"Getting my paycheck."
"Ah, it's payday!"
"No, it's get the check day.""What's that mean?"
I get the check ... pay the rent ... child support ... buy some groceries ... fill up the tank ... and I have $6 left."
"Ouch," I say.
"I bought the $6," he says pulling a crumpled fiver and a one from his jeans.
"That's way worse than 'OUCH'," I grimace.
"It's alright," he grins. "I have no idea how I still have $6."
Grabbing his check he rips the envelope open and stares at it for a long time.
Suddenly silence overwhelms the clinking glasses and plates ... the hiss of the dishwasher ... customers laughter ... and the shriek of a lady who can't wait for the women's restroom so she opens the men's only to find it is occupied.
"Alright man," he says making his sad little way, "I'll see you later."
"HEY!" I scream.
Turning he stares.
"Enjoy the Hell out of the child support!"
Flashing a lopsided grin he mumbles, "I will."
And those are the people who make Tybee Island work.
It's not the retirees, home owners, second home owners, commuters to Savannah or wherever, rental property managers, anyone elected to office, vacationers and it's certainly not the Clergy.
It is the small business owner and the bartenders, waitresses, dishwashers, lawn maintenance, musicians, trash collectors who make this island work.
The same ones who make this country work.
It's not the wealthy, elected or self-righteous.
It's Easter and it reminds me ... when Jesus came back ... he didn't draw attention to himself ... no bolts of lightning ... Press Conferences ... front page news or any of that.
He was mistaken for a gardener ... filthy straw hat and dirt under his fingernails.
On Sunday I'm dropping $6 bucks in the bucket to honor those who make this island work.
And to pray for the souls of those who never notice them.
