Long Beach, Part One
June 20, 2008
I get off a bus at a tiny little station near Long Beach, California. I think to myself that the station is very small indeed for a California station. Finding Matt could prove difficult without any money or a phone. I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder and step outside into the yellow sunlight. It's warm in the sun. A round black man approaches me, and asks me if I am waiting for someone. I tell him that I am not.
“Well son, the Lord works in mysterious ways!” His chin skin flaps as he bellows. “I have been here, let me tell you, some thirty minutes waiting on my son. And well, he just calls me just now, and he says to me, 'Dad, I'm not gonna make it.'. So here I am, with nobody to pick up, and here you are, by God, with nobody to pick you up! I'll be! I tell you the man upstairs always does have a plan!”
Round black fellow is mighty animated. He quivers and wobbles and gesticulates like a fat man seizing in an earthquake. Also, he believes that God has put me in his path. He asks me if I have a place to stay, and I say that I do not.
“Well it's settled then! I think you'll do just fine. I got, well we got, a mission downtown, a lot of young folk just like you, you know?”
We are headed towards a bus stop; I have signed without reading the contract, so to speak. I nod in response to his sentence.
“We act as the eyes and ears, the hands and feet of the Lord, finding youngsters in troubled times, and helping them back on their feet. You'll do just fine.”
He is looking down the street, scoping for a specific bus I assume. I tell him that I am supposed to meet a friend in Long Beach, and that I need to go to a library. He looks down at me from an inch or so advantage, and wobbles a 'Sure' with his head, throat skin a dangle. I can tell that this nod is intended to humor me. I have no friends. I have no direction. I have no hope, save God and his eyes and ears, hands and feet.
“You'll do just fine.” Round black fellow repeats, shielding his eyes with a saluting hand and peering down the street.
A bus passes, then another, but these are not the right bus. Round black fellow is growing impatient with public transit. He sits on the bus station bench, exhaling grandly. Sitting down, he has to look up to me to catch my eye. He seems much smaller this way, nothing now but three hundred pounds of aches, pains, and convictions. Tilting his head back, he gazes at me with a paternal smile.
“You'll do just fine.” His tone changes abruptly, his face now fraternal, quizzical, and subtly patronizing.
“Hey, do me a favor will you? Keep an eye out for a sec and just let me know if you see any of the boys.”
I cock my head a few degrees to one side and repeat his last two words in the form of a question. His hand slips deep in his pants pocket and bumbles about blindly, like a mole digging a new home.
“The boys,” he echoes, “you know, the boys in blue.” He smiles brightly and produces a bud of lime green reefer.
I'm a bit alarmed at this, and ask him if he plans on smoking here at the bus station. I also confirm that he is, in fact, a man of god. His smile doesn't fade, although his eyes purse mischievously.
"We've all got our vices, I think the big man can appreciate that." He's licking the gum of a rolling paper now, and gesturing with fervent nods towards the highway, insisting I keep an eye out. I am indeed, doing my job, casting anxious, suspicious glances in all directions. For the next few minutes, I avoid looking directly at my self titled guardian. Between the instrument of god fussing over his joint, blowing off ash, tending to runs burning down the side and whatnot, and the pungent smell of pot hanging in the plexiglass bus station, I feel like I am wearing my legal status on my sleeve.
Tags for this piece: story nonfiction drugs longbeach