High Vibrations
Milwaukee has had a good foot of snow this past week, followed by several days of brutal subzero weather so dangerous that schools and local government offices were closed, and even the U.S. Mail delivery was halted for the first time in my memory. I head on down to St. Ben’s to see how everybody’s doing. There have been plenty of news reports about the tremendous efforts made by the police and several street organizations to get the homeless inside day and night during the cold spell. Even still, as I drive downtown, a few stubborn tents stand under the freeway near the Intermodal Station. As I pass, I hope they’re empty.
The new warming room is open at St. Ben’s, so now the guests can wait in a comfortable place for the meal program to open, instead of standing in the wind and snow on State Street. I don’t think I’m imagining an increase in smiles and friendly conversation for the servers as guests file in for their trays.
Not many families arrive, which means there are no little kids who need help carrying their trays, so I join the food line. I’m served ham au gratin, some green beans and a salad. An orange and a big heart cookie with fancy frosting look good, too. Samuel is still not there. I look for a different dinner companion. I spot a colorful fellow I haven’t met before with an empty seat across from him.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I ask.
“You are,” he tells me warmly. “The high vibrations sent you here.”
As I sit, an African American man on my left lets out a muffled sound I don’t quite catch. A tiny smile plays at his mouth, like he’s got a little secret.
I introduce myself, and the man across from me places a hand over his heart. “My name is Asim Malik.” Or at least, that’s what I think I heard. When he hits the final consonant, he makes an elongated noise that sounds like a coffee grinder is working overtime in his mouth. “Can you say that?” he asks with a sassy smile.
“Asim Malikkssss,” I dutifully repeat. This cracks him up. “You’re good.” He points at me. “You got it goin’ on.”
Tattoos adorn his neck, hands and face. Over his eyebrow in gothic lettering, the word Corona, the corner of his left eye sports a blue tear, and the letters Godrum fill the space above his upper lip. His hands continuously move, so I can’t read the words on his fingers, but there are a lot of them. He wears a very nice sweater, and eight silver rings. A myriad of necklaces drape down onto his chest – four beaded discs in a brown Native American pattern, a chunky amber amulet, and several chains with large charms. A crescent pendant and a crocheted caramel colored Kufi identify him as a Muslim.
“Do you talk about your tats?” I ask him. “I like hearing about what peoples’ tattoos mean to them.”
“Sure, ask me anything.”
The man to my left mumbles again. I glance his way, but he’s not talking to me. “Did I interrupt your conversation?” I ask him.
He looks in my direction, yellowed eyes focused on the space beside my face. “No,” he waves dismissively, “Go on.”
An older man sitting next to Asim chuckles. I make eye contact with him. He hasn’t taken his coat off. Graying curls poke out from under two knit hats, and crinkles form around his eyes when he smiles. He holds my gaze, oozes love. Just as I’m wondering if I’ve encountered some sort of divine being, or if he’s going to be one of those guys who asks if I have a husband before dinner is over, Asim launches into a loud commentary, punctuated with abrupt motions. He has a lot of energy.
“Right here,” he begins, pointing above his eyebrow, “it says Corona. Not the beer, the gang. I was in the Coronas. That’s a Latin gang.” He touches the tear. “I got locked up in the federal pen for this.” I have learned that gang members tattoo tears on their faces to represent fallen friends, or sometimes people they’ve killed, depending on who’s telling the story. I decide not to ask for clarification. “Man, I fucked up. ‘Scuse my French. But I’m keepin’ it cool now.”
“Did you convert?” I ask.
He points at me again, grinning. “Girrrl! You deep. You know the signs.” He gives me a high five. “I became a Muslim in prison. I dedicate my life to Allah now. He tells me what to do.” He taps his temple. “And I obey.”
The older man with the loving gaze is still staring at me, not eating. I give him a polite little smile, not sure of his intentions. Now I’m wondering if he’s trying to tell me that Asim is a little off his nut, that everybody just humors him. Asim keeps talking. He ticks off a list.
“I been in federal prison, state prison, the county lock up. But now I don’t participate in any entities. The entities exist to control you, to make money off you. The entities run the world. That’s why I don’t work. The government pays me, and I don’t pay taxes, so I don’t contribute to the entities. Every month, I get my check for $873, and I’m good to go.”
The older man is still giving me the warm adoration gaze. Or whatever it is. The man beside me says something like amen. Or again. There’s a vibe here I’m trying to read. Do they think Asim is crazy, or brilliant?
“Where do you live?” I ask Asim.
“Right now, I’m homeless.”
There’s another ice storm coming in a few hours, I know, and it’s cold outside, yet there have been announcements over the PA at regular intervals, telling the guests that the warming room at St. Ben’s will not be open tonight. Despite the expected ice, I guess the actual air temperature is not low enough.
“The weather’s going to be wicked,” I say. “Where will you stay tonight?”
Asim makes a shushing sound, index finger over his lip. I still don’t know what Godrum means. Then, abruptly, he begins flirting with the pretty, teenaged girls who are pouring milk. “You have Sicilian lineage,” he tells one of them. “I can see that.”
“No,” she says. “I’m Polish and French.” Her face reddens. A tiny gold cross on a thin chain touches her collar.
“That’s what your mama tells you,” Asim flails his arms in her direction, and she takes a step back. “I’m telling you, you’re Sicilian. I know these things. I’m never wrong.” He makes a show of appraising the girl, laughs. “There’s something your mama never told you.”
I don’t want to watch this, so I check out the older gentleman. Still glowing in my direction like a miniature flame. I can’t seem to find any men in my regular life who look at me like that, but I tend to be very attractive at St. Ben’s. “What’s your name?” I ask Mr. Love.
“Willy.”
“Willy, I’m Jonnie.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” he tells me, radiant.
“Are you cold, Willy? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
As a reply, he somehow amps up his loving gaze. I’m still unable to solve the prophet among us vs. potential husband conundrum. I figure, if Jesus ever comes back, he just might show up looking like Willy, so to cover my bases, I decide to be kind.
“I’ll get you a cup.” I head over to the mugs, wrangle a coffee server like I own the place, and set the coffee in front of Willy. “This will warm you up.” He’s barely touched his food.
“Thank you,” he says.
The girls have moved off and are talking to Brother Rob, the Capuchin in charge of the meal program. I notice him raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly in our direction. No doubt Asim has rattled the girls.
Asim goes back to his food, starts talking to me again about entities controlling the world, and spiritual battles to overcome it. I listen as carefully as I can, but I can’t do justice to this particular tack, so I ask again about where he’ll stay. “Did you get into the Mission for tonight?”
He leans back, stretches his very long legs out into the aisle, and throws his arms up in exasperation. “I can’t stay at the Mission. They kicked me out.” He pats his Kufi. “They disrespected my religion. They said I couldn’t wear this. They tried to take it away.”
“Are you saying they don’t allow Muslims at the Mission?”
He nods with his entire upper body. I’m guessing he could get pretty explosive if he disagreed with something, which might be the real reason he couldn’t stay at the Christian Rescue Mission.
He points at me again. “You wouldn’t believe how many entities are opposed to Muslims. The vibrations in America don’t align with Muslims. But Allah is the one true God.”
I glance at Willy. He’s cradling the warm cup in both hands, smiling at me.
Asim points to the man beside me. “But this brother knows it all! You got to listen to what he has to say. We were sitting over there-” he turns to point at a table across the room- “one night, and my mouth was hanging open. I was in awe. The stuff he knows will amaze you. He’s deep.”
“Oh?” I turn to the man who, so far, has only been muttering incoherently.
“The Kabbalists, the Kabbalists,” he stammers. “Words have deeper meanings that most people don’t know. For example, the word black means pale. Yeah, yeah. In the etymology, words have different meanings. If you want to know what words mean, you have to study the etymology.”
“See what I mean?” Asim interjects. “Etymology.”
The man continues. “So when people say to me, ‘You’re black,’ I know they’re ignorant. Because when they call me ‘black,’ they’re calling me ‘pale.’ Do you know what America means?” That tiny smile turns up the corners of his mouth.
I shake my head, no.
“Egypt. Of Egypt,” he says, with authority. “So American means Egyptian.” That tiny smile plays again, this time accompanied by a quiet laugh. I feel like I’m being tested somehow, and failing, my knowledge of Kabbalist teachings not up to snuff in his opinion.
Asim hops up to talk to a “brother,” their conversation held in close quarters at in lowered voices. Meanwhile, Willy keeps his loving gaze on me, eyes glittering, white whiskers glowing against his dark skin.
“Most people are ignorant,” the man beside me continues. “They don’t read.”
“What are you reading now?” I ask.
Oddly, this results in a flurry of mumbled, unintelligible responses, humming, a little rocking. I drop the subject like a hot potato. To cover the sudden awkwardness, I eat my cookie.
I notice Willy hasn’t been drinking his coffee. His fingers tremble. “Where are you staying tonight?” I ask him.
His beatific expression never wavers. “The shelters been full up with all this cold. I stay in the parking garage by the courthouse. I got some blankets.” His eyes narrow. “It’s real cold.” Then the smile is back.
The courthouse has a cavernous underground parking structure where a person could at least get out of the wind. During the day, museum goers, people with business at the court, and high powered lawyers pack their cars into tiny spaces crammed between thick pillars. It’s a nerve-wracking place for a woman alone even during the day. Nothing could induce me to go down there at night.
Asim slams his long body back into his chair, gestures at the man beside me. “Didn’t I tell you the man is a fucking mensa? Pardon my French.”
Willy chuckles, then breaks into the sort of laugh that older folks sometimes use when amused by the younger generation. The man beside me begins to laugh, then too. Asim joins in. The laughter is contagious, and soon the four of us are laughing uproariously. I don’t even know exactly what’s funny. It just feels good to laugh with these guys. One by one, I look into each man’s eyes. For that moment, everyone is happy.
The new warming room is open at St. Ben’s, so now the guests can wait in a comfortable place for the meal program to open, instead of standing in the wind and snow on State Street. I don’t think I’m imagining an increase in smiles and friendly conversation for the servers as guests file in for their trays.
Not many families arrive, which means there are no little kids who need help carrying their trays, so I join the food line. I’m served ham au gratin, some green beans and a salad. An orange and a big heart cookie with fancy frosting look good, too. Samuel is still not there. I look for a different dinner companion. I spot a colorful fellow I haven’t met before with an empty seat across from him.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I ask.
“You are,” he tells me warmly. “The high vibrations sent you here.”
As I sit, an African American man on my left lets out a muffled sound I don’t quite catch. A tiny smile plays at his mouth, like he’s got a little secret.
I introduce myself, and the man across from me places a hand over his heart. “My name is Asim Malik.” Or at least, that’s what I think I heard. When he hits the final consonant, he makes an elongated noise that sounds like a coffee grinder is working overtime in his mouth. “Can you say that?” he asks with a sassy smile.
“Asim Malikkssss,” I dutifully repeat. This cracks him up. “You’re good.” He points at me. “You got it goin’ on.”
Tattoos adorn his neck, hands and face. Over his eyebrow in gothic lettering, the word Corona, the corner of his left eye sports a blue tear, and the letters Godrum fill the space above his upper lip. His hands continuously move, so I can’t read the words on his fingers, but there are a lot of them. He wears a very nice sweater, and eight silver rings. A myriad of necklaces drape down onto his chest – four beaded discs in a brown Native American pattern, a chunky amber amulet, and several chains with large charms. A crescent pendant and a crocheted caramel colored Kufi identify him as a Muslim.
“Do you talk about your tats?” I ask him. “I like hearing about what peoples’ tattoos mean to them.”
“Sure, ask me anything.”
The man to my left mumbles again. I glance his way, but he’s not talking to me. “Did I interrupt your conversation?” I ask him.
He looks in my direction, yellowed eyes focused on the space beside my face. “No,” he waves dismissively, “Go on.”
An older man sitting next to Asim chuckles. I make eye contact with him. He hasn’t taken his coat off. Graying curls poke out from under two knit hats, and crinkles form around his eyes when he smiles. He holds my gaze, oozes love. Just as I’m wondering if I’ve encountered some sort of divine being, or if he’s going to be one of those guys who asks if I have a husband before dinner is over, Asim launches into a loud commentary, punctuated with abrupt motions. He has a lot of energy.
“Right here,” he begins, pointing above his eyebrow, “it says Corona. Not the beer, the gang. I was in the Coronas. That’s a Latin gang.” He touches the tear. “I got locked up in the federal pen for this.” I have learned that gang members tattoo tears on their faces to represent fallen friends, or sometimes people they’ve killed, depending on who’s telling the story. I decide not to ask for clarification. “Man, I fucked up. ‘Scuse my French. But I’m keepin’ it cool now.”
“Did you convert?” I ask.
He points at me again, grinning. “Girrrl! You deep. You know the signs.” He gives me a high five. “I became a Muslim in prison. I dedicate my life to Allah now. He tells me what to do.” He taps his temple. “And I obey.”
The older man with the loving gaze is still staring at me, not eating. I give him a polite little smile, not sure of his intentions. Now I’m wondering if he’s trying to tell me that Asim is a little off his nut, that everybody just humors him. Asim keeps talking. He ticks off a list.
“I been in federal prison, state prison, the county lock up. But now I don’t participate in any entities. The entities exist to control you, to make money off you. The entities run the world. That’s why I don’t work. The government pays me, and I don’t pay taxes, so I don’t contribute to the entities. Every month, I get my check for $873, and I’m good to go.”
The older man is still giving me the warm adoration gaze. Or whatever it is. The man beside me says something like amen. Or again. There’s a vibe here I’m trying to read. Do they think Asim is crazy, or brilliant?
“Where do you live?” I ask Asim.
“Right now, I’m homeless.”
There’s another ice storm coming in a few hours, I know, and it’s cold outside, yet there have been announcements over the PA at regular intervals, telling the guests that the warming room at St. Ben’s will not be open tonight. Despite the expected ice, I guess the actual air temperature is not low enough.
“The weather’s going to be wicked,” I say. “Where will you stay tonight?”
Asim makes a shushing sound, index finger over his lip. I still don’t know what Godrum means. Then, abruptly, he begins flirting with the pretty, teenaged girls who are pouring milk. “You have Sicilian lineage,” he tells one of them. “I can see that.”
“No,” she says. “I’m Polish and French.” Her face reddens. A tiny gold cross on a thin chain touches her collar.
“That’s what your mama tells you,” Asim flails his arms in her direction, and she takes a step back. “I’m telling you, you’re Sicilian. I know these things. I’m never wrong.” He makes a show of appraising the girl, laughs. “There’s something your mama never told you.”
I don’t want to watch this, so I check out the older gentleman. Still glowing in my direction like a miniature flame. I can’t seem to find any men in my regular life who look at me like that, but I tend to be very attractive at St. Ben’s. “What’s your name?” I ask Mr. Love.
“Willy.”
“Willy, I’m Jonnie.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” he tells me, radiant.
“Are you cold, Willy? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
As a reply, he somehow amps up his loving gaze. I’m still unable to solve the prophet among us vs. potential husband conundrum. I figure, if Jesus ever comes back, he just might show up looking like Willy, so to cover my bases, I decide to be kind.
“I’ll get you a cup.” I head over to the mugs, wrangle a coffee server like I own the place, and set the coffee in front of Willy. “This will warm you up.” He’s barely touched his food.
“Thank you,” he says.
The girls have moved off and are talking to Brother Rob, the Capuchin in charge of the meal program. I notice him raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly in our direction. No doubt Asim has rattled the girls.
Asim goes back to his food, starts talking to me again about entities controlling the world, and spiritual battles to overcome it. I listen as carefully as I can, but I can’t do justice to this particular tack, so I ask again about where he’ll stay. “Did you get into the Mission for tonight?”
He leans back, stretches his very long legs out into the aisle, and throws his arms up in exasperation. “I can’t stay at the Mission. They kicked me out.” He pats his Kufi. “They disrespected my religion. They said I couldn’t wear this. They tried to take it away.”
“Are you saying they don’t allow Muslims at the Mission?”
He nods with his entire upper body. I’m guessing he could get pretty explosive if he disagreed with something, which might be the real reason he couldn’t stay at the Christian Rescue Mission.
He points at me again. “You wouldn’t believe how many entities are opposed to Muslims. The vibrations in America don’t align with Muslims. But Allah is the one true God.”
I glance at Willy. He’s cradling the warm cup in both hands, smiling at me.
Asim points to the man beside me. “But this brother knows it all! You got to listen to what he has to say. We were sitting over there-” he turns to point at a table across the room- “one night, and my mouth was hanging open. I was in awe. The stuff he knows will amaze you. He’s deep.”
“Oh?” I turn to the man who, so far, has only been muttering incoherently.
“The Kabbalists, the Kabbalists,” he stammers. “Words have deeper meanings that most people don’t know. For example, the word black means pale. Yeah, yeah. In the etymology, words have different meanings. If you want to know what words mean, you have to study the etymology.”
“See what I mean?” Asim interjects. “Etymology.”
The man continues. “So when people say to me, ‘You’re black,’ I know they’re ignorant. Because when they call me ‘black,’ they’re calling me ‘pale.’ Do you know what America means?” That tiny smile turns up the corners of his mouth.
I shake my head, no.
“Egypt. Of Egypt,” he says, with authority. “So American means Egyptian.” That tiny smile plays again, this time accompanied by a quiet laugh. I feel like I’m being tested somehow, and failing, my knowledge of Kabbalist teachings not up to snuff in his opinion.
Asim hops up to talk to a “brother,” their conversation held in close quarters at in lowered voices. Meanwhile, Willy keeps his loving gaze on me, eyes glittering, white whiskers glowing against his dark skin.
“Most people are ignorant,” the man beside me continues. “They don’t read.”
“What are you reading now?” I ask.
Oddly, this results in a flurry of mumbled, unintelligible responses, humming, a little rocking. I drop the subject like a hot potato. To cover the sudden awkwardness, I eat my cookie.
I notice Willy hasn’t been drinking his coffee. His fingers tremble. “Where are you staying tonight?” I ask him.
His beatific expression never wavers. “The shelters been full up with all this cold. I stay in the parking garage by the courthouse. I got some blankets.” His eyes narrow. “It’s real cold.” Then the smile is back.
The courthouse has a cavernous underground parking structure where a person could at least get out of the wind. During the day, museum goers, people with business at the court, and high powered lawyers pack their cars into tiny spaces crammed between thick pillars. It’s a nerve-wracking place for a woman alone even during the day. Nothing could induce me to go down there at night.
Asim slams his long body back into his chair, gestures at the man beside me. “Didn’t I tell you the man is a fucking mensa? Pardon my French.”
Willy chuckles, then breaks into the sort of laugh that older folks sometimes use when amused by the younger generation. The man beside me begins to laugh, then too. Asim joins in. The laughter is contagious, and soon the four of us are laughing uproariously. I don’t even know exactly what’s funny. It just feels good to laugh with these guys. One by one, I look into each man’s eyes. For that moment, everyone is happy.