Louie

My Dad drives the city bus.  He started 30 some years ago and has strung together quite the network of acquaintances along the way.  The good, the bad and the ugly use the bus to get around and he likes to consider all of them friends.  The rest of us consider a few of them friends, some of them a little…off, and the rest…crazy.

There is one guy in particular that falls at the tail end of that last sentence.  His name is Louis.  He walks around our neighborhood, probably in a mile or two radius, carrying a rosary, smoking hand rolled cigarettes.  “Louie” has been doing this for years.  I remember being deathly afraid of him when I was younger and now, however many years later, I don’t feel much better about him.

About a month ago, he stopped by the house while I was home alone. I peeked out the window when the door bell rang and chose not to answer the door.  He continued to knock, and then pound, on the door.  I called my Dad’s cell phone and informed him that his “friend” was at the house, acting a little crazy, and I would appreciate if he would come home.  He did.  I watched the exchange between them.  Louie handed my Dad a small piece of junk, looked like a part from a machine. Later, I find out that Louie believed the part to have fallen off of my Dad’s lawn mower, he wanted to return it.

Two weeks later, I was outside with the dogs and Louie snuck up on me.  I didn’t have time to duck into the house when he started announcing his apologies for the “incident” a while back.  Elvis and Riggs weren’t having it, probably sensing my distrust and barked in agreement with me.  So, I used that as an excuse to get into the house.  But not before I accepted his apology, and a handshake.  This was as close as I had ever been to him, and couldn’t help but notice his leathery, dark skin, frayed long, blackish-grey hair pulled back in a pony tail and very, very blue eyes.  A totally different view than out the window, across the street, or glancing as we drive by.

Over the last week or so, Louie has stopped by the house while I hang out with the dogs in the yard.  It’s hard to avoid him as he walks every day, almost all day and just happens to be around.  It’s almost magical.  In a crazy, mentally unhealthy kind of way.

The dogs and I have been working on not barking at people while they walk by the fence.  And naturally, Louie has now made friends with dogs.  Elvis usually sees him coming before I do and starts to wag his tail slowly.  It’s like, “hey, Ma, here comes that crazy guy, he’s awesome!”  Louie calls Riggs “The Fancy One” and Elvis, “The Big One”.  He’s never asked their names, and that’s okay with me.  My Dad has been having some health problems lately so he always opens with, “How’s Pa?”

From there, he launches into any subject that pops into his head at the time, not lingering there for more than a minute or two before moving on to something else.  It’s painful to have a conversation, so I just listen instead. He’s clearly full of an immense amount of knowledge.  He has five kids that he’s estranged from, he was married.  He owns a car that is packed full of books, papers, junk. He can hardly see out the windows.  The rear shocks are gone so the car almost drags on the ground.  And, as far as I know, that’s all he owns.  His car and junk.  And reading materials.

Two days ago, I was listening, he was chatting while sitting cross legged on the cement sidewalk, rubbing Elvis through the fence.  Somewhere in the conversation I slipped in that we were moving to a new house. He didn’t really answer, which wasn’t abnormal.  I listened.  He talked.  Rosary in hand, blowing the smoke from his cigarette away from my face.  He talked and I listened.  This went on for about 30 minutes.  At the end of the “conversation” he stated, “Well, I’ve leave you alone, it’s hot and you’ve been listening patiently for a long time.  Remember to be thankful for your house.”  And off he went.

I agree with Crazy Louie. We are so thankful for our house, and the next step.