“It's Going Global”
Donnie from the Old Crow Book Club was standing outside the grocery store selling the newspaper advocating for the homeless. Three weeks of sobriety had done wonders for his appearance and a summer tan and a striped dress shirt added a special dash of panache. The man definitely has a new mojo going on.
I was on my bicycle and stopped to purchase a copy of the newspaper. He told me he wanted to read another book of mine and I promised I'd rustle one up. But which one?
A man appeared to my right. He carried a skateboard and had no teeth. His face was creased. He wore a faded red ball cap with Chevy emblazoned across the bill. He exuded a definite homeless vibe and I couldn't begin to guess his age.
Donnie introduced him as ****. Donnie told **** that I was the author of The Old Crow Book Club. **** hopped a bit in the air and did a little jig. For the next five minutes he riffed. Here's what I recall.
He loved the book!
It was fucking awesome.
He'd read it three fucking times!
He said I'd got it fucking right, brother!
It was the only book he read.
It was going to be huge.
It was going global.(What? Not viral?)
His friends in Idaho wanted copies!
He'd been homeless in the neighborhood for almost 25 years. September 17th would be his 25th anniversary.
He had a job helping out a cabinet maker in the neighborhood.
He drank alcohol and smoked pot. Never touched the hard shit.
He didn't steal or trespass.
He had a story to write but didn't want to use his name.
(I asked him I could write about him, promising anonymity. He said no but here I am. When a homeless man in your neighborhood reads your book about the homeless people in his neighborhood—three times!--and hops in the air and does a little jig when he meets you, well, damn right you are going to write about it!
**** stopped riffing. I asked how he knew my book was going global. He looked at me as if I'd asked the dumbest question in the world.
“I believe you,” I said.
“You should, brother.”
I gave him three bucks as a donation for improving my mental health. He initially refused but I kept insisting.
“Take the money, you son-of-a-bitch!” I roared.
He laughed and took the money. I bicycled away in absolute bliss. There is nothing like riding a bike when you are happy. You never ride in a straight line.
Man that was rewarding to read! Both for the story and for the way you shared it all with us.