A Pilgrim’s Digression

I had two dreams Sunday morning. This is the first and the earliest of them. The other I posted under the title My Secret Garden.

In my dream, I am living in the tiny, rural town where Lynn and I spent the first years of our marriage. We are still living in the one-room apartment above our landlord’s garage.

In my dream, one sunny spring morning I go out walking into ‘downtown’ Warm Springs, Virginia; a downtown which consists of a small public library, a post office, a courthouse, and a Bed and Breakfast. Only this morning, there is a new building I notice, a restaurant. I go up to the door and see there is a cardboard sign on the door, such as beggars sometimes carry. The message that is handwritten on it, in a kind of pidgin language, says:

“Closed do to no mony can yu help me?”

The door is open and I go in. The sunlight slants through the large windows, catching dust in its light and making the room look old and forgotten. The room is empty and white, the tables white. On the tables are white sheets of paper with simple drawings on them: for example, one is a drawing of a plate with the basic outline of a chicken leg. Another sheet of paper has a drawing of two conical salt and pepper shakers; this one sits in the center of the table. Another sheet of paper, beside the plate, has a drawing of a water glass.

As I look at all of this, from a back room comes a man I saw in Parkersburg, West Virginia, this weekend. He is crippled, his back and legs cruelly twisted. In real life, I saw him trying to walk in the crosswalk at Wal Mart, but cars were not stopping for him. My wife said to me, “Should you help him cross the street?” I did not reply, though I felt strongly I ought to help him, and so we crossed over and walked to our car. I said to myself, “Someone else will surely help him. A car will stop.”

Back in my dream, the crippled man shuffles from a back room into the white emptiness of the restaurant. I think to myself that he reminds me of the Elephant Man.

In the slurred drawl of the mentally retarded, he says, “Did you come to help me?”

I say, “If I can. What is wrong?”

He says, “The bank gave me a loan for this restaurant and now the money is gone.”

I am horrified. What bank officer would be so cutthroat as to loan money to this man? I think to myself, Robbers! and then, What does he expect me to do? Why did I even come in to this restaurant? Now what do I do?

I say, “Don’t you have any food to serve?”

The man gestures at the drawings on the table. He says, “It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”

I say, “We could use some ketchup at home.”

The man shuffles over to a table where he picks up a drawing of a bottle of Heinz Ketchup. He hands it to me. I open my wallet. I have only a five dollar bill. I give it to him guiltily, feeling it is not enough. He grins happily, nodding. “Thank you, thank you so much, and bless you, Sir.”

I blush. I have done nothing. Nothing. I fold my ketchup and put it in my pocket. I bid him goodbye and leave in a conflicted, depressed mood. The sunny spring day is gone, replaced by heavy clouds. The first drops of rain spatter against my bald head and run down my forehead into my eyes. I hunch my shoulders and look down at the ground as I begin the walk home. Patters of rain splash muddy dust onto my boots.

Cut. End scene.