The Bigger Picture
Richard towers over me as we stand between the cots at the night shelter, the ‘sleeping’ eavesdroppers only two feet away on all sides. I tell him, “You have that smooth jazz voice. You should be on the radio.”
He nods. “You’re not the first person to tell me this, but God has another plan for me.”
“I’ve been wondering what God’s plan for me is, Richard. Tell me about yours.”
He considers me for about ten seconds, peering down with eyes half closed, Morgan Freeman freckles dotting his face, as though sizing me up to determine if I’m sincere. I am. One thing Richard does not have is a sense of humor.
“Well,” he announces, “I have to tell you a little about myself in order for you to understand the full context of how this will happen. You think you know me, Jonnie, but there’s more to me than you can obviously see.”
Richard pauses to verify that I’m giving him my undivided attention. His manner of speech is some ineffable combination of a drawl and a staccato. I couldn’t imitate it if I tried.
“So, you know, God does have a plan for me. But to help you comprehend it, I need to explain myself further. Then the pieces will fall into place, so you can see the big picture. Some people only see the little picture, but they forget to look around the edges.” He moves his hands to indicate a bigger and bigger rectangle until his long arms are stretched as wide as he can make them. “People got to understand the bigger picture, or they can’t understand anything. Not a single thing.”
Richard glances around the room, then leans close enough to say softly in my ear, “I have 8.7 million dollars tied up in probate.” He straightens to full height, as though to let that sink in. “My sister-in-law doesn’t want me to get that money. I’ve been in court six times, with the county, and the mayor. In fact, I’m meeting with the county executive next week. I even talked to my representative—what’s her name?”
“Lena Taylor?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Lena Taylor.” He shakes a finger as he says, “I knew you were smart, Jonnie. That’s why I like talking to you.” He glances around the room again. “Some of these people here are not intelligent. I need to talk to intelligent people.”
I’m wondering if the men on the nearby cots will take offence, but word has it everybody tends to ignore Richard’s pontifications.
Richard continues. “They keep saying they’re working on it. Well, they’ve been working on it for six years now. I went to Social Services to see if they could help. Twice. They said they can’t do anything for me, and told me not to come back. Can you believe that?”
I shake my head no, because it’s the truth.
He continues, “I told them I’m a citizen. They can’t treat citizens like that.”
Richard may be an unreliable narrator, but he deserves a respectful listener. I say, “Well, I hope when you get that money, you’ll make a donation to St. Ben’s.”
“Of course I will.” He waves one hand dismissively. “But that’s nothing. That’s just a tiny part of God’s plan for me. I’m going to Ironwood Michigan. Don’t you just love the way that sounds? He places a palm over his heart, draws out the syllables rapturously and repeats, “Ironwood Michigan.”
“Have you ever been to Ironwood?”
He winces. “Just once. They put me in this dark little hotel room with no windows, or the windows were covered over. I told him I would help him fix the place up if he’d let me stay, but he wouldn’t let me, so that’s why I have to go back. I’m gonna take my 8.7 million dollars—well after I donate maybe about a million to this place—so that’s what? 7.7 million? Yeah, and I’m going to Ironwood Michigan (he draws out the name again, as if he’s listening to a the loveliest of symphonies) to help those people.”
I don’t ask who they, him, or those people are.
“God wants me to build a shelter to help all those people.”
“Are there a lot of homeless people in Ironwood Michigan?”
“Not so much. But somebody’s got to help those people. You know, the ones using that drug that turns their teeth all brown until they fall out.”
“Meth?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Meth. That’s a wicked drug. Once you try it, there’s no getting off, that’s what I know.”
I wait for him to tell me the rest of God’s plans in Ironwood Michigan.
“I’m gonna build a four story see-though shelter—” He skims his palm across a vast, imaginary territory—"A huge place where you can see for miles around. Then I’ll have all those people come in, so they’ll have a safe place. And I’ll have nurses and social workers and counselors living there too, so the people can get all the help they need.”
I hear his kind heart coming through, perhaps even a dream he has for himself. Many of the men in the night shelter carry this kind of heart, this kind of dream.
“And guess who’s gonna live on the top floor! The whole top floor. Guess.”
I ponder this and venture, “Barak Obama?”
“Barak Obama?” Richard scoffs. “He’s way too busy for that. Guess again.”
I shrug.
“Oprah Winfrey! Once she gets there, all kinds of people will come!”
“She is a popular person. And she does a lot of good in the world.”
Richard nods. He once again considers me, a fist under his chin. “I could use somebody like you. I can see you’re smart. I’ll need someone to take care of the schedules, and accounts, and to check people in. You’d be perfect for the job, Jonnie.”
“Well, that’s a really nice offer, Richard, but I’m retired. I’m not planning on working anymore.”
“Oh, you’ll want this job. Just picture it.” He gazes off into the horizon like a man at sea spotting a far distant shore, a euphoric gleam in his eyes. “A four-story see-through building on the top of Mount Zion in Ironwood Michigan.”
He nods. “You’re not the first person to tell me this, but God has another plan for me.”
“I’ve been wondering what God’s plan for me is, Richard. Tell me about yours.”
He considers me for about ten seconds, peering down with eyes half closed, Morgan Freeman freckles dotting his face, as though sizing me up to determine if I’m sincere. I am. One thing Richard does not have is a sense of humor.
“Well,” he announces, “I have to tell you a little about myself in order for you to understand the full context of how this will happen. You think you know me, Jonnie, but there’s more to me than you can obviously see.”
Richard pauses to verify that I’m giving him my undivided attention. His manner of speech is some ineffable combination of a drawl and a staccato. I couldn’t imitate it if I tried.
“So, you know, God does have a plan for me. But to help you comprehend it, I need to explain myself further. Then the pieces will fall into place, so you can see the big picture. Some people only see the little picture, but they forget to look around the edges.” He moves his hands to indicate a bigger and bigger rectangle until his long arms are stretched as wide as he can make them. “People got to understand the bigger picture, or they can’t understand anything. Not a single thing.”
Richard glances around the room, then leans close enough to say softly in my ear, “I have 8.7 million dollars tied up in probate.” He straightens to full height, as though to let that sink in. “My sister-in-law doesn’t want me to get that money. I’ve been in court six times, with the county, and the mayor. In fact, I’m meeting with the county executive next week. I even talked to my representative—what’s her name?”
“Lena Taylor?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Lena Taylor.” He shakes a finger as he says, “I knew you were smart, Jonnie. That’s why I like talking to you.” He glances around the room again. “Some of these people here are not intelligent. I need to talk to intelligent people.”
I’m wondering if the men on the nearby cots will take offence, but word has it everybody tends to ignore Richard’s pontifications.
Richard continues. “They keep saying they’re working on it. Well, they’ve been working on it for six years now. I went to Social Services to see if they could help. Twice. They said they can’t do anything for me, and told me not to come back. Can you believe that?”
I shake my head no, because it’s the truth.
He continues, “I told them I’m a citizen. They can’t treat citizens like that.”
Richard may be an unreliable narrator, but he deserves a respectful listener. I say, “Well, I hope when you get that money, you’ll make a donation to St. Ben’s.”
“Of course I will.” He waves one hand dismissively. “But that’s nothing. That’s just a tiny part of God’s plan for me. I’m going to Ironwood Michigan. Don’t you just love the way that sounds? He places a palm over his heart, draws out the syllables rapturously and repeats, “Ironwood Michigan.”
“Have you ever been to Ironwood?”
He winces. “Just once. They put me in this dark little hotel room with no windows, or the windows were covered over. I told him I would help him fix the place up if he’d let me stay, but he wouldn’t let me, so that’s why I have to go back. I’m gonna take my 8.7 million dollars—well after I donate maybe about a million to this place—so that’s what? 7.7 million? Yeah, and I’m going to Ironwood Michigan (he draws out the name again, as if he’s listening to a the loveliest of symphonies) to help those people.”
I don’t ask who they, him, or those people are.
“God wants me to build a shelter to help all those people.”
“Are there a lot of homeless people in Ironwood Michigan?”
“Not so much. But somebody’s got to help those people. You know, the ones using that drug that turns their teeth all brown until they fall out.”
“Meth?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Meth. That’s a wicked drug. Once you try it, there’s no getting off, that’s what I know.”
I wait for him to tell me the rest of God’s plans in Ironwood Michigan.
“I’m gonna build a four story see-though shelter—” He skims his palm across a vast, imaginary territory—"A huge place where you can see for miles around. Then I’ll have all those people come in, so they’ll have a safe place. And I’ll have nurses and social workers and counselors living there too, so the people can get all the help they need.”
I hear his kind heart coming through, perhaps even a dream he has for himself. Many of the men in the night shelter carry this kind of heart, this kind of dream.
“And guess who’s gonna live on the top floor! The whole top floor. Guess.”
I ponder this and venture, “Barak Obama?”
“Barak Obama?” Richard scoffs. “He’s way too busy for that. Guess again.”
I shrug.
“Oprah Winfrey! Once she gets there, all kinds of people will come!”
“She is a popular person. And she does a lot of good in the world.”
Richard nods. He once again considers me, a fist under his chin. “I could use somebody like you. I can see you’re smart. I’ll need someone to take care of the schedules, and accounts, and to check people in. You’d be perfect for the job, Jonnie.”
“Well, that’s a really nice offer, Richard, but I’m retired. I’m not planning on working anymore.”
“Oh, you’ll want this job. Just picture it.” He gazes off into the horizon like a man at sea spotting a far distant shore, a euphoric gleam in his eyes. “A four-story see-through building on the top of Mount Zion in Ironwood Michigan.”