Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Sailing Home

Sitting in the Soho Cafe on Liberty Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia I'm listening to a business proposition. It appears I have another opportunity. At the same time, part of my brain is tip-toeing through the past. I've had many a lunch and several dinners at Soho, a funky art/deco place with really good food. Back when we started the Starfish Cafe, a culinary arts training program for homeless people, I kept trying to pattern the ambiance after Soho. When Sarah came home, it's hte first place I took her and instructed ... "Do this." A parade of friends march through my mind that I ate there with ... Keller Deal, Mary Ann Beil, the leadership staff of Union Mission, Herb McKenzie and his wife Joan, countless visitors from other cities, and ... more than anyone else, my dear friend Stacy Jennings. Savannah is warm and pleasant. Tybee Island, where I live, is sunny but has a cold wind coming from the west. Wearing my Bar Church tee shirt ("Where wenches sing Hymns"), faded blue jeans and Bob Marley flip-flops ... I am the epitome of business. My hair is back in a pony tail and it's all longer now than when I was in High School. I have a tan while the rest of the white people there seem ... well ... really white. My lunch companion is smartly dressed. A red business dress with creases, perfect hair, glasses ... she also has notes that she's speaking to me off of ... and hand outs. Like I did when I was at Groves High School, I pretend to study them. Back on island, I'll spend serious time pouring over them. There are several people in Soho who I recognize and they recognize me ... but are too busy with their own lunch conversations to pay me any attention. In days gone by, they flocked to my table ... "Hey Mike! Can you do this for me?" ... "My son's in need of serious treatment from cocaine." ... "My daughter is depressed and Georgia Regional won't do anything. Can you help?" ... "My wife tried to kill herself. Can you ..." It was a world without ceasing ... until it ceased. Nibbling at my Cuban Panini with chips, I take a sip of Chardonnay and suddenly feel like the place is haunted. The ghosts of things that used to be seem everywhere. I'm no longer who I used to be. Truth be told, I hung around far too long for who I used to be. I was stuck and scared to make the change I wanted ... so the change made itself ... leaving me behind. Stretching my arms behind my head, I pull the holder out and shake my long hair while staring at my finely dressed lunch companion with the next great idea. Reaching a bare foot under the table, I try to locate my flip-flops. I make a mental note to call Stacy for lunch. Folding up the hand outs, I stick them in the back pocket of my jeans remembering when I used to put such things in a brief case or a coat pocket. I re-do my pony tail. People who used to ask me for things leave without speaking. Standing up, we shake hands and I promise I'll be in touch. Back in the Savannah sunshine, a homeless man passes me with a flicker of hope in his eyes. Perhaps I'll share some change. Then his eyes grow wide and he stops dead in his tracks. "Mike," he says out loud. I stop, turn and hug him. As he starts to talk, I press my index finger to his lips. "Sshhhuuu," I exhale. "Don't tell anybody." He grins as though we're sharing the deepest of secrets and hugs me back. At the car, I put the top down, crank up the Beach Boys, grab a pen and write the letter "S" on the back of my hand for Stacy ... then I sail home.