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STORY BY ROBERT EDWARDS:
As I stepped off the bus at 3:45 AM,
the cold, wet coastal air stung my face.
I inhaled deeply. Freedom !
For years, I'd yearned to smell the sea air of my home city.
There was nothing open but a twenty four hour restaurant a mile down the road. I had no money. The manila envelope in my hand held all my worldly possessions. Tucking the envelope under my arm and thrusting my hands deep into my pockets to keep them warm, I started walking. Maybe I could wait out a night in the restaurant's foyer before being run away as a vagrant.
By the time I got there, my clothes were damp with dew, and I sat shivering on the bench in the entryway. I thought of what the morning would bring. Would my ex-wife let me see my son? Would I get any support from my family? Should I go find my old crew? No, I thought, thats what got me sent up in the first place. It wasn't going to be easy, but this time I would try to make it on my own.
The waitress inside the restaurant kept looking at me through the inner door. Finally she opened it. I felt sure I was about to be booted out, but instead she smiled politely and said, "Sir, there's a gentleman inside who says that, if you'd like some breakfast, he's buying."
I was instantly suspicious. But it was also an opportunity to stay inside until sunrise. "Sure," I said, and I stood and followed her to the booth where the man was sitting.
I took a seat across from him, and he smiled and shook my hand. While the waitress went to get my coffee, I said, "Look, dude, I'm gonna tell you right now, if you're looking for some action, you're looking in the wrong place. I don't play that shit."
He chuckled softly and said, "I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I don't want anything. I saw you walk by the window all hunched over, and when you didn't come in, I figured you could use some grub, or coffee, at least. Order anything you want. No strings attached, OK? My name's Steve."
Reaching out to shake his hand again, I said, "I'm Rob."
Then I took the menu and ordered an especially large breakfast, so that, if he left, I'd still have some food on the table and be able to stay until I finished.
I noticed the faded US Marine Corps tattoo on Steve's forearm and asked if he'd been in long. It turned out he'd served in Vietnam at the same time as my father. We talked about our children. Finally I admitted that I'd just got back into town after doing some time, and everything I owned was on my back or in the envelope on the table.
"Listen," Steve said, "why don't you let me get you a room for a couple of days?"
"No way," I said. Why was this guy doing this? "Whats your trip?" I asked him.
"There was a time when I was in a situation like yours," Steve said, "and someone helped me out. I wanted to pay him back, but all he said to me was 'if sometime in the future you can help someone who is down and out, then do it.' Simple as that."
I was moved by Steve's story, but I
didn't take the room he offered. That was twenty two years ago. I
never got my son back. Life on its own terms proved too much for
me. I'm back in prison, this time on Death Row.
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