. Drew, for his part, asked little in return. Just seeing a smile on the morose young man’s face pleased him enough.

  Christmas, with all its festivities, brightened the household at John Calvin. Brother and James used the old decorations from the basement and placed them throughout the building. Drew even chipped in and bought lights for the front porch when it was discovered the old ones no longer worked. Marion and Rose stopped by to bring presents for the tree or drop food off. Eggnog, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, flowed like water. James carefully indulged in it, being careful not to set himself off on a psychological tangent.

  After dinner, Julius decided to walk to a 7-Eleven as the house was running out of beer, wine and eggnog. He asked James if he wanted to go. The ex-airman agreed and they set off towards the store together.

  It was a crispy 35 degrees outside. There was no snow on the ground, but it was so cold that if it did snow, pockets of ice on the uneven sidewalk would’ve made their trek all the more arduous. Both of the men, bundled up to the gills, passed several homes as brightly decorated as theirs.

  “You know,” Julius realized, “I hadn’t been to this store in ages since I stopped smoking.”

  “How long was that?” James asked.

  “About four months ago. Can’t say I miss it, though. I feel myself close to relapsing every day.”

  “Drew said he’s trying to quit,” James admitted, “he thinks it’s hard.”

  “How do you like that guy?” Julius asked.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Something about him doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “Like what?”

  I don’t know,” Julius mused. “I don’t think he works, yet every time I turn around, he has something new, like that computer or new shoes or whatever.”

  James didn’t know what to make of the sudden criticism of his floor mate but kept silent all the same.

  “I mean,” Julius continued, “he takes you out and buys all those gifts. Those things aren’t cheap, you know.”

  “Maybe he has money saved up,” James suggested. “You never know.” “Where does he go every day?” Julius asked.

  “Are you sure he doesn’t work? I mean, you’re gone all day yourself.”

  “You might be right, Commoner, but I’d keep my eye on him. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

  James spent the rest of the night straightening out the dining area and kitchen then went up to his room to play on the borrowed computer. The machine, still in its prototype stage, crashed frequently, making any attempt at creating serious documents on it an irksome failure. As he was waiting for it to reboot for the umpteenth time, there was a knock on his door. Just as he said “come in,” Drew entered carrying a bottle of champagne and two flutes on a platter.

  “Hey, Drew,” James greeted him.

  “Good evening, young man. I brought you a present.”

  “I don’t like wine,” James told him.

  “You’ll like this,” Drew insisted. “It was fermented for people who don’t drink wine.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vintage Armand de Brignac Brut Gold.”

  “Vintage?”

  “Ace of Spades, baby!” Drew beamed.

  “Must’ve cost you a fortune.”

  “All in a day’s work. Actually, a week’s work.” “Where do you work? James asked.

  “The recycling plant on Rainier,” Drew answered. “Why?”

  “Nothing. I was just curious.”

  “I know they’ve been talking about me behind my back,” Drew roared slightly. “These people gossip more than a rummage sale full of housewives.” “I try to avoid those things.”

  “What have they been saying about me?” Drew asked.

  James shrugged.

  “To tell you the truth, I keep to myself when I’m not working.”

  “Good,” Drew envisioned. “Best way to stay out of trouble.”

  Laying down the platter, he popped open the Armand, poured out a serving in each flute, and handed one to James. The young artist eyed the drink carefully, watching the tiny bubbles rise from the bottom of the slim glass.

  “Go ahead,” Drew encouraged him. “It won’t bite.”

  James watched as Drew drank his glass down then followed suit.

  “See?” Drew asked. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” He poured more champagne into his and James’s glass.

  “I really shouldn’t,” James cautioned him.

  “It’s Christmas,” Drew emphasized. “Time for all men to make merry and dispose of evil desires. Don’t you agree?”

  James nodded reluctantly and sipped his drink.

  “How’s the computer working out?” Drew asked.

  “It keeps crashing,” James answered. “Every time I get started doing something intensive, it crashes. Pain in the neck.”

  “I got in on the cheap from a guy who knows people in Redmond. It’s one of the first of its kind so things like that are bound to happen.”

  “Slows me down, though.”

  “Do you want me to take it back?” Drew asked. “I can, if you want.”

  “No,” James explained. “I’ve been doing some drawings on it. I think I’m just pushing it too hard.”

  Drew reached over and rubbed James’s shoulder. “I’m confident you’ll get a lot done with it. Make me proud.”

  Downing another glass of champagne, Drew laid the flute down. “I’m going to take a snooze,” he admitted. “You can have the rest.”

  “It’s okay,” James assured him. “You can bring it with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I probably won’t have any more anyway. It tastes good, though.”

  Drew filled James’s glass then picked up his platter. “Three hundred dollars a bottle for that thing. Enjoy it while it’s free.”

  After he left, James took another sip of the Brut Gold. Wincing from its acutely dry & tart taste, he went back to work on the computer. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  James stayed home for the next couple of days as the church was closed. With the Christmas bonus he received, he bought himself a few books, including a field guide to North American birds, a history of military and civilian aircraft, and an art book called Secrets of the Masters. During the day, when the temperature was in comfortable ranges, he spent some time at a local library. While there he read up on a few colleges and some manuals on space flight. He also checked out their religious books section, focusing primarily on historical epigrams or lengthy tomes like “Martyrs Mirror.”

  One day as he entered the library, he noticed that off to one side in a media room they were having a book sale. Entering the large fluorescent-lit chamber, he looked through boxes and boxes of used books, some available for as low as twenty-five cents. Seizing the opportunity, he bought a handful of classic novels such as The Jungle, Gulliver’s Travels, Moby Dick, Brave New World, Fathers and Sons, and others. Most were in readable condition. Others appeared as if their covers could fall off at any moment. Scooping up his treasure, he immediately headed to a nearby supermarket where he bought a roll of scotch tape.

  Sitting at a bus shelter near the s
tore, he carefully repaired each book to the best of his ability. An older woman sitting nearby glanced at his handiwork.

  “What have you got there?” she asked.

  “The library had a sale,” he answered.

  He held up one of his purchases and showed it to her.

  “That’s nice,” she intoned. “So good to see young people reading again. Have you ever heard of Ayn Rand?”

  James shook his head.

  “Check it out some time,” the stranger said. “You might learn something.”

  “Thanks,” James agreed. “I will.”