I went to a nearby park after work one morning, right next to the Delaware River. There’s a marina there and various memorials to past wars and events of local significance. Something important once happened here or nearby, but now a homeless person is using the stone ledge as a shelf for their interesting assortment of pocket items. It’s an amusing juxtaposition.
Directly across a short span of cold, dark colored water is Philadelphia, PA. Nearby is the Walt Whitman bridge with the Ben Franklin bridge visible further up the river. Each is a suspension bridge connecting the states of New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
It was warmer than usual for late November. I sat on a bench and stared across at the port on the other side of the river.
Thousands of shipping containers were stacked up like Legos. Several enormous cranes stood idly by, waiting for a ship to unload. Small trucks zipped around like fast bugs moving erratically across a sidewalk. I wondered what a Mediterranean seafaring people would think of this setup.
I started thinking about the river and its impact on the people that live near it. Specifically on the kids who grow up with it in their backyard. It creates areas to play in and explore. Low tide reveals beaches to walk on and curiosities to inspect. Much of it is trash in myriad forms and the wreckage of trees, haphazardly stacked, with old clothing and debris clinging to their limbs. Sometimes when you look over the edge and peer down into the river you see partially submerged cairns made of large, jagged pieces of concrete or cinderblock. I think about those. Someone dumped them there, but who?
Maybe all this stuff just shows up at some point. It’s like graffiti. You never see anyone writing it, but then it appears. You’re out walking one day on the river’s edge and discover the long handle of a foosball table with the players still attached, sticking out of the wet sand like Excalibur. How did something like this become unattached and what journey did it take to arrive here?
A bizarre notion takes shape in my mind. All the weird, unexplainable shit you see in the world is done by an equally weird and unexplainable person who has made it their full-time job to pull baffling stunts that serve no discernible purpose. Hah! No one will ever figure out how a washing machine ended up here in this remote tract of wilderness. Or: I’ll do my part to help out the local aquatic ecosystem by taking the initiative and creating an artificial reef for it. I’ll start by sinking these 14 vintage Tioga campers I own into the middle of this nearby river. The fish will love it.
I look out at the water and think. How many bodies are out there. From accident, crime, suicide, or maybe they were carried here from somewhere else. Rivers keep secrets. Every so often a stray limb or badly decomposed torso washes up on one of these beaches.
I remember this one time we were taking a family walk around town many years ago after Easter dinner. The road we were on ran next to the Delaware for a short ways. When we got to that section we saw cops and yellow tape had been strung up. We found out later it was a suicide. Someone had jumped from one of the nearby bridges. I thought about that person sometimes. Wondered why they did it. What their last thoughts were. Who knew them.
Whether or not they had any pets that needed to be taken care of.
I imagined a sad and confused dog waiting for their owner to come home. Dozing on the floor mat on the other side of the front door.
I feel bad for that person’s family and friends. I can’t imagine what they’re going through. But in some ways I almost feel worse for the dog. Who’s going to tell them? Can they even understand? In some ways we’re all that dog. Terrible events happen. People try to tell us but we can’t understand them. They’re just barking something at us that we sense is very bad. Eventually we give up and accept that whatever they are saying is true. The language of grief is a foreign tongue. We stare back like a dog with an expression of horrified confusion.
I believe my dad offered up a short prayer for this person.
As I walk back to my car I see a guy on his bike.
“Good morning.” I also half wave.
“Yo if anyone hasn’t told you yet today I love you you’re awesome have a great day. By the way the name’s Brian Patrick Mc”-something.
It might have been McCall. McCullen. It sounded Irish.
“That’s my name it’s as Irish as you can get.” Confirmed.
At first glance Brian doesn’t look homeless or jobless. His mountain bike is decent and his clothes seem newer. His Jordans have only minor scuffing. But you can’t always tell. Sometimes meeting someone in public between 9 and 5 means they don’t have much else going on, not that it matters. That’s why I occasionally like going out during normal working hours. See what the rest of the world is up to. See who else is out and about.
Brian talks fast. I try to keep up. At one point we fist bump. I notice his knuckles are all scarred up and feel like a rock wrapped in sandpaper.
“God put you in my path for a reason,” he tells me.
I always appreciated this quality of I’m-looking-for-the-hidden-angle or openness to serendipity that certain people seem to have. To see the world in terms of patterns instead of isolated events. Sometimes getting knocked down by the world has this effect on people. It can also have the opposite effect too.
He asks if I have rolling papers because he’s got weed. I don’t.
He says smoking is part of his connection to the universe. It mellows him out.
This makes sense because Brian has the positive, jittery energy of someone who just slugged a few energy drinks.
He’s telling me that he had this run-in with the police yesterday, or recently. He was trying to be a good Samaritan and was pushing someone’s disabled car down the highway towards a nearby truck stop. Scant necessary details were provided and then somehow the police got involved. I wasn’t sure how it all fit together but listened attentively. He waved his bail paperwork in his hand and mentioned the name of a town south of here that wasn’t that close. He said he biked here from there and was probably going back today. I was impressed. He was putting up the kind of mileage that would make a cyclist envious. I don’t think all the gears on his bike worked either. He then pulled out a pen and asked for my first name and phone number. I probably should have politely declined to give out this information but for some reason I did anyway. He wrote it down on his bail paperwork. “I need to remember everyone,” he explained.
We say goodbye and I start walking back to my car. Although the day is cold the shining sun is keeping it in check for now.
I start to drive away when I see Brian biking over to me, looking like he wants to talk. I roll down the window.
“Yo man you got a C charger?” He points at his phone. As it turned out I had some sort of phone charging cable in my trunk. It had been there for awhile and was one of those mystery items you accumulate somehow but don’t know from where.
I get out the cable and take a look. “B type, sorry man.”
His eyes go wide and amazement registers on his face. His hand goes inside his jacket and produces a small, handheld video camera.
“I’ve been looking for one of these. Haven’t charged this thing in weeks.”
We test the charger and it fits.
I offer it to Brian and he’s hyper-grateful.
“A bro I knew we cross paths for a reason.”
I get ready to leave again.
“Wait hold up I gotta give you some weed.” Before I can tell him I appreciate that but I’m good, he walks away.
He heads over to a nearby trashcan. There’s a brown paper bag sticking out from underneath and he pulls it out and tears off a long, thin strip. He takes out his weed and puts a little bit on the paper then carefully wraps it up with the delicacy and care of a butcher wrapping up a fine steak for a customer.
He hands it to me. “For you bro.”
I tell him thanks and to stay safe.
He starts talking again. At first I thought it was to me but then realized it seemed to be directed more towards the world at large. All sentient beings were now an unwitting audience to his sacred words. Street prayer.
Now he was on his bike. Still talking and riding in circles around my car. Standing up on the pedals, lazily doing laps. He was talking fast again but these words came out with a slow, deliberate emphasis.
“And may God’s most gangster angels protect you and may everything that your hands touch turn prosperous.”
Amen.