Destinations

I met a man named Marvin this week while on a business trip to Las Vegas
An old, dirty, hungry, and homeless man; a long way from any home he could call his own.
He had, some long time ago, been thrown out of his home in Illinois and lost his family, his job, his children wouldn't recognize him now.

Marvin's aspirations didn't exceed the amount of change in the pocket of a passerby and his rolled up dirty, ragged cardboard sign was carelessly sharpied: "HOMELESS, HUNGRY". His current hope was to buy a coffee, and I did test, offering both to buy a coffee or any other he likes the best. His hopes unchanged, perhaps this was a simple man seeking a simple drink to warm himself. Stuck in a dream, drowned by a nightmare, surrounded by an ocean of others' wealth, caught in a current; he could not swim back out.

He used to be a mechanic, and owned a garage, he was now not so confined.  The whole world was open to Marvin, yet all the doors of that world were closed. His age, his trade, no one would believe that this old dog could learn new tricks; and as such there was no work for him .  Only that work which was to be seen, pitied, and helped.

Yet, with every copper coin, nickel, dime, or quarter joined no help was on its way; nothing could rewind or undo the man that he had become. And every drop or jingle into that little cup, was a silent wish that the man holding it would disappear; not to be seen or heard of, no one to ask or remember the name.

I stood by Marvin and asked him about his day. His accent I soon mis-recognized as it sounded of a Texan draw. No he proclaimed, from Illinois sometime long ago. Marvin was once married, twice a father, to a boy and girl; his son and I to be exactly the same age. A strong family, a home, a job; now alone.

He was replaced, and left that place, he explained; he never looked back. Never called, or wrote, the pain of leaving was less than that, that would have been, to stay. Marvin wasn't the one, to cut ties, to swiftly rip the band-aid off; to limit the pain. He was instead that band-aid, which having served a purpose, was not needed anymore. He was thrown away.

And now, here, he sat; in the trash heap of the world. Happy for change, yet those small tokens all but ensured his world would yet remain the same.  So I spoke to him plainly, of the things that drown dreams, of a world out there that was his own to see.  Of his children, and his past, of his future and beliefs.

A tiny twinkle lit his eyes, like a single ember, enough to start a fire that would burn forever.  I asked Marvin if he would like to call back home, to check on them to check on him, to ask again if he could be their friend.  And so he called, and found out then that he was wanted, to return to them.  And he was told his garage still stands, his tools untouched there, his son waiting for him; the father he needs.  

He did then see so clearly again, the fog had lifted he himself, believed in him.

He alone would not make it home.  So I gave to him that coffee, and a ham sandwich to boot, a clean T-shirt, and jeans, new socks for his shoes.  And I took him then to cut his hair, they shaved his face, and that face showed no more fears.  A new man that few would pity and less would stare, less would share; Marvin could stand on his own two feet now.

And before he went off I did one more thing, booked him a bus seat, back to that life which he had been ripped from.  Back to fix cars and trucks in much the same way he had been fixed that day. Back to talk of memories, but now with those who had, had them with him, shared with his kin.  The ticket was paper thin as were his chances to be whole again, and it did read or give advice, in letters bold: Non-Refundable, One Destination, Do Not Fold.