Cherokee

I was living under a bush, down past the local post office – my address, “10th and  Bradley.” Across the street from me was the university. Wonderful place the university.  Lots of mighty fine people. 

There was a splendid coffee shop, near the bookstore, which served the most delicious  cup of French vanilla roast I ever tasted. I like my coffee jet black with a lump of sugar  and a cinnamon stick on the side. A cinnamon stick at this particular coffee shop was  more appropriately referred to as a “twisted stick”. 

It was a twisted piece of dough, deep-fried and rolled in sugar, sprinkled with cinnamon,  delectable. Fellow by the name of Johnny ran the place. He used to give me one free  about once a week or so, just like that. I considered it a gift from God, though I was  thankful to Johnny for its impartation. I always paid for my coffee though. The twist was  a treat. The coffee was a must. 

After breakfast I’d generally head over to the university. I’d sit for hours between the  columns on the white marble wall and just let the “smarts” flow in. I used to learn a lot  listening to the college kids and their professors. I was much older than the college  students, but I didn’t let that stop me from learning. 

Oh, what has come over me? You must think me terribly ill-mannered. I haven’t  introduced myself – name is Jean. My friends call me Cherokee. I’m a Cherokee Indian,  full-blooded. That’s why they call me Cherokee. 

Anyway, as I was sitting on the wall one day when Joey came up and stated chatting with  me. College kid. Nice. From a nice home, so I let him talk. He talked a lot about God. I  knew he would. Nice kids from nice homes almost always do. 

Usually, they don’t say “Hi” unless their friends are around. That’s how they score credit  with other nice college kids, but Joey was different. He was alone, and he still spoke with  me – novel, but it turned out to be only the first in a series of peculiar things he did. We  became friends. Generally people passed me by on the way to church or somewhere  warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Sometimes they gave me a dollar if they  wished a blessing. I used to say my name was “Fountain,” when they asked. Some would  ask how I was doing – never liked that question. Wasn’t it obvious? Nevertheless, I  would respond, “Well”. Of course I meant that I was “a well”, a wishing well for nice  kids to throw coins at so God would bless them. 

They’d smile and carry on by. It was nice though. I enjoyed their smiles. Not enough  smiles nowadays. Anyway, this one fellow, Joey, wasn’t like that. The only time he gave  me money was once when he asked me to pick up a cake for a party. He was throwing a  party that night for a friend but didn’t have time to get it himself. Even then he didn’t  give me the money; he asked if I wanted a job. I earned ten bucks plus got invited to the  party – couldn’t make it – too busy. It was nice to receive the invitation though.

I dropped off the cake at the address he gave me. Only, I didn’t go up to the door like he  asked. I passed it off to a nice young couple. They didn’t want to take it at first, saying  that I probably ought to take it all the way up myself. Silly kids, trying to out fox a fox. I  knew I’d done my job, so I put it on a step. I had things to do – couldn’t stand around  dilly-dallying with two college kids. Besides, I wasn’t dressed appropriately for a party,  and I was afraid if I went up, Joey would introduce me to people. I would have liked to  go. I haven’t been to a party in years, but no one knew me, so it didn’t matter. Besides, it  was time for my evening walk. Joey would understand. 

I had a nice walk, went all the way around the campus. I ordered a pizza,. I had a little  deal worked out with the delivery fellow. I’d get him a six-pack, and he’d hook me up  with a medium size sausage with pineapple. I’m sure he would have given me a large, but  I could never eat a large. Too much food and I hate cold pizza so it would just go to  waste. As I approached bush I saw Joey sittin’ in the courtyard. That was strange. It was  late for him to be out. I stopped to talk with him. He looked lonely. I asked how the party  turned out. He said it was a bust – because the guest of honor never arrived. “What an  ungracious guest of honor,” I thought to myself. Joey didn’t feel much like staying even  though the party was still going on. He and I spent the next three hours visiting. Nice  fellow that Joey. He even took me out for a bite and picked up the tab. God blesses me like that. Not that I wasn’t grateful that Joey was the cheerful go-between. 

I never pan handle anymore – used to – not now. It’s against the law, you know. They’ll  throw you in jail for it. You bet, thirty days. When you get out, if you’re caught again – increase your stay next time. Jail’s not bad, at least one has a bed. Kind of noisy though.  Lots of drunks. Not the place for me. Not that I don’t get drunk. ‘Course I get drunk, but I  don’t go for all the racket. Fact is, I’ve been drunk now for forty years, but enough about  me. I didn’t want to tell you about me; I wanted to tell you about Joey – nice kid. We  spent all sorts of time together. 

He was skinny, ‘bout 19 or 20. He always asked me to protect him. I never saw anybody picking on him; but if I had, I’d have taken care of business. Joey was now my friend.  Did I tell you he came all the way from Colorado to study at the University of Georgia?  It’s a good school. It had to be or Joey wouldn’t have come so far – pretty smart kid for  someone his age. 

You want to know the truth? I really think he came here because of some gal. He was  always talking about his bride who I think was the real reason for his moving here. But, I  never saw a ring nor this beloved. 

Eventually, he graduated. I didn’t go to the ceremony because I was pretty dirty. I  watched from the fence as if he were my own kid. I cried, but don’t tell no one; it’d blow  my cover. Real men don’t cry, but I cried. I don’t know for sure if I was crying because  he was graduating, or that I didn’t feel clean enough to go inside or both. I was never that  conscious of my filthiness, until I got around really clean people. Not being able to go in  still brings tears to my eyes whenever I think about it, so I don’t think about it much.

After that, I didn’t see him for awhile – very depressing time. I hardly ever ate. I even  lost my appetite for twisted sticks and coffee. I just didn’t much feel like gettin’ up either,  and I certainly didn’t care much for hanging around the courtyard neither.  

When the “well-wishers” passed by, I wasn’t as pleasant as I used to be. I took out my  frustrations on them – didn’t look at it like that at the time, though. The one’s that really  bothered me would hand me little pieces of paper about heaven. They’d present their whole case in sixty seconds. Gradually, I realized they had streamlined their Gospel  message because after sixty seconds they’d be out of breath. 

Then on August 4th, 1996 at exactly 4:51 P.M. or so (I had to guess because I didn’t carry  a watch. I used to, but it broke – sat on it. I didn’t care because I never really liked that watch in the first place. It kept saying one time, and I kept thinking it wasn’t so late; but  it was, so I sat on it. Anyway, I was out n’bout when Joey startled me. 

“Cherokee!” 

“Joey!” 

We hugged for about a hundred years – had to hold him long enough to concentrate my  tears away before he saw them. 

“Where you been?” I asked. 

“Working for my dad,” he said – you?” 

“Fulfilling the expectations of mine,” I responded. He knew I wasn’t kidding, but had  enough sense not to ask questions he could figure out the answers too himself. 

“You hungry?” he asked. “Dumb question,” he stated before my eyes had a chance to  make a full circle. “Come on, I’ll get you something to eat.” I’ve got a proposition for  you.” He took me to the International House of Pancakes – personal favorite of mine.  You can probably guess that for dessert we went to Johnny’s coffee shop for twisted  sticks and a cup of “Joe”. Joey used to love saying, “Let’s go get a cup of me.” 

“Cherokee,” I want to offer you a job.” 

“Doin’ what?” 

“Working.” 

“What kind of work?” 

“Hard work.”

“Pay?” 

“More than you’re making now.” 

“Is it legal?” – had to be ornery. Truth was, I was scared to death and light as a feather.  My head was fillin’ up with air faster than I could exhale. It felt like it was going to  explode. See, it wasn’t that I was simply being offered a job. I’d been offered jobs before.  It was more than that, much more. It was like I was being offered a whole new shot at  life. Someone was waking me up. Now this next part may sound peculiar but for some  reason I felt like he was asking me to become part of his family. Does that sound strange? 

“What sort of hard work? I asked. 

“It’s my father’s business.” 

“A family thing?” 

“Yes.” 

“I ain’t part of your family,” I said. “Ain’t” My language always seemed to drop in  etiquette at the most inopportune times. 

“You are if you say yes.” 

How does a man in my position respond to something like that? He was a kid. What does  he understand about how much a real family means to someone without one? How could  he be so flippant about something so important? Nothing in life was that easy. If it was, it  certainly wasn’t free. What a presumptuous little cuss. I got really fired up. I about  unleashed on him… 

“Cherokee.” He caught me off guard. “Just think about it.” 

I was speechless. How do you respond to a punk kid who can read your soul? I wanted a  family more than anything in life – a home, a place where I could go, a place where  people cared about me. I’d long since given up on such an unrealistic thing. He paid for  the meal and we left. 

On the way back towards the University he asked me again to go to work for him. It was  as if he had asked me for the first time. He started chattering on and on. He never gave  me a chance to say no. He talked incessantly about his father – turned out he owned a  church in town, which needed a groundskeeper. The whole thing was turning out to be  surreal. It all seemed unusual to me because I always thought that churches were owned  by general congregations not specific people—especially not by Joey’s dad. I remember  thinking right then, “I wonder what sort of dad Joey’s dad was?” 

“If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen my dad.” Joey said out of the blue. 

“What?” I said. 

“You are probably wondering what my dad is like.” (“That was weird,” I thought.) “It’s  not weird,” he said aloud. (“Whoa.”) “My dad and I are exactly alike,” he finished up. 

Before I really knew all the details, we had arrived at the church. I had a new job and had  been adopted into a new family. My head was swimming, and I was bubbling over with  joy. 

The church looked plain but beautiful. Churches are God’s houses, and I love them. I  remember thinking that someday I’d like to go inside when it was full of people. I  commonly made people uncomfortable, being that I smelled and all, so I didn’t go in  when they were crowded. I’d just looked in from the outside. Nevertheless, I liked to go  by a church at least once a week – when my schedule permitted. 

You can imagine how surprised I was that Joey’s dad was the owner of the Church. I  remember thinking, “Bet he’s rich; enough ‘bank’ to buy the cattle on a thousand hills.”  Joey never made mention of whether his dad was rich. What was ironic was that I didn’t  think Joey went to Church. I knew he believed in God and all because that’s all we ever  talked about. It was all he cared about, that and me. He only talked about the Bible, and  how I needed to read it. It was chalked full of interesting stories about love and hate, war  and peace, life and death. He said it recounted how God created the world and how he  separated a people holy and set apart for Himself. But Joey would say above all things, the Bible tells of a Father terrifically in love with His children and who He would go to  any length to bring them safely back home. He really thought it was a lovely, living book.  That day, he taught me my first verse. First Bible quote I heard that ever made much  sense. He told me as a way of answering a question I asked him. 

“Why are you so nice to me,” I asked? 

He just smiled and said, “I have a great quote for you – Psalm 103 verses 13-14. ‘Just as  a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear  Him. For He Himself knows our frame; He is mindful that we are but dust.’” 

I had had some difficulties with my real father, and I told Joey so. He told me to just  imagine what I would be like as a dad. That wasn’t hard to do. See, I was a dad – not a  very good one. I wanted to be but my ex-wife never gave me much the chance. She took  my kids away from me. It was like having my kids stolen right out from underneath my  nose. I loved them a lot – haven’t seen them in twelve and a half years.” By then I was all  worked up, and I totally forgot about the quote I had just learned. But Joey always had an  apt word. 

Joey taught me how I needed to learn to forgive my ex-wife. Then he said something that  totally blew my socks off, and I didn’t have a lot of socks to spare! He said that unless I  forgave her…no job! I felt double-crossed but something came over me and I just said,  “How?” 

He told me that God felt like I did. He felt like His children had been stolen from Him too.  

“So it’s like my ex-wife is Satan?” 

He assured me that was precisely not correct. 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

He smiled and reiterated a firm, “no.” He explained his thoughts to me in a story. 

He said, “One time a guy was dating a girl who ended up hurting him badly. Instead of  praying for revenge, this guy prayed that God would be kind to the girl.” Joey told me  that this guy had the quote I just learned in mind when he began to pray for mercy. See,  he knew his girlfriend was wrong and that God would agree with him. Without getting  into details, Joey told me this girl had clearly gone against the spirit of the Bible without  wanted badly enough to stop. Joey knew all the details because this guy was a good  friend of his. He also told me this friend knew the importance of leaving room for God’s  revenge. (You might not know this but revenge belongs to God alone. God will enact  vengeance at the proper time.) It gave me a great release of pressure to know that God  would take care of the situation someday. It also gave me an ability to have compassion  on her for the first time ever. So I prayed.  

“God, in Your anger remember mercy for she is but dust.” 

Joey then said, “He will forgive us our trespasses just as we forgive those who trespass  against us.” I smiled. Then I started thinking. I was well aware that I also am but dust and  had made plenty of mistakes myself. I asked Joey, “Is it okay to ask God a question?” 

Joey said, “Of course.” 

So I asked God a question, and He answered me, which I will get into in a moment, but  let me first digress. As time went on I started saying more and more “God told me this or  that,” because He would. Although I had to start explaining what I meant by, “God told  me” mostly to church people. Church people were the only ones who seemed to wish for  any explanation.  

“He speaks to my heart,” I’d say. “I can feel His voice.”  

Details aside, here is the ensuing conversation as it took place that day between the Lord  and myself:

I asked, “How do you teach dust, Lord?” 

The Lord said, “I don’t. I have clean dust, and I offer it as a replacement one particle at a  time. It’s an exchange led by the dust. I’m willing to trade at all times.” I responded, “I don’t understand; how do You trade dust particles?” 

The Lord said, “I polish them up real good.” 

I liked that. Especially the polishing part, and the fact that the Lord said “real good” and  not “very well”. I could relate better to Him now. But, if you’re at all like me, you may  not fully grasp what I’m saying, so I let me explain. You see, people are made out of  “dirt” dust particles, and God has “gold” dust particles, also known as the Bible. The  Bible is God’s gold refined by the fire. 

So, the Lord takes each particle of His word and polishes it up so well that people will  want it. Then when someone sees a shiny piece lived out in the life of one of His  servants, those on-lookers may like it enough to ask Him for one just like it in prayer.  The Lord is gracious, He will trade those who ask Him – anytime – one of their thoughts  for one of His. It’s quite a positive exchange for both parties. 

Joey was a lot like God. He just had so many great things to offer. We were forever  exchanging this for that. I used to carry on like a truck driver. (I don’t know why I say  that. I know a number of truck drivers who are extremely polite and would never say  most of what I reveled in saying). Joey taught me such a variety of ways to express  myself that swearing simply became dull. 

Then came my cigarette habit. He taught me how walking could take its place as a  pastime, and he was right. Now I walk and so on and so forth. It was such a gradual  process of exchanging this for that; that I never realized the tremendous impact he had  over all aspects of my life. 

Anyway, back to the sequence of events. 

All this had begun that great and tremendous day Joey asked me to go work for him. I  never told you exactly what was required of me. My job was to pick up all the “refuse”,  bring it inside the church, and Joey would look it over and see if he could salvage it  before he discarded it for good. It seemed a bit particular to set apart refuse like this, but  Joey never did anything without a purpose. I was just thankful for the job. So, I picked up  all the trash I saw and brought it to him. 

You know, since I’m telling this story just between me and you. I can be honest. It made  no sense whatsoever to me to go outside, pick up garbage, and bring it inside. But that’s  what I was told to do, so I did it. And he paid me. I was not paid every week. Sometimes,  it was every two weeks or every other day or once a month. Payday always varied, but I  always had enough to make it back to work the next day.

It went on this way for some time until I had so cleaned up the churchyard that I was  unable to find anything else to collect. I made my plea with Joey, days without number, to let me do something else. He seemed not to hear me, or worse yet, not to care that I  was pleading so. 

“Come on Joey, I cannot find anymore garbage – anywhere.” 

“It’s not garbage! It’s refuse,” he would insist. “One man’s refuse is another man’s treasure. Go on back out.” 

Now, I wish I could change this next part of my story, but I’m unable. I am unwilling to  lie. I got mad and quit. I turned in my keys to the church. I slapped them on Joey’s desk.  When I turned to go, I pivoted abruptly and stormed out. I headed back to my bush on the  corner of 10th and Bradley. 

I hadn’t been to that corner for quite sometime. My living quarters were one of those  things I had exchanged some time back. One day I found myself spending nights indoors  and eating hot meals, and I wasn’t even in prison. I sure felt like I was in heaven. 

But no longer! Now I was in the prison; the prison of my mind. What haunted me most  was Joey’s expression or lack of it when I slammed the keys down on the table. It was  almost as if he’d been expecting it all along but without judgment or comment. I just  stared at him for the longest time mostly expecting him to try and stop me and half  expecting him to punch me, but certainly expecting him to pick up the keys, follow me  out, and close the door behind me. He did none of the above. He just looked at me with  utter undeniable sweetness. He didn’t even blink. His eyes weren’t crying, but I could tell  his heart was. I didn’t care – served him right. 

I was sick of doing the same thing over and over and over again and never being clear  about what I was doing or why I was doing it – except for a stupid paycheck. That  stopped me. I found that thought, utterly alien. Hadn’t I always just wanted a paycheck,  so I didn’t have to spend all my time thinking about one in order that I could simply  proceed with my life? 

Well, here I was back under my bush, no paycheck, no purpose, no reason to get up, and  not even a twisted stick or a cup of Joe to look forward to tomorrow. Needless to say, my  sleep was more troubled than ever. I couldn’t get away from thinking about Joey’s heart felt expression along with his utter lack of surprise. I let him down but, so what! I let lots  of people down. Who cares about Joey anyway, he’s just like the rest. “Do this. Do that.  Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Here, here’s a quarter. Stay outta my way. I’m busy  Cherokee; I’m busy.” 

I went back to pan handling. It seemed no one knew me anymore. I wasn’t “taken care  of” like I had been before I met Joey. I got arrested more times than ever before, and I  couldn’t quit thinking about Joey. 

My man Joey. He really let me down. He turned out to be just like everyone else. I talked  about him to anyone that would listen. I’d tell them how phony he was. How he was  worse than all the others because he suckered me with initial respect. Made me think he  was real. Made me think I was worth something. Gave me a job. Helped me to see hope.  Encouraged me to try. Trusted me. Called me Cherokee. 

I stopped dead in my tracks. I heard myself talking. I heard what I was saying, and it hit  me like a ton of bricks. Joey always called me Cherokee. I only told him once that I  preferred being called Cherokee. He said then and there, “Then, Cherokee it is.” And  never once did he slip up by calling me Jean. He was truly my friend. I broke a gasket  that afternoon. Someone once told me a terrible lie: real men don’t cry. 

Joey used to say, “God gave us all kinds of tools to release pressure: laughter, anger,  seriousness, silliness, and yes…even tears. A real man, like a real mechanic, knows how  and when to use the proper tool at the proper time.” 

And just then was the proper time for tears – apparently quite a few of them. 

I remember my mother once saying, “Son cry; it will make you feel better.” However,  that was not the case just now. No matter how much I cried, I only felt worse. Sometimes  tears are a terrific indication that you have not only hurt yourself but someone else. I  owed Joey an apology. I hoped he’d still be around. He was the only true friend I had  ever had, and I walked out on him. 

When I got to the church, the door was still open. I knocked, but no one was there. I went  in. 

“Joey? Joey? It’s me, Cherokee. Are you here?” 

I was cautious as I went on inside. It was dark and every step echoed, and every word I  spoke bounced of every wall in sight. I made my way to his office. The door was open  just a wisp. I froze. I couldn’t face him. I turned around and ran. I think I was hoping  he’d stop me. He didn’t.  

Somewhere just outside the door I tripped and down I went – face in the mud. The clean  shirt I bought from the Salvation Army for the occasion – ripped. I broke down once  more. Boy, I thought to myself, if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all.  

At just that moment I knew something horrible. I was a nothing, a nobody, and the only  person who ever much cared for me, I spit on. Now I would die. I was an old man, and  the streets aren’t too kind to old men. The younger men just seem to be getting younger  and meaner. It ain’t like when I was young. 

As I was down on my knees making my way up to my feet, I noticed another “nobody”,  much like myself, just leaning against a tree whittling or something. I got up, stumbled on 

over to him, and said, “Hey.” When you’re as miserable as I was on that particular day  you find yourself trying to start conversations with just about anyone. Generally anyone  around was just about as miserable as you were, so they would generally respond. This  was just that sort of case. 

“Hey,” he responded. 

“I’m Cherokee,” I said. “I’m a full-blooded Cherokee, which is why I go by ‘Cherokee’.  Real name’s Jean.” 

“Texas is my name. Full-blooded red neck.” 

I froze. Then, after a second, a smile broke across his face. 

“I’m just kidding,” he said. “I’m Billy, and I’m only part blooded. The rest of me is filled  with AIDS.” He started to cry. 

Being out in the streets so long you get used to people crying. Except, we don’t call that  kind of crying, crying. We call it washing out. Tears either seem to harden people or  soften them. With me, they make me want to be more caring. 

“Billy, you and me got a lot in common,” I told him. “You want to meet a friend of  mine?” 

“Sure.” 

I helped him up because he was pretty weak. This time when I went inside the church, I  went in with a different purpose. This time I went in with my hands full instead of empty.  It was a whole different experience. I guess in a way I had collected a different kind of  “refuse”. But to me Billy was anything but trash. I just knew Joey would agree. 

I went to his office, but no one was there. I felt weak and my knees buckled. Luckily for  me, Billy was able to catch me and put me in a chair. There was a note on his desk. 

“Dear Cherokee, 

My good and faithful servant. Garbage is something people throw away. Billy  was the refuse I was looking for. Teach him as you have learned from me.” 

- - Jesus 

It was sometime before I could regain my composure.  

“Are you alright chief?”

“I’m not the chief,” I said. “I’m just Cherokee. The Chief is not here, but would you like  a job?”