The Walker

When you live in any community long enough, you become familiar with the less (?) fortunate who live among you.

Back in Maryland, there was a poor soul we called “the gimp” (sorry), whose real name may have been Jimmy. At one time we lived just down the street from where he lived with his parents. He could always be seen moving up and down the one main street, croaking out hellos to everyone he met. I think he’s gone now, but then so are we, in a geographical sense.

There were others, of course, like the fellow who used to spend his days sitting on the steps of the old Imperial Hotel before it was boutiquified and made into a showpiece establishment for visiting swells. He wasn’t crippled, just strange, and I never knew his name. But I used to tell my wife that maybe that was Jesus, because the one thing I remember most from Gospel readings in Sunday school was that he said we wouldn’t recognize him if he returned. (Funny how the fundamentalists seem to miss all that.) My favorite Leon Russell song of all time is all about this subject, too. The chorus goes something like, “Never treat a brother like a passing stranger, always try to keep the love light burning…(something-something-something) and watch his eyes, ’cause he might be the Prince of Peace returning, yes he might be the Prince of Peace returning.”

Meanwhile, here in Taos there are a lot of such individuals. Perhaps the almost perpetual sunshine and general attitude of tolerance enables their survival, or maybe New Mexico’s terribly underfunded social services mean we see more of these people than most folks do. The “cigarette lady” is dead now, though. And the “shouter” has been hanging out in a different neighborhood, so we haven’t seen him lately. But we almost always used to spy a certain younger man, rather heavy-set, wearing a backpack, walking mainly along the main street on the south side of town, talking to himself. I called him “the walker.” We might see him miles away, closer in to town, or down where we live, but he was as regular as the sun until the cold weather set in. Lately I haven’t noticed him.

But “the walker” has returned. We saw him yesterday, not far from his old haunts, bundled up in different clothes. He still looks slightly overweight and still carries a backpack. He trudges steadily onward, hands wrapped around his pack straps, leaning slightly forward, moving, always moving. I wonder where he sleeps at night and who gives him food. He doesn’t look unhappy, either.

Interesting, that (and no snarky comebacks).

On one level, America has to be one of the heaviest, least-inspiring places on the planet these days. On all the others, we’re just as capable of catching a glimpse of what’s behind the veil as anyone. Things are not as they seem and never have been.

I need reminding every day, don’t you?

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