Lines from the Times

His Second-Best Friend

His name was Ron. He was an extremely gifted musician. He owned little, the only thing of real value was the guitar held in the sturdy, but banged up, case at his feet.

When Ron pulled that guitar from its protection and danced his fingers over the strings magic happened. A friend of mine once heard him play and described Ron as “Roy Clark without the silly grin.”

He had one of the best work ethics I’ve ever known. When the sun’s rays first penetrated the canopy of foliage of the shrubs that formed his bedroom, Ron would pull himself from his sleeping bag; police his “residence”, placing last night’s Pork and Beans and Fruit Cocktail cans in a plastic grocery bag, saved for that precise purpose. The empty Wild Turkey bottle would go into the pocket of his Army surplus field jacket.

His area as it should be, his sleeping gear hidden amid the shrubs, Ron would head across the street toward the church that befriended him. There in the shelter of the buildings he’d remove his clothes, turn the water from the garden hose on, and shower no matter the weather. From his backpack he’d pull a towel to dry. He'd dress again and then head to the church’s dumpster. The plastic bag of empty supper cans along with the empty libation container, were deposited there. The morning ritual done, Ron would go to work.

At Five Points, the North/South and East/West rapid transit lines intersected on separate levels of the tunnel. It is a busy station, the major entry and exit of the city rail system. The guitar would come out. The case would be placed on the sidewalk at his feet. Ron would lose himself in the rhapsody birthed by his musical talent. I could be classical or country or funky, Ron’s fingers produced a smorgasbord of musical delight. Passersby, beholding this talent, dropped monetary applause into the open guitar case, whereupon the troubadour would nod in appreciation.

When the last stragglers of hurried commuters made it to work, Ron took a break. He pocketed the applause, encased the guitar, and headed for one of the trains. He need not hurry; it would be an hour or so before the wealthy patrons of the suburban malls would begin to seek places to separate themselves from accumulated wealth. When they did, either at the mall or its adjoining restaurants, somewhere along their path they’d encounter a thin black man with dreadlocks serenading their midday adventure with music that made them more joyful. The opened case would capture the applause once again.

When the encores were over, Ron hopped the train once more. On the way home, to the shrubs in the park, he’d make three stops. First he’d stop to see his dealer at the corner of North Avenue and Courtland. Then he’d stop at the Kroger on Ponce de Leon. The third stop would be at the package store about halfway home. Once there Ron would eat up; drink up; and shoot up. He’d unroll the sleeping bag and visit his land of substance induced bliss.

I asked him one day why he did it. “Because, pastor,” he said, “I’ve become just a statistic and nobody cares anymore, especially me.”

Ron was my friend. I was his second-best friend. Addiction always came before me or anyone else.

Ron died. I miss him. His best friend doesn't.