Mr. Bag-a-Rags

     On my bi-weekly run to Boston I’d get out of that town ASAP and head for my home base in Wheeling, West Virginia. There was a good place to take a nap, get up and pig out at a restaurant that was atypical of New England and the East Coast eateries. It was called simply “DINER.” Located off the first exit past the Poughkeepsie, New York bridge that crossed the Hudson River on I 87, it had ample parking for tractor trailers in the back lot. I always noticed there was never anyone parked by the abandoned container trailer (all metal for overseas shipping) in the left-hand corner. On that day there was only one spot left and—you guessed it—that spot was empty. I pulled in so I could have the sun to my back, dove into the sleeper and damn near passed out; I was that whipped.

     After about three hours an urgent nature call woke me. Truckers have two, outdoor urinals complete with privacy at their disposal, so I got up and stood between the fuel tank and the front of the trailer and … relieved myself. We call that “hosing down our tires” but that’s another tale altogether I heard a noise and found I was face-to-face with the ugliest, dirtiest and most frightening man I’d ever seen, and he just stared at me. His hair was long and dirty, a beard and clothed in an outfit that the Salvation Army would refuse. Needless to say, I zipped up and went into the restaurant at almost a dead run. Sitting at the counter, I asked my waitress if the boss, a Mr. Jim Lambros, was there and could I talk to him. I’d talked friendly with him before, so he came and stood opposite me.

     “What can I do for you, Tommy?”

     “Well,” I said as I stirred my coffee. “I just got the shit scared out of me out back. Do you know what’s there?”

     Immediately a smile came to his face and then he started to laugh. He looked over at the other drivers at the counter and said,

     “Gentlemen. The newbie just met Mr. Bag-a-Rags,” to which the whole place busted out laughing. Everyone but me. When it calmed down Mr. Lambros poured himself a coffee and said to follow him to a booth. We sat there, talking mano-el-mano stuff and then he clues me in. Seems a homeless man that nobody local knew had set up camp inside that trailer about three years ago. Jimmy felt sorry for the poor guy and would take him back scraps to eat from time to time. Some of the other drivers would take him a meal to go once in a while. Yet, I was confused.

     “Jimmy,” I called him because on the East Coast everybody’s name ended in a “y”. I don’t care if your name was Alphonso, you were called Alphonsoy.

     “Don’t this dude bother you?”

     “Nah. He don’t bother nobody but you was pissin’ on his property—ya’ know what I’m saying here?” and then he started to laugh again. Like one of those belly laughs. Even I started to crack up when I saw the humor in this situation. He continued.

     “You see, Tommy, the man’s down on his luck and my savior, Jesus Christ, commands me to help him out. I’m doing okay with this place and it don’t hurt to share some with him. It’s the least I can do. Besides, the guy ain’t right in the head so we feel sorry for him.”

     I totally agreed with him and after I had my meal of baked steak, mashed potatoes smothered with rich, beef gravy I took a spaghetti dinner to go. I walked—quickly, now mind you—to the back of his “abode” and left the styrofoam container at his doorstep, then I hit the road. I ran that route for two more years till I got bumped off my bid, and I fed the man twice a week. I’m grateful for that experience because no amount of church teaching or Billy Graham’s bible-banging ever made an impression on me about charity like Mr. Rags did.

     I’ve met the truly poor, and it ain’t a pretty sight.

Naptimes

     I met a good ole’ boy at a service plaza on I 95 outside of Baltimore, Maryland one late afternoon. We were talking truckin’ stuff from the parking lot to the restaurant door and decided to sit together. Those plazas were situated in the middle of Interstate 95 and both north and southbound traffic could access its services. He told me his name was Willy, and I said Tom. As any trucker will tell you, surnames aren’t important when you live on the road. A first name or a CB code name (the “handle” one would use on the Citizens Band Radio) was enough to start a conversation or a friendship. This encounter turned out to be both.

     We were seated in a Howard Johnson’s restaurant which dotted many highways in the 1980’s. Willy and I were in a booth having coffee, apple pie for him and coconut cream for me and slinging the “bullstein”(BS) as he called it when a family of four sat behind us. It was the typical Mom and Dad plus two kids on vacation and the parents had the look of two people who couldn’t wait for this taxing experience to end. After the waitress took their order, the little daughter of about three or four years old began to cry. I mean she was sobbing. Mom and Dad looked at each other in desperation, trying to ease her anxiety. Willy turned, leaned his left arm on the seat top, presenting his snow-white hair and asked them a question.

     “I know it’s none of my business, ma’am, but why is she crying so bad?” he asked in his slow, southern drawl.

      “We just saw a dead deer on the side of the road and that really upsets Missy. We don’t know what to do.”

     “Well, mother, is it alright if I take a crack at it?”

     Mom and Dad looked at each other and shot Willy a look of “Oh what the hell. Give it a try.” Willy then began his therapy session.

     “Baby girl, look up at me,” he said in a comforting tone and a smile on his grandfatherly-type face. “Now I’m here to tell you, those deer ain’t dead. They’re just taking a nap.”

     Missy’s whole persona was transformed in a split second. She looked up at him with her trusting baby-blues eyes and said,

     “Reeeallly?”

     “Yes ma’am, really. A lot of animals like the humming sound of our truck tires. It lures them to the road and it puts them to sleep. They lay down, like you do, and nap for a couple of hours, get up and go back into the woods. So there’s no reason to worry any more. Okay?”

     Her eyes said it all as she smiled from ear to ear, then munched on a french fry and took drinks from her sippy cup. While the Dad was paying the bill, Mom walked back over to us and put a hand on Willy’s shoulder.

     “Thank you, sir, for that … observation,” she said with a chuckle. “May the Good Lord bless you.”

     “He already has, ma’am, a thousand times over. Drive safely now.”

     We crawled up into our trucks; he went south, and I north. I saw him a couple of times after that and then he must’ve got a new run. He’s just one of many characters I’ve stored in my memory banks who made a lasting impression on me.