There's No Troy at the Yacht Club
(Reposted from my old blog, bovious.com)
(I also presented this at my church, hence the unexplained reference to Bishop Mano. Everybody there knows and loves Mano.)
(Bishop Mano is the brother-in-law of my pastor Fr. John. Mano is the Bishop of Peshawar, in Pakistan.)
There’s No Troy at the Yacht Club
I left play practice in Little 5 Points last night about 8:30, heading
to my parking place in the back of the shops, and found a guy lying on
his back next to my car, his hands up around his face.
This guy looked a rough character, tattoos all over his wiry muscled
arms, long stringy hair, beard and mustache, weathered face, street
tan. He could have been anywhere from mid 30’s to late 40’s. Hippie
street life does that to you, I think. But something had laid him low.
So I approached him, and asked him, “Hey, why are you lying there?”
“Somebody maced me,” he said.
I thought for a second. Mace is marketed as the great equalizer,
enabling helpless young women to fend off attackers or anyone who’s
bothering them. What if this guy had gotten just exactly what he
deserved? I reserved judgment, though, and decided to help this guy
out of the traffic lane. I’m a big guy, after all, and can take care
of myself. I figured if this guy showed any signs of sudden recovery,
I could probably put him in his place. Nothing like that happened,
though.
“Let’s get you up. You’re lying in the middle of the parking lot,” I said.
“OK.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Frank.”
He tried to get up and it was a sad sight. He was staggering and off
balance. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just in agony, but he did
sort of steady up later on. About this time another guy walked up, and
asked what happened. “Somebody maced this guy,” I said. “Why don’t you
see if you can find something to give him some relief.”
“OK,” he said, and he was off like a shot. Before I could get Frank a
few more steps, he was back with a large tumbler of water. He
introduced himself as Jimbo and said to Frank, “We’re going to put
this on your face, maybe it will make you feel better,” and without
further ado poured it down.
I looked at Jimbo. Like Frank, he was dressed in dirty clothes and had
the look of the streets about him. Maybe a little too much whiskey or
something else.
Frank took this with good grace but his eyes were in sad shape. They
were swollen shut tight and he wasn’t going to be feeling much better
for awhile. “Frank, is there anyone you want me to call?” I asked as
we made our way to a spot where he could sit down.
“No.”
“Can I go get somebody for you?”
“No.”
“Do you work nearby?”
“Yes.”
“Let me go get somebody from your work to help you out. Where do you work?”
“Yacht Club.” (A nearby watering hole.)
“OK, who should I ask for?”
“Troy.”
“Troy at the Yacht Club, got it,” I said, ready to go find help.
But as I turned away, Frank’s voice, resigned and weary, stopped me.
“There’s no Troy at the Yacht Club,” he said. This was the point at
which my heart sort of broke.
“Oh. OK.”
We waited in the shade of the tree, commiserating with Frank. Jimbo
and I both shared that we had been exposed to CS gas in the service as
part of our training, that it was no fun but we got over it, and that
it was mainly a matter of time but Frank would surely get better.
About that time an older man pushing a trash can ambled past. “Do you
know Frank?” I asked.
“Yeah, I work with him,” said the old man. Yet another whiskey-whipped
face. Welcome to Little 5 Points.
“OK, well, somebody maced him,” I said.
The old man, who introduced himself as Jimmy, came to help. “What
happened?” he asked Frank.
“I was out back of the club, some kids were driving real fast back
here and I told them to slow the fuck down, there’s people walking
around, and they just fuckin’ maced me,” he said.
“God,” I said.
“Was anybody helping him?” Jimbo asked me.
“No, but I think I was about the first to come up on him,” I said.
“Anyway, people are scared. You know how it is.”
I admit, I was scared at first. What if this guy had attacked somebody
and gotten maced for his troubles? I didn’t have any reason not to
believe his story, but then again I could be hopelessly naive.
I thought of Bishop Mano, who had told us that morning of “Smelling
the sweat of the enemy.” I actually sniffed—Frank didn’t smell any
worse or better than any of us. I thought of the Taleban receiving
help at Bishop Mano’s hospital in Peshawar. I thought, “I’m not at war
with this guy. Whatever really happened, he’s paying a heavy price.
His friends seem like nice, decent fellows. I think my work here is
done.”
So I left him in the hands of his friends and went home.
UPDATE 06/18/07:
I’ve spoken with Jimbo several times since this incident. There’s
probably another post in that, eventually. But I thought I’d tell you
what he told me about Frank. Basically, Frank got exactly what he
deserved. He apparently told Jimbo after I left them that he had
stopped a car with a young couple in it and tried to cadge some change
or something from them. There was a pretty young woman in the car and
Frank “touched” her. That’s when he got maced.
Would I have acted differently if I had known that macing was just
what this guy needed? I actually hope not. Macing seems a pretty fair
price to pay for what he did. Why pile on by not giving a damn about
him?
