Meeting “Sweet-boy”
I met Daryl a few months ago when he knocked on my door and offered to clean my porch and mow my lawn. With an enormous smile on his face, he told me I was so pretty, I could pay him whatever I wanted.
I hired him, of course (though I did make him tell me how much money he thought was fair for the work), but before he got to work on the yard, he started talking and I started listening. Daryl is a consummate storyteller with no training, naturally revealing interesting details with a clever turn of phrase as he tells his stories with his expressions and hands. He told me about how all the girls call him “Sweet-Boy” because he’s so sweet to them (assuring me soundly that he didn’t approve of this rough, disrespectful behavior on the videos), proudly showed me his rent slip for his new place, and talked about how he is 57 and its getting harder to push a mower, but he believes if you’re willing to work, it’ll all work out in the long run.
He told me that all he needs is a little change in his pocket and a place to sleep, and he had both so it was a good day.
When he started mowing, I went inside and starting writing. My desk is right by a window looking out on the front yard, and I couldn’t help but watch as he’d wave and offer friendly words to everybody that passed by him on the sidewalk. Truth be told, it was more than a little unreal. When he finished working on my yard, I gave him a glass of water and more money than we’d agreed on, and he told me I was the prettiest white woman he’d ever seen and asked for a hug. I couldn’t help it. I gave him a hug.
Political correctness, stereotypes, and breaking both
I can’t explain exactly what it is, but there is something good inside Daryl. And the 21st century has taught me that I’m not supposed to say that because somehow I’m revealing classist or racist tendencies. That I only think he’s good because I secretly believe that white middle class women are supposed to be hiring itinerant black men to cheerfully do manual labor for cheap (possibly while singing “Zip-a-Dee Doo Dah”). It actually crossed my mind, at first anyway, that he was putting me on, playing on stereotypes in hopes that I would give him money (or maybe that he could con his way into my house and rob me).
But I’ve seen Daryl several times since then, and he really is that cheerful, and I’m really not that racist. Every time I talk to Daryl, he reteaches me something about happiness: when I think the 21st Century American definition of success, with it’s college degrees and corporate wealth, is the “right” one, I’ve lost something sacred about just being human.
Daryl vs. the cold
Daryl stopped by today, when it is literally freezing outside. He wasn’t looking for work, but he’s concerned (or as concerned as Daryl ever gets) because he’s behind on his rent and getting kicked out of his place. I found it highly amusing that while he’s not worried about freezing tonight (he assured me he has a place to stay) what he IS worried about is losing his TV. He can’t go back to his motel (where he’ll be required to surrender his key) until he’s gotten somebody with a car to help him move his TV to a new location. So he’s outdoors wandering Austin in the freezing weather until his friend with a car gets off work. So they can rescue his TV.
I let him warm up in my living room (his fingers were practically numb) and gave him a couple apples. (Daryl loves apples, and since I figured that out, I give him a couple every time he comes by. But I’ve never seen anybody eat them like he does; he bites in, turns the piece around, bites the meat off the skin, and throws the skin away on the ground (if he’s outside) – at first I was slightly horrified, but then realized it’ll decompose. Maybe it’s his offering to his version of the nisses. But in my house, he couldn’t do that, so he pulled a couple tissues out of the box to use as a napkin. Before he put them down he waved them at me like a white flag saying, “I took some of these, I hope that’s okay!” as if I would have a problem with him having a kleenex. But he’s like that, very careful to make sure I don’t think he’s taking anything.) I also let him use my iPhone to call his friend with the car (he made me dial; he said his fingers were numb, but I couldn’t tell if he just didn’t know how to use it), and then he ate one of the apples and told me more stories, this time about a car he’s trying to buy for just under $400 (“with stickers that will be valid for a year; you can’t beat that!”) and a girl who was so fat she had to turn sideways so he could hug her.
Daryl is going in one of my books one day.
Luck and the Divine
As Daryl walked out my door back into that cold to meet his friend with the car (and recover his TV), he told me that he always finds money after he sees me. He said it’s because I’m lucky, and my luck rubs off on him. As I gave him his hug (which I admit, I asked for this time), I thought about luck and how I’ve always considered my inability to win any games of chance to be because my good fortune was all used up in the people I’ve met built my life around (I have the best parents, sister, husband, and friends the world has ever seen; you couldn’t WRITE people this amazing) – and given a choice, that’s where I’d put and keep my luck. But if I do have any whims of fortune of a more pecuniary nature, I send that luck with Daryl for the night - in this weather he’ll need it far more than I will.
Talking to Daryl makes me think about all those stories so many different cultures have about how when God shows up at your door, He never looks like your definition of success. He’s usually friendly and a good storyteller. He’s usually looking for a little food and a little shelter from the cold. And He always seems to be happy with whatever you give Him as long as it includes your time and your respect. Now I am not crazy in the head and think that Daryl is God (and if he is, maybe I should’ve given him more than two apples and some pocket change). But his effervescent smile brings a smile to my face, and his uplifted spirit in a life I would be terrified to live is practically a parable of faith. And there is something divine in that.
As I say this, I worry that I am a self-absorbed girl, looking for my own personal miracles in the real lives of others. But at heart I am a storyteller, and the blood of poets, people who uplift the mundane to the miraculous, runs through me. I know that Daryl’s life must be full of hardships, but I find in him an inspiration, a… something more than flesh and blood that walks the Earth. And so I mean it as a compliment to his soul, without a disregard for the reality of his Earthly life, when I say that Daryl is a Wanderer in the Cold who has blessed me, not with riches, but with the richness of the reminder that with shelter from the cold and enough pocket change to “get me a couple tacos and some French fries,” life is beautiful.