The Journeys of Markus L’Évangelie

                I sit in my usual spot; the chair in the corner by the biographies. The library is full of patrons today. The front desk staff must be really busy tonight. I do my best not to be noticed here. Vagabonds and nomads don’t get treated too kindly, ‘cept by our Lord Jesus. He’s always been there for me. A small child glares at me while her mother stares at me with a shocked look on her face. I pretend to sleep; it works well for deterring such unkindly faces.

I end up actually drifting into sleep. I am just so tired these days; the arthritis in my leg makes my lifestyle more difficult than it used to be. I awaken to the sound of a baby crying. The authoritative evening announcement booms on the library’s intercom: “May I have your attention please. The library is closing in thirty minutes. Cleanup of the library is now in progress. Any books left on the tables will be removed. Thank you”. I gather up my books and get out of the chair. As I head for the front door, I take a look at the busy patrons sitting at the tables. There are schoolchildren studying for tests, mothers reading to their toddlers, and a woman that appears very intent on speaking French in an English speaking public library. Her accent isn’t very developed, maybe she just started speaking.

The comical sight of this middle aged woman just beginning to speak French lapses my memory to my childhood. My mother, a native of Louisiana, is speaking fluent French to me. I absorb this language like a sponge, and to this day, I’m sure I could speak better French than that crazy lady trying to speak French.

               Making my way towards the door, I leave the French speaking woman behind. As I reach out to open the large glass door, the rude woman and her snarling child dash ahead of me. The child drops a book and pauses in front of me for a moment. I look at the reflection if this little child with me behind her in the reflection of the glass door. It looks rather absurd, my large, dark figure against her tiny pale one. I was once a small, robust child. Now I am a large black figure that fades into the background. The barely audible elevator music, that’s me.

              The mother of the small child dashes forward, grabs the book off the floor, and whisks the child out the door. I shuffle out the door and onto the pavement. The cool evening air is just settling in. I catch a small glint in the corner of my eye. There is a piece of paper lying on the pavement with a message scrawled across it haphazardly. It reads: “3507 Chase Street call 410 685 9980 ask for Edwin”. My interest is piqued at this strange little note. Was the person who dropped this looking for work? Is this a drug dealer’s number? Even though I don’t have a telephone or electricity, I am really curious to know what this paper is about. There are still pay phones in existence, right? I put the piece of paper into my pocket. I’ll call the number tomorrow. Tonight I am tired and sore.

              I start walking down Frederick Road. The street lamps light up the sides of the road in two parallel lines. The interesting thing about parallel lines is they never meet. Two people could live right next to each other and never meet, so long as they were parallel. Thinking about parallel lines starts to depress me, so I decide to focus on something else. The grit of the concrete makes a small scraping sound under my feet. I’m glad I got new shoes because those old ones had such holes in them that the concrete grit scraped along the bottoms of my feet and gave me blisters.

             A small framed black man walks past me. He’s wearing a brown collared shirt and torn, faded blue jeans; his hair in an unkempt afro. He is wearing a dirty, old backpack. “Hey man, d’ya have a light?” he asks me in a quiet, deep voice. “No, sorry, but do you happen to have a piece of paper and a pen?” I respond in a well meaning voice. The young man smiles slightly, then removes his backpack and pulls out a bent black notebook. The front of the notebook has “Spiritual Healing Seminar 2003” printed in gold letters across the front. The man tears out a few pieces of paper and hands them to me, along with a pen from the front of his backpack. “Here. Take these. Oh, my name’s Damien. Good luck, man.” Damien smiles at me. His teeth are extremely crooked; his front teeth gapped and overlapping. His notebook intrigues me. I wonder what this Damien fellow knows about our lord and savior Jesus. “Markus L’Evangelie’s my name. Thank you kindly Damien, may Jesus keep you safe.” I say in my most polite tone manageable.

            I wave at Damien and continue my walk to my place. I turn at the small bridge where Frederick Road becomes Main Street. There are a few high heeled women sauntering on the bridge footpath. I keep to the side of the road near the tall grass. I look for the path leading under the bridge. It is small and shadowed by the long, uncut grass. The path leads down under the bridge. My large blue tarp and plastic storage bin are on the farthest side away from the Patapsco River. I have a small fire ring a few paces away. It took me a while to master how to start a fire, but now I can start one in any kind of weather. I have an old down coat that I use to keep warm when it’s really cold, but during the summer I use it as a pillow. This is my place.

            Over my pillow, on the wall of the bridge support, I have a wooden crucifix of Jesus. I say my evening prayers and Hail Marys before laying my weary head on my coat pillow. I am tired and my muscles are sore. The scent of the night sinks into my senses and lulls me to sleep.