Having Been Dealt a Bad Hand

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Mom and I were walking down the steps of the First Presbyterian. I was about twelve at the time.

“I don’t get it, Mom. Pastor Fred’s always talking about being kind to people. But the first thing the kids do when they leave church is throw rocks at the geese around the lake, and when they get to 7-Eleven, they’re always so nasty to that bum who hangs around there.”

“That bum is a lost soul, Richie.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I really can’t explain it, so why don’t you go and talk too him? I really don’t think he’ll bite.”

Nothing ever fazed my mom. She was always so brave. Especially after Dad left.

I stopped at 7-Eleven the next day after all the other kids left.

The guy, with a long, scraggily beard, was sitting on a log next to two scruffy-looking dogs, sipping from a green beer bottle. He was wearing a John Deere cap, a red flannel shirt, blue jeans, and boots. He – and his clothes – all looked faded and old and raggedy.

I stepped up to him and said, “Excuse me, sir … uh … how’re’ya doin’ today?”

He glared at me. “Why d’ya wanna know?”

“I guess I’m wondering … I don’t know … I’m trying to figure out why the kids are always so mean to you …”

He laughed, then coughed. Some of his teeth were missing.

“… and because of what my mom said … that you were ‘a lost soul.’”

“Well that’s for darn sure.” He laughed-coughed again, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

After he got his breath, he asked, “And you really wanna know?”

“Yes, mister.”

“Okay, then. You look like you’re old enough to go to Skinner Junior High, right?”

“Yes, but it’s called a middle school.”

“Well, twenty years back, you might’ve been in one of my classes at Lakeside High.”

“Wait … you were a teacher?”

“I sure was. I taught English. Literature. Writing. Even had a couple of honors classes.”

“And … what happened?”

“Well, I started teaching some books that weren’t in the curriculum. The curriculum, by the way, is what a teacher is supposed to be teaching. And that made the principal really angry.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I waited as he swallowed from the bottle, belched, and went on.

“Well, after that it got rough. I’d already been smoking some weed, and drinking some. Well, maybe more than some. And it got even worse. I started coming to school late. Falling asleep at my desk. Sometimes missing a couple of days in a row. But that wasn’t even the whole story. Some people started saying I was mentally ill, uncontrollable, maybe violent. That I was – get this – a menace. And they didn’t want anyone like me anywhere near their precious children.”

“So what did you do?”

“What could I do? If you really want the truth, I was pretty far gone by then. I tried to stop drinking. Tried to stop taking drugs. Tried to get help. But I didn’t want to … I just couldn’t! … go to a hospital. I had to take care of my mother. And you have to remember … I never, ever! hurt anyone. That is, anyone else besides myself.”

“And you said that was going on twenty years ago?”

“Yes it was. And you see I’m still around. I’m still living right outside of town, in a cabin up in the woods with my boys here, Orwell and Huxley. Right boys?”

The dogs lifted their heads, and he scratched their ears and under their necks.

“It was the house I grew up in, where I used to live with my mother until she passed away. Lung cancer, if you have to know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. But thank you. Not many people stop to talk to me these days or even look at me. I know they think I’m just a bum, a wino, a boozer, especially after what happened in that high school years ago. One thing, though, about people who hate, people who don’t understand … they have long memories. They never forget anything. And with them, you can never catch a break.

“And look kid, I also know how I look. I’m not blind. And also what I probably smell like to them. But I’m just too tired and beat to care anymore.”

“That sounds real sad, mister.”

“Oh, whatever. I probably bent your ear too much already. And I’ve gotta get going.”

With that, he look wobbly when he stood up and brushed himself off. His dogs also stood and shook themselves. And he started walking off.

But then he looked back and said, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, sure … maybe,” and I felt a tear in my eye. It was all so sad.

And Mom was probably right.

Maybe he was a lost soul.

Rev 8 / December 22, 2023

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December 25, 2023 … Copyright © 2023, Lloyd B. Abrams