You used to see more Love in people’s eyes than you do today.
I think more meanness came into this world after 9/11. I could be wrong.
Either way, there’s meanness out there, and you don’t see as much Love in people’s eyes when you look into their eyes anymore.
I’m at the Spain Rehabilitation Clinic in Birmingham.
It serves all types of “wounded” people.
A very tall, thin, older black man walks in.
He walked in using a cane.
He has on a sports coat, button-up shirt, khakis, and dress shoes.
He walks with Confidence and Sophistication.
The very first thing I noticed about him was his sunglasses.
They were something else. Like Elvis.
Black with a gold “pinstripe” and dark, dark lenses.
They were spectacular.
I mean, they were something else.
He sits next to me.
Immediately I know I’m gonna get the info on those glasses.
He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything to him, though; he begins talking to me. And talking, he did.
“Got shot in the hip at point blank range with a 20 gauge shotgun, son.”
Well, I completely forgot to ask about his glasses after hearing that.
My eyes were as wide as they could be. I was shocked.
“Um,” I swallow a big gulp of spit, “Did it leave an exit wound?”
“H*ll naw! Hit the Hip Bone! Blew it to pieces.” He goes on, “Had to lay in the hospital for weeks with the open wound. They’d pack it with new gauze each day. So now I got a new hip.”
Just as I was about to say something, he started talking again.
“Then, got hit head-on and thrown from my vehicle. I was going 50 miles an hour and wearing my seatbelt. They found the seatbelt still fastened. It was ruled the other guy’s fault.”
I jumped in, “Wait. You were wearing your seatbelt and got thrown clear?”
“Yeah. Surprised the h*ll outta me, too, that that could happen!”
“Did the airbag come out?”
“Yeah! That’s what broke three ribs. The ribs went through the skin. The doctors left my rib bones alone. Said they’d heal up on their own.”
“Did they?”
“Yeah.”
“But until they healed, you had three ribs sticking outta you?” I asked.
“Yep. What you in here for?”
I started to say, “Nothing.”
“Spina Bifida clinic down on first. I’m getting tests here right now.”
“Spina what?”
I think, “Crap. Should’ve said ‘nothing.'”
“Spina Bifida. I have a messed up Spinal Cord and a Colostomy and a Urostomy.”
“Your penis work?”
Again, I’ve really forgotten about his sunglasses.
“Actually, no. Thanks, though.”
Silence.
“Well, that shut him up,” I thought to myself.
“I got pictures of the hole in me from the shotgun and pictures of my ribs stickin’ out.”
“Oh, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” I say. “I got pictures that can beat yours, I bet,” and I bring my cell phone out of my pocket.
I love showing off certain pictures I have of myself while in the hospital.
They’re like “Wound Medals” or something.
“Lookie here, that’s what a 20 gauge does to ya.”
“Wow!” I say, “That’s pretty…um…wow!” I go on, “But you gotta see the hole in me,” and I go to my pictures and search for “That” picture.
“Here’s me with my whole stomach cut open. I laid in the hospital with this hole for four or five days,” and I show him my picture.
“Hl Sh** Dang! That’s some bad sh** there!”
“Yep,” I said, “My friends said it looks like an alien busted its way outta me through my stomach, leaving that hole.” And I continue, “You could see right down to the innards when the gauze got changed each day. That’s when I took this picture: when the gauze was out.”
“That’s worse than the 20 gauge, I think.”
“I think the 20 gauge has me beat,” I say.
I had to ask something, and I was worried about asking it, “Let me ask you,” I said timidly, and a couple of seconds passed, “why did someone shoot you?”
“Well,” he said while scratching the side of his face, “there’s a lot more meanness in this world than there used to be.”
“I agree. Go on, please.”
“A man was beating his wife. I heard it, and it was bad. He was gonna kill her. He already had the shotgun, and I knew it.”
“I shouldn’t have asked that question,” I immediately thought.
“I was inside the house. The gun was pointed at her. I didn’t say anything. I just went and put my hand on the barrel of the gun, and he swung it around to my hip and pulled the trigger.”
…Silence…
“You shocked?”
“Yes.”
“There’s meanness everywhere. Didn’t use to be so bad.”
“Did she live?” I asked.
“Yes.” He says quietly. His voice quivers as he continues, “My daughter is still alive, and he’s in jail. And we moved to Alabama.”
…Silence…
“This man had to save his daughter’s life,” I thought, and tears built up in my eyes.
“Mr. Thomas, come on back.”
I begin gathering my stuff.
“That you?” He asks.
“Yeah.” And I look straight into his sunglasses and say, “God Bless you, sir.”
He gently pulls his glasses off.
And with Love in his eyes, he says, “God Bless you too, brother.”
