The Meeting
I saw him the minute I walked in the door. Out of my element, unsure
that I even wanted to be there, ready to turn around, find my car and
drive as fast as I could in the other way. But there he was. A huge
smile on his face, white t-shirt with a wooden cross hanging around his
neck by a leather cord. When he stuck his hand out to shake mine, I
noticed his hands were huge and strong like his arms, veins popping. He
wasn't a large guy, but he was tall with blue eyes and a shaft of
blonde hair falling across his eyes. A shorter, scruffy looking guy
walked in and Roy introduced him as Ricky. A dirty red bandana kept his
long, greasy black hair back. A beard and mustache hid his face. From
the neck up he was pure hippie. From the neck down, though his dress
was very conservative, button collar shirt, slacks and leather shoes, he
could have been straight out of a preppie high school. A study in
contrasts for sure.
They became my unofficial tour guides and I saw a side of my hometown I'd never seen before. We climbed on top of the New Wine Coffee House via a well-placed dumpster at the back of the building. From that vantage point we could see all over downtown. Walking to the front of the building we could look down and see Ritzell greeting people and letting them pet the gaggle of kittens she had in a basket, giving away one or two before the night was over/ When there were no other people walking by and she'd stepped away from the kittens, Ricky would throw small pebbles down on her head. Her furrowed brow would scan the tops of the buildings throwing Ricky in a quiet laughing fit as he ducked out of site. Because the live music at the Coffee House didn't start for an hour, Ricky and Roy showed me how to "walk the wall". A low stone wall stood around the Episcopal church and continue down ninth street to Cherry and conveniently led right to the Dairy Queen. They explained that if we walked the wall without falling off, we could get an ice cream. Thinking this was some kind of reward from DQ I asked how the staff there would know?
"Oh, they will know," Ricky said.
"And they just give you an ice cream cone?" I said.
"Yes, you get your ice cream cone," he said.
"Hey, we just walked the wall all the way down here from Ninth St.," Ricky told the high school girl at the counter.
"And I guess you want an ice cream cone?" she asked.
"Yeah, three please."
She handed over the cones, but I noticed Roy gave her a $5.
"I thought they gave you the cones if you walked the wall?" I said.
"You did walk the wall and they did give you a cone."
"But Roy paid for it."
"He always tips the girls," Ricky said. Roy smiled at me while Ricky slapped him on the back and continued talking about the rest of the downtown tour. But I wasn't listening. I was lost in Roy's soft blue-gray eyes. They were the color of my kitten I named Shalom. Yes, they were peaceful eyes, the kind a woman could dive into and not find the bottom of. They were quiet eyes. They were eyes of a lifetime.
RIcky's eyes were loud, mischievous, guilty, always looking for something. Those eyes led us back down the wall, but this time we got off at the Episcopal Church and dashed across the street to the Methodist Church. We sat on the steps finishing our ice cream cones and watching those wallking by out for a Friday evening stroll downtown.
"You stay right here," RIcky said. "We have something to show you. Just sit right there and don't turn around until you hear us."
So, I waited. I could hear them rustling about behind me. But I gave my word, so I didn't look I was still sitting on the wide, concrete church steps. They rose about 12 in all to the front door of a massive concrete block church with spiraling steeple. It is one of the grandest churches in my home town. The front doors were carved wood and massive. But I was dutifully sitting by myself looking ahead.
After a few minutes, I begin to hear what sounded like a chicken clucking. Those walking by were looking up and down the huge church structure to locate the chicken. Believing I had been left by the boys, I turned to look as well. Like those passing by, I could not locate the chicken. But there it was again and it sounded as if it were coming from an alcove beside the front doors.
Cautiously, I tiptoed over and peered around the corner. I expected to see a little chicken caught there but the space was empty. As I turned to leave, I heard it again, this time it was unmistakably coming from inside the alcove but there was nothing there. Suddenly, a cacophony of chicken noises filled the small space. Looking everywhere i could not find the little chicken who was from the sound, very stuck somewhere.
Then I heard a a long low whistle, like a guy makes when he sees a pretty girl. Instinctively I looked up. Above my head at least four feet on either side of the alcove was a small ledge. Each of the guys had wedged themselves in where they could not be seen from the front steps. Of course, I had to see how they had accomplished getting up there.
Roy was the one who showed me the trick after the two came down. With his back against one side of the indented space on the side of the alcove, his feet against the other side and using his hands and shoulders, he inched himself up to the ledge, where he stood with his hands raised. A move that scared the beejeebers out of me since I am mortified of heights. Then he came down and asked if I wanted to try.
"Not on your life, or mine for that matter," I said. I was shaking badly. Just the thought of it scared me. He quietly took my hand. The gesture was not lost on Ricky who apparently was in some kind of battle to win the same hand that Roy was now holding.
"Want to read my poems," Ricky said.
"You're a poet?" I said.
"He's pretty good," Roy said. "You should read them. All the girls like them."
"Well, I'm a journalism major so I might point out a misspelling or two."
"Go ahead," Ricky said. "I doubt you'll find any though."
He was right. No misspellings. Each word was meticulously printed in perfectly symmetrical letters. Yet the words themselves held rages against societal injustices, war and whoever might be in charge of anything at the moment. Mixed with the anger were poems talking about the beauty of the earth, women and nature in general. The poems revealed such as marriage, job, house, family. But there were also desires of adventure, fantasy, delight, discovery, travel, freedom.
The overall theme was the subject of one of the first poems, "What I want, I cannot obtain." Kind of like a verse from Romans. And actually I think the poem had that in mind. Though he had a good way of talking about spiritual themes in a nonspiritual way. Despite the obvious contradictions of the work when taken as a whole, it was fascinating reading.
We could hear Brian starting to strum his guitar across the street in the coffee house. I didn't want to miss his set. I had gone to school with Brian and he had invited me to come hear him sing. I really didn't know him well. I'd seen him at a local Christian bookstore and asked where Christian college students got together in Columbia these days. I was home on break from the college I attended in Oklahoma and a bit lonesome for the close-knit group of believers at school. That brought me to the New Wine after driving around the block six times before getting up enough courage to park and walk into an unknown place by myself.
For the next few hours, I enjoyed the music. Roy had found us one of the only tables available. Most were sitting cross legged on the floor. During the breaks, I continued reading Ricky's poems and talking with him about them. Roy was quiet, adding a word or two if I directed a question towards him. He didn't seem to have to talk just to talk. When he said something it was worthwhile, meaningful. He was at home in his own skin something that was very welcoming.
When it was time to go, both Roy and Ricky walked me to my car. Roy asked if he could give me a ride to the coffee house the next evening. I readily agreed. I didn't like trying to find a parking place downtown and even more I didn't like parallel parking. Back at school, groups of us went everywhere together, so it seemed very natural for Roy to ask to pick me up the next evening. I just assumed RIcky would be along as well because I knew only Roy had a car and Ricky rode with him to the coffee house from Jefferson City where they both lived.
The next evening was warm, so I waited outside for my ride. I was a little surprised when only Roy showed up.
"Where's RIcky?"
"He doesn't come on Saturday nights."
He wore a blue oxford shirt with button down collar. I could tell he had on new blue jeans. The cross was still prominent around his neck. His 1969 dark green Dodge was washed and waxed. The four on the floor stick shift was not unusual. But, there was one extraordinary element to the car. It had a bench seat.
"I've never seen a bench seat with a four in the floor."
"Helps when you need to get several people in the car." His smile was slight but unmistakable and endearing.
Over the next few weeks, I understood more of the smile. He always picked me up first. Ricky had usually been dropped off at the coffee house. This meant I had to slide over when the others got in. This didn't bother him or me at all. What did bother me was the fact that I had two more years in a college eight hours away. And I was determined to get my degree. Roy, however, was working and living in Jefferson City. He owned his own mobile home and was very comfortable in central Missouri. The reason these facts bothered me had to do with one large fact that bothered me more than all the rest.
I was always drawn to peace.
They became my unofficial tour guides and I saw a side of my hometown I'd never seen before. We climbed on top of the New Wine Coffee House via a well-placed dumpster at the back of the building. From that vantage point we could see all over downtown. Walking to the front of the building we could look down and see Ritzell greeting people and letting them pet the gaggle of kittens she had in a basket, giving away one or two before the night was over/ When there were no other people walking by and she'd stepped away from the kittens, Ricky would throw small pebbles down on her head. Her furrowed brow would scan the tops of the buildings throwing Ricky in a quiet laughing fit as he ducked out of site. Because the live music at the Coffee House didn't start for an hour, Ricky and Roy showed me how to "walk the wall". A low stone wall stood around the Episcopal church and continue down ninth street to Cherry and conveniently led right to the Dairy Queen. They explained that if we walked the wall without falling off, we could get an ice cream. Thinking this was some kind of reward from DQ I asked how the staff there would know?
"Oh, they will know," Ricky said.
"And they just give you an ice cream cone?" I said.
"Yes, you get your ice cream cone," he said.
"Hey, we just walked the wall all the way down here from Ninth St.," Ricky told the high school girl at the counter.
"And I guess you want an ice cream cone?" she asked.
"Yeah, three please."
She handed over the cones, but I noticed Roy gave her a $5.
"I thought they gave you the cones if you walked the wall?" I said.
"You did walk the wall and they did give you a cone."
"But Roy paid for it."
"He always tips the girls," Ricky said. Roy smiled at me while Ricky slapped him on the back and continued talking about the rest of the downtown tour. But I wasn't listening. I was lost in Roy's soft blue-gray eyes. They were the color of my kitten I named Shalom. Yes, they were peaceful eyes, the kind a woman could dive into and not find the bottom of. They were quiet eyes. They were eyes of a lifetime.
RIcky's eyes were loud, mischievous, guilty, always looking for something. Those eyes led us back down the wall, but this time we got off at the Episcopal Church and dashed across the street to the Methodist Church. We sat on the steps finishing our ice cream cones and watching those wallking by out for a Friday evening stroll downtown.
"You stay right here," RIcky said. "We have something to show you. Just sit right there and don't turn around until you hear us."
So, I waited. I could hear them rustling about behind me. But I gave my word, so I didn't look I was still sitting on the wide, concrete church steps. They rose about 12 in all to the front door of a massive concrete block church with spiraling steeple. It is one of the grandest churches in my home town. The front doors were carved wood and massive. But I was dutifully sitting by myself looking ahead.
After a few minutes, I begin to hear what sounded like a chicken clucking. Those walking by were looking up and down the huge church structure to locate the chicken. Believing I had been left by the boys, I turned to look as well. Like those passing by, I could not locate the chicken. But there it was again and it sounded as if it were coming from an alcove beside the front doors.
Cautiously, I tiptoed over and peered around the corner. I expected to see a little chicken caught there but the space was empty. As I turned to leave, I heard it again, this time it was unmistakably coming from inside the alcove but there was nothing there. Suddenly, a cacophony of chicken noises filled the small space. Looking everywhere i could not find the little chicken who was from the sound, very stuck somewhere.
Then I heard a a long low whistle, like a guy makes when he sees a pretty girl. Instinctively I looked up. Above my head at least four feet on either side of the alcove was a small ledge. Each of the guys had wedged themselves in where they could not be seen from the front steps. Of course, I had to see how they had accomplished getting up there.
Roy was the one who showed me the trick after the two came down. With his back against one side of the indented space on the side of the alcove, his feet against the other side and using his hands and shoulders, he inched himself up to the ledge, where he stood with his hands raised. A move that scared the beejeebers out of me since I am mortified of heights. Then he came down and asked if I wanted to try.
"Not on your life, or mine for that matter," I said. I was shaking badly. Just the thought of it scared me. He quietly took my hand. The gesture was not lost on Ricky who apparently was in some kind of battle to win the same hand that Roy was now holding.
"Want to read my poems," Ricky said.
"You're a poet?" I said.
"He's pretty good," Roy said. "You should read them. All the girls like them."
"Well, I'm a journalism major so I might point out a misspelling or two."
"Go ahead," Ricky said. "I doubt you'll find any though."
He was right. No misspellings. Each word was meticulously printed in perfectly symmetrical letters. Yet the words themselves held rages against societal injustices, war and whoever might be in charge of anything at the moment. Mixed with the anger were poems talking about the beauty of the earth, women and nature in general. The poems revealed such as marriage, job, house, family. But there were also desires of adventure, fantasy, delight, discovery, travel, freedom.
The overall theme was the subject of one of the first poems, "What I want, I cannot obtain." Kind of like a verse from Romans. And actually I think the poem had that in mind. Though he had a good way of talking about spiritual themes in a nonspiritual way. Despite the obvious contradictions of the work when taken as a whole, it was fascinating reading.
We could hear Brian starting to strum his guitar across the street in the coffee house. I didn't want to miss his set. I had gone to school with Brian and he had invited me to come hear him sing. I really didn't know him well. I'd seen him at a local Christian bookstore and asked where Christian college students got together in Columbia these days. I was home on break from the college I attended in Oklahoma and a bit lonesome for the close-knit group of believers at school. That brought me to the New Wine after driving around the block six times before getting up enough courage to park and walk into an unknown place by myself.
For the next few hours, I enjoyed the music. Roy had found us one of the only tables available. Most were sitting cross legged on the floor. During the breaks, I continued reading Ricky's poems and talking with him about them. Roy was quiet, adding a word or two if I directed a question towards him. He didn't seem to have to talk just to talk. When he said something it was worthwhile, meaningful. He was at home in his own skin something that was very welcoming.
When it was time to go, both Roy and Ricky walked me to my car. Roy asked if he could give me a ride to the coffee house the next evening. I readily agreed. I didn't like trying to find a parking place downtown and even more I didn't like parallel parking. Back at school, groups of us went everywhere together, so it seemed very natural for Roy to ask to pick me up the next evening. I just assumed RIcky would be along as well because I knew only Roy had a car and Ricky rode with him to the coffee house from Jefferson City where they both lived.
The next evening was warm, so I waited outside for my ride. I was a little surprised when only Roy showed up.
"Where's RIcky?"
"He doesn't come on Saturday nights."
He wore a blue oxford shirt with button down collar. I could tell he had on new blue jeans. The cross was still prominent around his neck. His 1969 dark green Dodge was washed and waxed. The four on the floor stick shift was not unusual. But, there was one extraordinary element to the car. It had a bench seat.
"I've never seen a bench seat with a four in the floor."
"Helps when you need to get several people in the car." His smile was slight but unmistakable and endearing.
Over the next few weeks, I understood more of the smile. He always picked me up first. Ricky had usually been dropped off at the coffee house. This meant I had to slide over when the others got in. This didn't bother him or me at all. What did bother me was the fact that I had two more years in a college eight hours away. And I was determined to get my degree. Roy, however, was working and living in Jefferson City. He owned his own mobile home and was very comfortable in central Missouri. The reason these facts bothered me had to do with one large fact that bothered me more than all the rest.
I was always drawn to peace.
