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February 20, 2007
George and Trampas
Filed under: The City
“Are you in school?” Perhaps intrigued by the youthful packaging of his audience of one, the words made their way from George’s tired vocals. It was a Tuesday night last fall, just a couple months after we had moved in. It would be one of my final Tuesday nights walking from the parking garage this late from class. My pillow-destined posture had to have been apparent.
“Where do you take classes?” George asked, apparently not worrying about where he was going, but somewhat confident that he would arrive soon. I was halfway through my two-block walk to the entrance of our building when our paths converged. George was pushing a cart. I was pushing 11:15 pm. The streets were quiet. Our move to this downtown loft is years ahead of practical. We knew we were moving into an area that is less than many dream about, yet more than we would ever expect.
“I just got back from a class at Biola,” I responded, as if I could have said anything and it would have satisfied the need for a verbal exchange to take place.
“One… three… eight… zero zero… Biola avenue.”
“Stop it George. How do you know the address?”
“La Mirada, California, nine… zero… six…”
“George! How do you know the address for Biola?” I was insistent, quickly glancing over my externalities, as if a tuition bill was taped to my chest pocket.
“I went to Talbot.”
“No you didn’t, George.”
“I got my degree in theology back in the seventies. I’ve been taking a few correspondence courses from a school out east. Here is some information about them.”
As George rummaged through the items in his cart, he found the papers and handed them to me. My mind dropped its jaw. My mouth continued conversing to keep things going. How in the world did this 60-something-year-old man end up downtown, living out of a shopping cart, with a degree from Talbot Theological Seminary (a sister school of Biola)?
Standing outside of the 12-story building I call home, knowing Jamaica was 11 floors up keeping the sheets warm, I continued for the next twenty minutes hearing George’s story. His mom had recently died and they lost the home there were living in near Compton. He was new to the streets, trying to steer clear of the areas where people are more interested in finding a drink or a dime.
When he scrounged together $5 a day, he could afford a room at one of the hole-tels in the area. During the days, he monitored a parking lot for a crooked boss just up the street. His pay–when he received it—would help George make it by.
“I don’t plan to be here very long,” said George. “I’ve only been down here about three months. I expect to be out of here soon.”
Six hours later, I woke up and readied myself for a Wednesday at the office. I kissed Jamaica’s hand—she was still keeping the sheets warm—and left our unit. As I locked the door behind me, Trampas was locking his door across the hall. We shook hands in between pre-dawn yawns. As we rode the elevator down, both making our way to the parking garage, we exchanged neighborly fodder. Trampas was on his way to finish up principal photography for Pirates III. Today was going to be a real challenge because they were shooting some of the stormy ship scenes. It required a lot of physical agility to withstand the large wind and water currents.
“Have a great day, Trampas.”
“You too, Brad.”
“We should get together sometime; the four of us. Maybe we could do some wine tasting one evening.”
“We’d love that.”
“We’ll connect soon.”
“Bye.”
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