Lunch with a Carpenter at Taco Bell

At Taco Bell for lunch. Saw the same transient- a regular- sitting at an outside dining table. Wearing a dirty cap, worn and soiled clothes, eating lunch placidly, a bike-and-trailer unit parked curbside.

He’d eat a few bites, then stop and pick something disagreeable out of his meal, or spit on the sidewalk, doing nothing good for my appetite.

For some reason, I felt compelled to speak with him.

“That’s quite a rig you’ve got there,” I said, pointing to his conveyance.

“Excuse me?” he said, and I repeated the question.

“Oh yeah.”

“Is that a wheelchair?” I said, looking closer.

“No. That’s a gurney. I got it from a mortuary.”

I squatted for a better look, noticing the pistons and other hardware one sees on a complex lifting system.

“Yep. It lays down flat like a bed.”

“Amazing. That’s gotta be better than sleeping on the ground.”

I hoped I wasn’t sounding condescending.

“That’s for sure.”

He was an agreeable fellow, and seemed free of bitterness or signs of mental illness, unlike my last encounter with a Man of the Streets. He told me the VA paid for the gurney, and that he was a Vet.

“Vietnam?”

“Yep. Three years.”

That’s when I noticed the military insignia on his cap.

“And you got wounded?”

“Yeah. A piece of shrapnel.”

I asked what kind of work he did.

“Finish carpenter.”

At that, I took a seat across the table.

“Ya know, I’d rather do that any day than sit at a desk like I do.”

“But it’s a job…”

“Yeah, but building things is so much more satisfying,” to which he nodded.

“So, when’s the last time you worked?”

“Been a while. Got hurt on the job. Fell and broke both ankles. I was up two stories and the ladder just buckled on me. Brand-new and it buckled. I didn’t roll, just landed on my feet and broke both ankles.”

“So, where do you keep your tools?”

“I don’t. Gotta start all over.”

“Hammer, saw, miter box- just the basics is all you need for finish work, right?”

“And a portable table saw. Not a whole lotta work, though. Unions are hard to get work from, and foreigners took all the rest of the jobs.”

But he didn’t sound bitter or angry- just accepting of things the way they are.

“Well, I gotta go back to my desk job.”

I extended my hand, his feeling warm and dirty. But I didn’t care.

“I’m Dan. Good to meet you.”

“So am I,” he said. “That’s a good name, isn’t it?”

I walked to my car, wondering how I could have been so wrong about a person- and in every way.

Comments and questions are required welcomed. Ask me anything about memoirs, journaling or personal histories.