5. Help from Larry

Larry is my neighbor. He's younger, maybe 40 something, and has some disability (through SSI) that gives him enough money for rent and food, but little for extras like cigarettes, and an occasional bottle of cheap vodka. For these he does odd jobs around the mobile home park.

For years Larry has cut my grass and shoveled my snow. It was such a convenience and yet I successfully avoided looking at the person behind all these services. Recently this has changed.

Over the past few months Larry has become a major help for me in packing some of the heavier items, such as cabinets and books. Yesterday, we filled up six plastic 18-gallon boxes with piano and organ music. It was just impossible for me to choose what to keep and what to dispose of. So I choose to keep it all and decide later what to keep.

Left to myself this likely would not have gotten done so quickly. But by the simple expedient of asking for help, I had a super-energetic helper at my disposal. It's so strange. Years ago I had that kind of energy, that kind of drive. Yet today I proceed with more measured steps. So I cheat by asking for his assistance and in this way can expedite moving.

The unusually warm weather of 2007 has deprived him of the snow shoveling jobs that buy him an occasional package of Buglar tobacco. Also, he ran out of food stamps early this month and is living on the edge.

It takes me time to figure this all out, however. The one thing I definitely know is that I'm procrastinating and not getting things done. When I ask Larry for help, he graciously accepts and almost immediately the show gets on the road. We get the truck loaded up with boxes and agree to leave the following morning to take them to a storage unit.

I'm late as I pick him up and I selfishly decide to skip stopping for coffee to make up for time. It doesn't occur to me that maybe he has not eaten in the last day or two. When I stop at the Citgo station, I give him two dollars to buy a package of Buglar. By the time we arrive in Homer, I realize that I've forgotten the key for the storage unit. It's an upsetting moment until I remember that the spare key is stored in the lock box. At the bank. Just down the street from the only restaurant in town.

So we stop and I go into the bank while Larry rolls himself a cigarette and has a smoke. With great relief, I return with the key and we proceed to load the heavy boxes of music into the storage unit. When we return to the restaurant, I discover just how hungry this poor fellow is. Lunch is a buffet and we both sit down about 11:30 am. We begin with bowls of yummy potato soup and at this point everything is normal.

I proceed to the salad bar while Larry loads up at the hot bar with a heaping plate of chicken, noodles & pork, and mashed potatoes. By the time I have finished eating, Larry is ready for the salad bar. He eats with great deliberation and seems to savor each bite. Unlike the rest of us, eating appears to be a great sensory experience for him. After what seems like a long time, he goes back for seconds at the salad bar.

At this point, he pauses for a cigarette between courses. What saves me from boredom is the fact that we sat at the round table, where several local farmers were also sitting. There was Red, owner of O'Dells Grain Elevator, Fred (retired military), and Marty, a middle-aged divorced lady. Things were quiet that day in town and gossiping at the round table is always a good way to pass the time.

After we had covered everything possible in the world to talk about, I stared in disbelief as my friend went back for a forth trip. Back to the salad bar to load up on desert. I remember a huge pile of cottage cheese, together with pineapple chunks, shredded cheese, topped with frozen strawberries. By itself, it would have been adequate for a meal.

Again it was the same routine: eating slowly and savoring every bite. Was this some admonition from my departed mother who tried to get me to slow down while eating? ("See how it's done, dearie"). I both admired him for the manner in which he enjoyed his food and for the great slowness with which he ate. It was as if his whole life had been building up for this one gastric moment and he wasn't about to rush it. Rather, he was in a state of nirvana.

It is peculiar that as many times as I have been inside the Stagecoach Restaurant, I never noticed the shadow boxes tacked to the wall by each table. Larry noticed and commented on it. "How strange," I thought to myself, "that he sees this so clearly on his first visit when I have been oblivious to it." And then, to add insult to injury, he also notices with glee that there is an entire railroad track around the whole place! It is only then that Nelson, the owner, describes how they used to run the trains all the time and that the kids loved it.

Finally at 2:00 pm, a full two and a half hours later, he finished this great meal. A carry-out would have been appreciated, but Sharon (our waitress) advised that this was not possible. (Thank you, Sharon). Did I mention that Larry is very skinny? I consider that maybe he was of the snake family and only ate once a month or so.

I swear that what I have revealed is no exaggeration; my restaurant friends will back me up completely, as it was a topic of conversation when things got dull. But I have an appreciation for this person who is able to help me by his great enthusiasm for getting things done.

The power of people working together has been made clear to me through this experience. Helpful and courteous to the end, it was with regret that I said goodbye to him and marveled at how each one of us is a gift to the other.