The Russian Market
(Phnom Penh, Khmer Rouge, Cambodia 2000)
I could see his movements without looked in back of me, inside my head, he was behind me dragging his crutches from one stall to another at the Russian Market in Phnom Penh, he had been maimed, crippled, a one legged cripple, during the trying years of the Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot’s regime. I first noticed him when I walked through the archway of the tent and he pushed his crutch out in front of me, blocking my path, his hand out for spare change, I was with my wife we were tourists in the city and would leave that evening for Angkor Wat.
Demanding he was, and I moved around his crutch and into the tent area, and he moved from his leaning post, with Frankenstein agility demanding in a high scratchy voice, and an ongoing parading of words I didn’t fully understand, begging and demanding money. His menacing persistence and his unreserved irritation, aggravated me, had he approached me and my wife with some respect, or softer touch, instead of eyes that were bloodshot, and wild looking, unkempt looking, I would have given willingly. His gliding through the isles, was nearly as fast as I was walking, with those perturbing arm muscles of his, and large hands gripped onto those crutches, made me look about, “Go! Leave us alone; find another American to bother… (and as I looked about, I noticed there was none)” I told him sternly. His talkativeness and smirk assured me he had no intentions of doing so. Then he spoke English, “You are American and you have both legs, and you have money, and I am hungry, and I want only enough to have soup and bread, gentleman, I will follow you unless you help me. Someday you may need help.”
I had prided myself in work, not begging even when I was down and out in San Francisco, some thirty years prior. Had he been selling pencils or something I would not have given this a second thought, but because someone shot off his leg—or he stepped in some mine field and got it ripped off—what right did he have to demand? I asked myself. But on a second thought—staring at this fellow—perhaps he had earned it today, to have begged me and followed me, how humiliating it must be, how desperate was he. I thought about when I was in Seattle, some thirty-five years ago, again I was hungry, really hungry, and I just stayed hungry, never begging until I got paid my first paycheck, and bought three hamburgers, and could only eat one, my stomach had shriveled up. In any case, my time in this city was limited and worth more than a dollar, and so I gave him a dollar. And figured that was that. There was not much of a thank you to it, but he left, and I guess that was good enough.
Then twenty-minutes later, after he had had his soup, and coffee and bread, I saw him again, swinging around a corner of a tent, moving faster than a jackrabbit to catch up with me.
“Let’s get out of here dear,” I told Rosa, we had bought a few rusty lighters, Military cigarette lighters for souvenirs, from the late Vietnam War—the one I was in, leftovers from dead American soldiers, evidently picked up by the locals of other cities near battle fields, and sold to the merchants here to be sold as souvenirs to whomever. Without question this guy had a one track mind, to be my pain in the neck to my death or until I give him for his dinner, or kills himself on those crutches trying. His mouth sucking in for air, as he propelled those crutches, putting them in high gear, thus, I found myself walking more rapidly out to the back entrance: the market area was comprised of several tents, and then an arch to the street, and lo and behold, leaning against the seven foot tall, two foot thick wide wall out along the street area on the sidewalk, that circled this market area, were several more one legged veterans—Had I know this was their hangout I would have most likely avoided. Their pleas crawled up my back like spider legs. They all pushed their crutches out at me, front and crutch-ends. The street in front of me busy with motor vehicles, many bikes and small motorcycles, motionless I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, a ways away from the veterans, I checked to see the amount of loose change I had, and had Rosa go back and give three of them each a dollar’s worth of their money in coins, I knew if I went back, they’d hit me up for more, coming from a lady, they were more respectful, it’s easy to do when you see the down and out—to give every dime you have, plus, I knew if I gave all I had, I’d have nothing left for us, and to be honest, they needed more than a dollar. And often times, beggars can be more rude and impertinent than grateful, and the longer I stayed there the more this became the case.
No: 636 (6-21-2010)
New Orleans Outsider
(Labor Day Weekend, 2000 AD)
Three men leaned against a red brick wall, on the corner of Bourbon Street, one playing a violin, two with glowing brass horns. And there was some echoing singing in-between, when the violin wasn’t playing, and it filled the corner atmosphere, people who walked by stopped, put loose change into an upside-down hat. It was 10:30 p.m., I seemed to have had an image of this somehow before I had even gotten to New Orleans, this was my first trip, and of course Bourbon Street, to find it strange and hard was not really strange and hard to swallow. Somehow it was all clearly unambiguous.
My brother Mike, liked this city a lot, and I often wondered why, it was really alive, the movement of the crowd was to and fro back and forth, here and there, in the lit streets that felt dark, on roof-tops under a dark and dotted sky full of stars, a moon wrapped in a dark shady shroud, and balconies filled with people leaning over railings, watching people, staring down on the streets, while people were staring up at them. As I glanced everywhichway, even looking down the corner streets, with a little unease; I suppose if I had done anything by coming to New Orleans, it was to get it over with. What was I really here for? I wondered. I was forced to wait for that answer. How simple things would be, if you knew them right away. But as it was, I told myself: enjoy the moment.
True, it was sin city, many gay folk and prostitution, and joviality going on, one gay person sat by me and my wife, as we ordered a small glass of beer in a large bar that seemed more like a cafeteria, with stools and everybody sitting with everybody, and nobody knowing who anyone was, stranger to stranger, like at the Octoberfest, in West Germany, in Munich, of which I attended in 1970. He was tall and nice looking, and quite friendly, with a busy afro style haircut, several inches above his eyebrow, and high on more than life. Nobody was overaggressive.
But it all went further back than that. There in the bar across the street, a live band was playing loud, with blinking lights overhead, and a hoard of people standing near the band—and in ever square foot of the place. The night cooled down quick. Out of this wild and summer joyous fiesta came a man—I felt for a moment as if I was back in Saigon, thirty-five years ago, when sitting on the edge of a stool waiting for my plane to arrive to take me back to America, get me out of this damn war zone, a young man sat by me, a holy man, indeed! And while he was talking I missed my plane, the plane that crashed and killed 244-soldiers, on its way to Japan. I thought of this for the moment, when this man got off his stool, and approached me, through the people he raised his head. So new was his face it could have been that very same person, and the music continued—mind flapping music, and a breeze came through the two opened doors.
A policeman, perhaps I said, the man was dressed conservatively. Nice haircut. But how many policemen would go out of their way to greet me, I asked myself, there was no reason or crime for this. This was not fear, had I felt fear I would have escaped the moment, but what did this signify? I asked myself. He picked me out among the many, and approached me as if he knew me. Not cunningly, but as if he knew me, unscathed by time, events, space, like the smooth brass of one of those horns I saw on the corner of Bourbon Street, with the trio. Can you say what you’d do under such circumstances? Consequently, before he said a word, I wanted to say: “What do you want?” but I didn’t say that, I didn’t say anything at first—my second thought was to gain a part of the moment, had I said anything, I would break that chance, and he knew that also, somehow I knew he knew that, “Ah,” he said in very soft and calm voice, “you’re here, you know God is with you?” And he stood there a moment, smiled, not wanting anything, perhaps I was waiting for him to say what else he wanted, and he didn’t want anything, it was a simple greeting from someone that appeared to know me.
“Yes,” I said, as if it was obvious to me (but it wasn’t) my statement, he took no offence and again showed only respect and a glimmering smile and left and went back to his stool. But it wasn’t so obvious to me, I mean I knew God was with me, but perhaps was waiting for me outside this bar. Yet his voice, the way he looked when he said what he said, was reassuring to me for some reason that God was even in the bar with me, his voice said more, without saying more. It is a destiny you cannot know, but perhaps others do.
No: 637 (6-21-2010)
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