Archive for November 8th, 2009

Some places, moreso than others, seem to be full of hard luck and heartbreak. Without question, Tucson is one of those towns.

This morning, I prayed as I mopped up a large puddle of water from a leaking toilet in one of our vacant rentals. Recognizing through my recent experiences that I need to turn to Him more, I found myself asking God to help me to sublimate my labor and turn it into prayer. To let it, as the psalmist wrote, “be directed as incense in thy sight; the lifting up of my hands, as evening sacrifice.” As I attempted my own version of ora et labora, an old, withered-up husk of a man hobbled in the open door, helped along by a beat-up cane. He smelled of alcohol, long before noon, and his pale blue eyes were glassy, pupils dilated wide. He was dressed simply, and stood almost two feet shorter than I. His faded red baseball cap read, “Marine Recon” with additional designations specific to his unit.

“Doin’ double duty?” he asked, his voice carrying a trace of the prevalent Mexican accent in this area.

“Yeah.” I replied, hoisting my mop into the bucket. “Someone I can help you find?”

“I was looking for Mr. Wong,” he said, looking around. I didn’t correct him aloud on the last name, but I couldn’t help thinking it: Gong, not Wong. “I need a place to rent. I live in the apartments down here and my wife just passed away and….I need to get the heck out of dodge.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I responded, feeling sympathy for this stranger. “Unfortunately we’ve got people coming to sign a lease on this one today, and I don’t have anything else but a three bedroom – probably more than you’d want for just yourself.”

“Too goddang big!” He spat, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I just can’t stay where I am anymore. Too many memories…” When he said “memories,” it came out more as a sob than a word, and his hard eyes filled with tears. “Twenty five years together. I did two tours in Vietnam, no, three tours,” he looked into my eyes, searching, remembering. “I met her in 1983. She was…” he trailed off. “Anyway.” This last was meant as a statement of finality. These were private memories and he was going to keep them that way.

“I’m really sorry. I know it must be very hard. I’m married with four kids, and I can only imagine.” I managed.

“I have six!” he said. “Five with her…they live in California. Those assholes, they didn’t even come to her services. My dad die”my dad died when I was in vietnam. They sent me home. I came half way around the world to go to his funeral and they can’t come right here in Tucson? What a crock of shit!” The tears were back, and I could feel the pain coming off the man. He calmed himself again. “Ah, shit happens. Life is hard.”

“It is. That doesn’t make it any easier.” I wanted him to know I didn’t think less of him for letting me, a stranger, see his pain.

“No,” his voice quivered, “it doesn’t.” The tears were back, and his mouth was contorted into a sad grimace. “I just have to give it to the Lord,” he sighed, looking away. “I could get mad, but what’s that going to change? It’s only going to kill me. And I do get mad….” He looked back at me, a grim, crooked smile creeping onto his face. “Well, I need to go to the bank and take out money for rent, and to go buy some beer. What else can you do?”

I smiled back, and watched him as he turned and shuffled out. What else can you do?