Paydirt?
I was walking to the neighborhood Thai joint on a 94-degree Wednesday afternoon when I saw Mark on his sidewalk. I detoured for a chat. After the conversation with the staffer from Central City Concern, I now had a plan to transport Mark downtown to an actual place to receive an assessment. We just might hit paydirt, and if you don't know what paydirt means, look it up. It's something very good. Hitting paydirt involves scoring in a certain brutal competitive sport. Such scoring might lead to victory. I want such a victory for Mark.
Donny was passed out on the concrete in such a a manner that he looked like he was lying in state. Mark was malt liquoring. I mentioned to him that I'd read “The Bottle Imp” and didn't care for it. He was disappointed and defended the story. But at least, we both agreed, the ending turned out well for the couple in love.
I updated Mark on my wanderings in the bureaucratic abyss. I told him I finally had nailed down a place to take him for an assessment. Was he still up for it? He was. Even more so.
Sean emerged from around the corner holding two leaf bags of cans and two cans of malt liquor. I gave him the lowdown on the abyss and the assessment and asked if wanted to join us for the trip downtown. He did. He thought the experience might education him and that education might come in handy later.
I asked Mark about the box of chocolates I'd given him a few days ago. He laughed an impish laugh. I could tell he was dying to tell me a story connected to it.
Mark informed me he'd shared the candy with a homeless woman he occasionally cuddles with on the sidewalk and the gesture somewhat led to him sucking her nipples the previous night! Paydirt!
I said:
What the hell? You plied her with chocolates!?!? You cad!
Yes. It was nice.
You probably picked some flowers for her, too! Like it was 1977!
Mark laughed. Sean laughed. According to Mark, the woman was beautiful and not beautiful at the same time. That sounded like a great line for some kind of country song about a homeless man. I suppose cowboys don't write songs like that today. Hobos and carousing blues men used to.
It felt great to laugh about what happened with a box of chocolates. It was so much better and truer than the boxes in Forest Gump.
It was time to go. I reiterated to Mark that the trip might amount to a total bust. He might not qualify for any placement. He said he didn't care. We had to try.
Yes, we did. I told him we were going next week.