PLEASE MEET FRANCIS:
I’d long avoided the scary shack in the woods near the path. It kind of whispered, “Keep walking.” Like a dark prop from The Wizard of Oz. There was a smoky campfire and contorted junk. A large man with boxing gloves pounded a punching bag that swung from a limb. Sweat ran from his face. His bald head steamed in the cold air. His tattooed body moved with agility and absurdity. As I passed, he would peer though the smoke. Coal eyes and a deadpan look. Yep, just walking here. Think I’ll just keep on walking…
A frail old man lived nearby under a tarp. Sickly, with a handlebar mustache. He liked warm soup and Spam. We talked as the boxer appeared from nowhere. His coal eyes now two feet away. I fumbled. “Ahem, I brought your friend some food.” He looked cautiously at the food, then at the old man, who nodded affirmatively. Then at me. At this point I was pondering escape routes when he said, “God will bless you for taking care of my friend.” I asked if he would like some too. “No thank you. Please give the rest to my friend.” I relaxed, noticing that, without changing expressions, his expression changed from bogeyman to large curious child. “Uncle Francis watches over us.” the older man explained.
I got to know Francis. A notorious fellow with a reputation and a rap sheet. He came here alone from Samoa at age 14. With no family, he took to trouble. Drugs, fighting, guns, prison. He worked on a fishing boat. “But I got fired for hitting a man with a fish.” “A fish?” I asked. “It was a big fish. He deserved it. But I forgave him.” I laughed and tossed another log on the fire. I asked if he needed anything. “Just prayers.” he answered quietly.
Francis was devastated by his mother’s death. A dispute between them went un-reconciled. Francis became depressed, but deeply spiritual. “I’m not a bad man. I’m a good man. People hear only bad things. I get angry when people are disrespectful. But I always reconcile with them.” A scuffle last year left Francis with three bullet wounds. “I forgave the man.” he said.
To know Francis we cannot keep walking. We must stop and look beyond the rumors and reputations. One must talk with Francis. Sit with him. Get smoke in your hair and eyes. Talk about life. Talk with his neighbors who love him. They say they feel safer with Francis nearby. “King of the Jungle” some call him. I once visited Francis in jail. He cried as I left. “I pray for you always my friend,” he said.
Beacon Hill Neighborhood | Damian
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