The Mohawk Man

 

Being a creature of habit, I take the same route to work every day and it takes me to the same bus stop at the same intersection twice a day. For several weeks in June, I saw The Mohawk Man at the bus stop each morning and evening. He was tall and muscular with a finely chiseled face, always dressed in the same clothes – black nylon sweat pants and matching jacket over a bright red strappy t shirt and high tops – in the morning he would usually be stretched out on his side on the bench, head and shoulders resting on his backpack, high tops crossed at the ankles. In the evening though he was upright, meager possessions spread out on the bench for inspection, just part of the landscape. Sometimes he wore a red and black headband across his forehead. Except for the mohawk and the long braid, his head was shaved and tanned on both sides. A piece of cardboard was propped up against the bench. “God is good,” the hand lettered first line read, then “Able To Work” on the second, and finally “Be Kind To The Homeless” at the bottom. I was (selfishly) curious and captivated and I couldn’t help but think about what a great subject he would be for a portrait. I wondered what his story was, where he showered, was he actually homeless, where did he go to relieve himself, did he work, did he have family, what did he think about as he spent long hot days and nights on a bench at a bus stop. Before I could work out how best to approach him though, it was July and he disappeared. Maybe he just changed bus stops like you might change a room, I thought. Maybe he moved on or found work. Maybe he was in jail or worse. I didn’t much like the possibility that I would never know but there it was. At this particular bus stop, the tenants change pretty regularly, there one day and gone the next.

The closest I ever came to homelessness was a few short months spent in a poorly heated garage with a camp shower, a sink, a commode and a black cat named Magic. We had come all the way from New England in just a few short days, leaving my husband to sell our mountain top cabin, pack up the remaining animals and belongings and join us. The cat and I ate fast food twice a day, slept in a sleeping bag and listened to a small and tinny portable radio at night. There was no cell phone or computer or cable. It might not have been much but looking back, it was sure as hell better than a bench at a bus stop in 100 degree heat.

I have an idea it takes a special kind of strength to be homeless and live on the streets.

A Possum Tale

 

Hands down, it was the best imitation of death I’ve ever seen.

The dogs were barking frantically which they never do unless they find an intruder in the yard and when I went out to quiet them, I discovered what they’d discovered – a possum, dead as a door nail, you’d have sworn – lying on it’s side with its tail curled and it’s tongue hanging out. The dogs approached with a mix of fascination and fear, barking wildly and loudly, but being careful not to get too close to the corpse. It was barely seven in the morning and they were unwilling to leave their find. After several minutes of threats and calling and coaxing, I had to carry them both- very reluctantly- back inside. Clearly, they’d found a prize and didn’t want to leave it. After another several minutes, the possum stirred, raised it’s snout and looked around as if assessing the danger, then got to its feet and casually ambled off and out of sight. When I was sure he’d had time to climb the fence or tunnel out or do whatever possums do to come and go, I let the dogs out again. They spent some serious time in search of the curious creature but eventually got distracted and gave up the hunt.

To be sure, a possum is not one of God’s more beautiful creations but it does no harm and its passive nature of playing dead appeals to my own non-confrontational nature. I often wish I myself could just play dead until the danger passes.