R

The Ojibway word for not being sure of something is endogwen. Throughout the fourteenth century the pandemic called Black Death, or the Bubonic plague, killed an estimated seventy-five to two hundred million people. Doesn’t really matter today, though, because just recently our state finalized an agreement to buy storage facilities for human remains, while at the same time our governor announced plans for the phased reopening of our economy. A conundrum that resonates with conditions during the Black Death, because the information on COVID-19 is contradictory, inaccurate, incorrect or misleading, and always subject to change. To be this uncertain is to revisit the dark ages.

Even so, people believe that uncertain times are the catalyst for change. So what? At one point during the Black Death authorities in London went so far as to prohibit all public gatherings, including performances at the Globe Theater. As a result, Shakespeare had no place to put on his plays, so he made use of his gift by creating a new sonnet form. Very nice, but I’m sure the unwashed masses questioned how this new Shakespearean sonnet could have any relevance for the people who had already died from the Black Death.

In the United States, as of late May of 2020, there are about 71,000 people who have already died from COVID-19. Some of the dead have no names. They were probably living on the street and are now buried in mass graves. The exact number is endogwen. Meanwhile, the fiscal pundits and politicians remind us that they’re uncertain, as well, and that only time will tell.

Yes, the answers will come in time. But not all of them. And some will remain cloaked forever. Except it’s not the answers that determine who we are at this moment. Instead, it is the nature of our questions. For they are the measure of who we are and what we are thinking. Who’ll be the next in line? Does COVID19 possess some kind of evil self-awareness? And the people we love, how many of them will lie among the dead? Is the virus some sort of biological weapon brewed in a laboratory and unleashed upon the world? And what about our money? Our smart phone signal. Or the mortgage. Will the liquor stores and gun shops remain open?

There is a satire. Candide. Written by Voltaire in 1759. Toward the end Candide claims that after all the horror, after all the misfortune, there’s really only one thing we can do. Tend our own garden.

But what is the essence of our own garden? Since the onslaught of COVID19 the essence of my own garden has transformed. Because in my own garden there now walks a homeless man. R. I met R a few years back while I was riding my bike and he was walking at the lake. Didn’t actually meet him, though, because for an entire year I’d just say hello to him, and then ride on.

R displays only a few traits of the homeless. He carries a lot of baggage, to be sure. And he’s always alone, minding his own business. Quiet. Almost invisible. He drew my attention, though, because of his footwear, and his clothes. Warm, sturdy boots in winter. Pretty good tennis shoes in the spring, summer and fall. Clean clothes. Never worn thin or ragged. And he’s not ragged, either He’s clean. Clean shaven. With healthy, if weathered Caucasian skin. Bald as a monk.

All in all, something about R seemed out of place. But it wasn’t any of my business. So I always said hi, if only to acknowledge his existence. Then, at first light on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend three years ago, I saw R sitting alone in the pavilion by the lake. A cool, wet, morning. Nothing stirring. Just R and me. A good moment to actually stop and say more than just hello. I told him my name, and he told me his. But R is a man who keeps a low profile, so I won’t say his name. Only R.

“Did you stay dry last night?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep outside in the winter, too?”

“Yes.”

“You could fall asleep and freeze to death.”

“No, my feet get cold and they wake me up.”

“The snack bar’s open soon. Can I buy you breakfast?”

“No, thank you, I have food.”

“A cup of coffee then?”

“No, I don’t drink coffee.”

“Well, nice meeting you R. I’ll say hi next time I see you. ”

And I always do say hi. And since then I’ve learned something more about R. Once, a year ago, I saw him with a bunch of pens and pencils, and he was writing in a note pad. I told him I was a writer, too. I asked him what he liked to write.

“Astrology.”

“Do you have a pencil sharpener?”

“No.”

“Would it be okay if I gave you one?”

“Okay.”

After that I carried a small sharpener with me for the next time I saw him.

Because of his clean clothes and his general good health, I wondered if R was really homeless. And if he was a writer, then maybe he was writing some sort of homeless story. Something like Black Like Me, by John Howard Griffin. But it would be Homeless Like Me, by R.

Once I asked him if he still had the pencil sharpener.

“No. I lost it.”

So I don’t think R is actually a writer, because homeless or not, a writer does not lose his pencil sharpener. Well, at least I wouldn’t.

It doesn’t really matter, though, if R’s a writer or not, because there’s still something about him. Some unknown quality. And it is this . . . once, after I’d earned a slight measure of his trust, he risked showing me something of his own. His drawings. It turns out R is a talented portrait artist. Some are real people, easily recognized. Some are unknown, perhaps unknowable. All of them drawn with pencil on cheap paper and tucked in a folder he always carries.

Once I asked him if he ever drew sailing ships. Frigates from the Golden Age of Sail, for instance.

“No.”

“Well, if you ever draw one, I’d like to see it. I might buy it.”

He makes a face. “I don’t draw for money.”

Last week I saw him again in the pavilion and stopped in to say hi. He showed me more of his drawings.

“Have you drawn all your life?”

“I quit after high school. That was . . . forty-four years ago. Then I took it up again a few years ago.”

“Was it hard to get it back?”

“No. It’s instinct.”

“Do you remember when I asked if you ever draw sailing ships?”

“Yes. But I only draw what inspires me.”

“Well, if you’re ever inspired to draw a frigate, I’d like to put it on the cover of my next book ”

This time he doesn’t make a face. Instead, he gives me a vague smile. Does this mean that maybe someday he’ll draw me a fine frigate? I’m not sure. It remains endogwen.

What I do know is that R’s homeless and vulnerable. Hopefully never to become just another COVID-19 statistic, but instead will live for a long time, and drawing what inspires him.