by Donald Felipe

I sat outside with Joe on the patio of the Kalico Kitchen in Paradise, our customary lunch place in those days. The sun shone brightly that day, and, as I recall, we were waiting for our lunch, sitting in the metal chairs under an umbrella at a white, plastic table anchored by a heavy metal stand. The patio is set above a sidewalk running along a fairly busy street, two lanes in each direction.  But ‘busy’ must be understood in the context of this sleepy, Northern California retirement community.  The steady rumble of older cars and trucks is mellowed by the towering pines and the slow pace of the locals, young and old. And most of the locals in this restaurant are older and commonly dressed. 

On this day I was in a normal visiting-Joe kind of mood, and doing normal visiting-Joe kind of things: I was day-dreaming and basking in the sun. I don’t remember what I was dreaming or thinking about, but I do remember that my dreams and thoughts seemed particularly important. I did not want anyone to bother me, especially slow-moving locals, which included elderly patrons at the restaurant, waitresses and waiters, or anybody else. I occasionally had to attend to Joe in ‘listening mode’, but for the most part Joe was entirely occupied with his friends. He had important business of his own. So, most of the time he kept to himself, mumbling, smiling. 

I could not help but notice two scruffy young boys walking in our direction on the sidewalk. They were walking toward me. Joe was facing me and could not see them at first. The very sight of them made me uncomfortable. They looked like they had not bathed in a few days, wearing old tee-shirts, ratty jeans, marching in a cocky strut. As they approached I turned my gaze, trying not to make eye contact. They were walking along at a quick pace. I expected them to pass by without a glance or a word. And it seemed that that is just what they would do. They came around a bend and passed directly in front of us, in a place where Joe could see them. 

Suddenly the boy closest to us turned his head and spoke up in an almost irreverent tone not breaking his stride,

“Hey, do you know where MacDonald’s is?”

The question startled me. I shifted my glance to the boy and smiled, as if to say that I did not know. His demeanor was not aggressive. I would describe it as curious and confident. But he and his partner did not slow their pace in the slightest after the quick question. They walked as if they knew exactly where they were going and had no time for conversation. And yet he was asking for directions. The street they were walking along, the Skyway, ran for about two or three miles through the town of Paradise—this was not an urban area where shops and restaurants are congregated in one place. There was a Burger King around the corner, but MacDonald’s was on the other side of town a mile or so away. Didn’t these scruffy, local boys know that? Or were they visitors who just looked like they belonged there? At the very least they were in a hurry and confused and not worth my attention. Why bother trying to explain to these two rugrats, who did not have the courtesy to slow down to ask a question? Not that I wanted them to slow down. 

They were just a few steps from losing interest in us entirely, bounding off to their unknown destination when Joe spoke up.

“MacDonald’s is on the other street,” Joe said in a clearly articulated sentence.

The boys still did not slow down. But the boy who asked the question looked at Joe with some interest. Joe wanted to help him, and he seemed to acknowledge that.

“It’s on the other street,” Joe repeated. “The street is on the other side of town,” he said, pointing in another direction. 

The boys kept walking, but the one boy continued looking at Joe.

“You are on the wrong street,” Joe said again.

The boy gave Joe a little smile and a curious look, as if he thought for a moment that Joe could help him. Then his expression turned blank. Did Joe’s appearance turn him off? Whatever the boy was thinking, it did not slow his pace. He turned his head and kept moving with his friend marching in step..

As the two boys moved away from us, their eyes fixed ahead, Joe’s face softened with concern and then transformed. His eyes grew large with compassion, as if he were about to cry. He uprighted himself, as if he were going to get up out of his chair. Then he extended his arm and motioned his hand in a gentle wave.

“Good luck to you now,” he said tenderly.

“Good luck to you.”

POSTSCRIPT

Oh dear brother, I did not see you in the faces of these boys, so poor, so pitiful, so impulsive. They did not concern me, because I did not want them to. 

Were they really searching for MacDonald’s? 

I never forgot that day, my brother’s eyes and his extended hand. I never forgot the way he said, “Good luck to you.” Was it you, my brother, showing me how to reach my destination? Did you show your face to me once again? Do you tenderly wave to my back as I walk away from you, loving me in every step? Does your heart ache and plead for me as I march off? Do you utter sweetly to me, “Good luck to you”?

Did I walk away from you that afternoon as those boys walked away from us? 

And how do I appear to the heavenly gathering? Dirty and unseemly with a cocky strut, confident yet curious, do I ask questions without the patience and courtesy to stop and address you? Do I move swiftly with purpose as if I know where I am going, while I am asking for directions?

And how many times, my Lord, have you taken pity on me and waved to my back wishing me well?

“Good luck to you,” you say most exquisitely, piercing the veil of space and time with Love. 

But I do not hear you, because I am not listening.  I am so certain I know where to go.

Note: written around 2013