Angel in Plaid

April 4, 2020

Yesterday I started to get bored sitting around the house, where nothing much was happening. But early April has treated us to a mild day, so now I’m sitting on our front porch watching nothing much happening from here.

Something in the breeze stirs up a memory, with all its accompanying emotions, that goes back to a day when something did happen out here. Something big, at least from my perspective. I recall it like it was only yesterday, though it was in fact a couple decades ago. It was an encounter that couldn’t have been more than ten minutes long, but still powerful enough to adjust the direction my life was taking me.  The entire scenario might never have happened, though, if I had not been in downtown Cincinnati the day before.

I try to avoid driving through the Queen City. It’s not that I’m such a bad driver. It’s just that for some reason my car gets a mind of its own if I venture there. It takes me down one-way streets, but not in the direction everyone else is going. Or it traps me in the intersection after the light has changed—of all times, during the holiday rush—leaving me to take care of the ticket.

But I was there that day, driving down Fifth Street, just wanting to get to the entrance ramp to 471 and then go south. My eyes were glued to the street signs and the road. In spite of this, they veered to the driver’s side window long enough to see a man in a red plaid flannel shirt. He was one out of many souls out on the sidewalk that day, but the only one who made an impression on me. At least for that moment. Soon I was on my ramp and the sighting was quickly forgotten, replaced by a sigh of relief and a thank you to my car for appropriate behavior.

The next morning I was relaxing in my favorite front porch chair, not really looking forward much to the day. A lot had been going on in my life. I’ll spare you all the details, just that I was beginning to lose heart. Spring seemed to be bringing renewal to everything but me. I prayed, but I didn’t feel like my prayers were making it to Heaven.

One thing I do for depression is eat. Donuts work nicely, and I decided a couple or six would taste good with my coffee. I left my cozy perch and headed down the steps to the sidewalk. The walk to the bakery might do me some good, or at least burn some calories. Then something red caught my eye. It was the man in the plaid shirt, coming out of the woods at the end of the street!

As he walked toward me, I remembered something new from the day before.  As on Fifth Street, he had a slumped posture as a man would who’s down on his luck. I knew how this man felt. Maybe I could force my mind off of me for a few minutes and give him a hand up.

He didn’t look up from the sidewalk until he was 20 or 30 feet away. It was the first time I saw his face. I asked him if he needed a ride somewhere. He said he could use one to the bus stop. I got in my car while he scooted in the other side. It was my duty to help this man. After all, why would I have seen him the day before?

A strong odor filled the entire vehicle, but I was determined to ignore it. I didn’t have to work too hard, though, because in a few seconds the way he smelled was the least obvious thing about him. His entire demeanor had changed drastically. He was sitting up straight and his eyes were as bright as an old-fashioned, 100-watt incandescent light bulb. (Some of you remember them.)

“What do you think about the Reds?”

This was one ice-breaker I hadn’t expected. “Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter much what I think.”

Boy, was I having a pity party.

“Well, CW, your opinion does matter. It’s very important to me.”

I looked over at him as I drove up the street. In spite of his apparel and hygiene, now the last thing on my mind, he looked like a professional. Say, a pastor or a counselor. And how did he know my name? I didn’t remember telling him.

“Thank you,” I responded to him. Maybe my opinion was important. I felt as if I was filling up with some of that glow he had. I couldn’t have kept it from showing if I had tried. I got his name, John. He smiled when I remarked that it was very biblical.

I asked him if I he wanted something to eat. How about a sandwich? A donut? The bakery was only a couple blocks from the bus stop. He said no, no, and no thanks.  The bus stop was good, he didn’t need a sandwich, and please, no more donuts! He assured me he’d had his fill at the shelters.

His wide grin assured me I hadn’t offended him. We started laughing and continued all the way to our destination. I considered purposely passing it up. I hadn’t laughed like that for weeks.

I dropped John off, waved goodbye, and headed for the bakery. Not five minutes later I was on my way home with my assortment of goodies. I swung past the place I’d left him, hoping to see him one more time, but he and the bus were gone.

I drove home and returned to my chair. I turned on the radio to see if the Reds would be playing that afternoon. Then I fished out the most festive donut in the box. It seemed the only one appropriate for the occasion.