pontiac

Today I rode my bike up to see my friend Chick. There’s a place I go that whispered serenity to me the first time I came upon it. It is quiet, peaceful, beautiful. Unbeknownst to the passer-by, it has a dark history and still reeks of contradiction and conflict. It’s named for a terrible incident that happened there over a century ago, and even in recent years and months it has stayed true to its heritage. Two years ago, just after Christmas, a lady was shot there. Chick watched a girl pull out a gun and shoot her husband in the field beside the pond. This past January, Chick and a friend were sitting and talking and spotted a body floating in the pond. A drug dealer from Columbia with a tricked out ’65 Impala, shot execution style.
It is in this place of conflict and confusion that Chick continues to heal from his stint 35 years ago in Southeast Asia. This is where he came all those years ago after being told he’d better talk about it or he’d never survive. This is where he found an old man 30 years ago sitting at a picnic table with a ready and willing ear. This is where I found him about two years ago sitting at a picnic table writing in a notebook. I’ve never been there when he wasn’t there. Even though he works and goes about life, and I’m usually not there when he is, he’s always there when I go. There is no doubt in my mind that it is arranged. We’ve talked for hours upon hours. He told me today that he had 1600 hundred handwritten pages of his story. It’s almost done. He said that he wanted me to read it, even though I’d already heard much of what’s in there.
Until right now, I think Allison is the only person I’ve talked to about Chick. He is an amazing man. He has compassion born of trouble. He has need and plenty to give. It is amazing how useful one can feel by simply being there. I asked him if he’d still remember me when his book is published and he’s a millionaire. He said, “Rod, when I’m a published millionaire, you’ll ride your bike up here and here I’ll be sitting at this picnic table.”
When I grow up, I think I might become an itinerate listener.