Photographic Evidence

The guy slipped in around 8 p. m....the place was fairly packed...and wearing what they call a ‘hoodie’, quickly took a seat Just inside the window, and I guessed - by how he looked - having begged a couple bucks, he’d ducked inside to eat. I told the waitress, “This one’s mine...I think the guy’s a vagrant,” and scurried back to where he sat to learn if I was right. “Good evening, sir,” I started, “would you like to see a menu?” “Thanks, but no,” he countered...“I’m a little short tonight!” His voice was weak...his eyes were tired...and anyone would guess that he, at best, had barely enough to buy himself a drink, But what he needed just as bad as something hot to eat...as I discovered just how bad a homeless guy can stink... Was something warm to fight the chill...the night was cold and damp...and there he sat in, what - to me - were nothing short of rags! While waiting for the guy’s response, a girl slid in beside him and gently wedged, between their legs, a pair of scruffy bags. Clearly just as destitute as he was, I explained, “If all you want are drinks tonight, the fact is - you’re in luck! On Friday evenings drinks are free -- if you buy a meal -- and if you don’t they’re 50-cents a piece, so - for a buck, I can bring you each a glass of anything you like! And even better...if you swear you’ll come back soon to eat... Thereby more or less - earning them...I’ll serve them - ‘on the house’ - and even throw in refills...now, that there’s hard to beat!” “We can manage drinks,” he said, “but...if I heard you right...you’re prepared to trust us to return to - set things square? Well...we’ll just take you up on that - we’ll both have ‘Mountain Dew’s - and if you’ve got the time, when you come back, to grab a chair... “I’ve got a couple questions, if, in fact, your name is - Drake.” The fact he knew my name, of course, was not that big a deal, But, having never seen the guy before, seemed sorta strange, and I was slightly spooked by how his comment made me feel. “Be right back,” I told them, then I headed for the cooler, wondering, as I raced around, what secret he might hold, Exploring sordid options that I’d struggled to forget - and wondering whom the one might be by whom his facts were told. Setting down their pair of drinks, I leaned to scan his face - assuming that we’d met before - when he would catch me staring. His eyes seemed too familiar and I caught myself deciphering what it was about my past that he and I were sharing. With my full attention, he began to weave his tale...starting out in Tennessee in 1963. “If Nashville’s where you lived when you were in your early twenties...there’s no doubt - according to my mom - what that makes me! “She said that she’d been dating you for 6 or 7 months when you received your notice and were sent to Vietnam, But claimed you never wrote her, and - assuming you’d been killed - had no way to let you know she soon would be a mom! “Does the name Melinda Dillon ring a bell by chance? Dillon was her maiden name... her married name was Blake, But after Cliff, her husband, died, she kept a faded picture - signed, ‘When I get back, we’re gettin’ married - love you, Drake - Sitting on her nightstand! Is it true - you never wrote?” Once again impaled by guilt, I hung my head in shame, And as the tears began to fall from both their eyes and mine...all but being sure of why he’d come...I asked his name?” “My name’s Mark,” he answered. I replied, “I’ve often wondered - ever since I set your mother free - to play the field - If I’d made a big mistake, figuring - like they will - any pain I might have caused her surely would have healed Long before I made it back - IF I made it back...and leavin’ the girl you love behind only makes things worse!” The loyal friend beside him, who’d been sniffling all the while, dipped into the smaller bag and lifted out her purse. “As you’ve easily ascertained,” he said, “for how we’re dressed - neither I nor Connie have been faring all that well. Both of us got hooked on crack but now, thank God, we’re clean, and are, despite the way we seem...the way we look and smell... “Trying hard to start anew and turn our lives around. All we need’s a fighting chance to prove we’re worth the cost Of any price we’re made to pay to get us to a point where we can face the world again, before our chance is lost.” “This pizza joint is mine,” I bragged…“I own it free an’ clear...but never having married...I’ve no child to will it to... So I’ve been kinda lookin’ around for someone I can trust to hand this old place off to when it’s time --- a guy like you.” Then...lifting from her handbag what they’d gambled would confirm that I, indeed, was whom their tattered photograph was of... In their desperation to be sure that it was me...to know I was the man with whom his mom had been in love Back so many years ago...the man who - while at war, felt that she’d be better off to move on with her life... The one who’d signed his photograph, in 1963, vowing, when they sent him home, he’d take her as his wife... Both of them were pleading with their eyes to make it so. But knowing well, before I saw it - even through my tears - That what they hoped to learn was true, I wrestled out my wallet...flipped it open proudly to the photo that - for years, I’d been hanging onto for the mem’ries that it held...and my and Mark and Connie’s faces proved we all were glad. The - photographic evidence - confirmed that he’s my son...and I’m the happiest guy alive to know that - I’m his dad! My books and Audio-CDs are @ writerofbooks.com