The Neighbor

The Neighbor

He was already banging on the front door screen before I realized anyone had come through the front gate. A very large, very old black man, rumpled and grizzled.

“Yes’m,” he said. “I was wondrin’ if you like gumbo. ‘Cause I make gumbo on the weekend and sell it ‘round the neighborhood. Could I interest you in a quart for you and your mister?”

I didn’t mention that there was no “mister.” The neighborhood wasn’t the safest one I’d ever lived in.

“Could I get just a pint?” I asked. “Then I can see if I like it.”

“Would there be any way you could let me have the five dollar in advance so I can get together the ingredients?”

“Oh, great,” I thought. “I’ll never see that five dollars again.” But he didn’t look like the typical neighborhood crackhead and he didn’t appear drunk. So, kissing the five dollars goodbye, I opened the screen door and passed it to him.

“God bless you, m’am,” he said. “I’ll be back in the morning with your gumbo.”

Sure enough, before noon the next day he was back, pulling a wagon loaded with full Styrofoam containers. The gumbo was good, but not great, so I never ordered any more.

But he must have remembered me as a kind soul, because weeks later he appeared at my front door again as I was dressing for work. He wore only boxer underwear and a man’s necktie tied around his forehead like a bandana. He was crying and saying things I couldn’t understand as he stumbled away.

The policeman who came for him told me later that they had gotten him to the hospital “in time.”