I’ve always loved this picture. I keep it in the living room where I do my reading. My Nathan was a janitor. Like most everyone else, we lived paycheck to paycheck, worrying if there’d be enough to eat for the week. But we never went hungry. Never. Nathan made sure of that. And despite the lack of money, Nathan always scrapped aside enough to buy us some decent clothes. “You always wanna look good,” he constantly told me and the kids. “Cause if ya lookin’ good, people’ll treat ya good, they’ll respect. They’ll hate yer guts, but they’ll see you’re not nobody that don’t deserve the respect.”
Most nights, after coming home, Nathan would take off those bright blue janitor overalls and put on a nice tie and shirt. Slip into the only pair of shoes he owned, shoes he shined every single day. Glued to the mirror, he’d spiff himself up, dash a little cologne. Then, with enough daylight to be seen, he’d stand on the street. He wanted the world to see he was so much more than a janitor. That he was a man of dignity and that everyone should know it.
And everyone did. Not only because of his appearance. Nathan was the most charming man I ever met. He could smile and you felt like the most important person in the world. He treated everyone with the grace he expected you to show him. The hookers, the pimps, the drug dealers, it didn’t matter. They all stopped to chat and smoke a cig with Nathan. They’d laugh and, though we hadn’t a dime to spare, Nathan might loan them a dollar or three. I think that’s why, in the 43 years we’ve lived in this neighborhood, we never had a lick of trouble. Everyone waved at us and kept going. The gangs didn’t bother our kids. We’ve never been robbed. Nope. Not one lick of trouble. I don’t believe folks that had anything to do with that crap wanted to see Nathan standing out there, leg propped up on that hydrant, looking at them strange.
Come dinner, I’d call out the window for him. He’d come upstairs and he might take off the tie. Maybe. For the most part, he sat at the table all crisp and official, the head of the family. We’d talk about anything under the sun. There was no greater joy for Nathan than the sound of our children’s voices.
As each of our kids moved off into their own lives, there was a little more money around the house. I encouraged Nathan to go ahead and get himself some good clothes. He kept buying me these dresses and stuff, inexpensive jewelry. Whenever we went out to dinner or a family thing, I made sure to wear something Nathan got me. He loved showing me off. But in the apartment, I was more likely to stomp around in my housecoat and a head scarf. And every single night, I’d look out the window and see Nathan, looking handsomer every day, across the street, foot on that hydrant, those two-tone shoes practically glowing.
One of those nights, I had the kids call him for supper. After the second time, I went to see what was going on. There he was with his foot in place, chatting with a couple of the guys, passing around a beer. He waved with a smile, motioned he’d be along shortly. The dishes were set before I realized he still wasn’t there. I looked out the window to see this young prostitute talking to him. Nathan never gave up trying to talk that girl into going back to Minnesota. I waited until that conversation was over before calling Nathan one last time. He nodded at me and I looked at him with annoyed puzzlement. But I went and put the food on the table.
When I looked again, he was leaning on his leg, looking about the area. Like there was so much more to see than there was yesterday. Frowning, I put on my overcoat. As I crossed the street, I know my face must have been twisted into some kind of hell because Nathan looked about to die.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” I asked, keeping my voice down, which he appreciated.
“Nothing,” he replied with a sad smile.
“Then why don’t you come on upstairs?”
“Sorry ’bout that, sweetie.”
“Sorry my ass,” was all I had. “Now com’on.” I went to go and noticed my husband had not moved.
A great, big smile plastered Nathan’s face. He reached out for me. Reluctantly, I stepped over, letting his strong arm fold around my shoulders. Gently pulling me close, Nathan kissed my forehead and looked at me with soulful eyes and I must admit I got a little worried.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “I’m stuck.”
I gaped at him.
He said delicately, “My leg’s cramped. I can’t get it down.”
After a moment, I realized he was serious.
So, in pretending to share a loving hug, I placed my hand under his thigh. I lifted and tugged. Nathan let go the softest whimper. With my aid, he discreetly lowered his leg to the sidewalk. Waving bravely to a passerby, he struggled to not lean on me too much as I helped him up to our second floor apartment.
After that day, Nathan never rested his foot on the fire hydrant again. He’d stand against a building, or rest on a car. He might even stand over the hydrant, but he never raised a leg to take his regal stance on the throne.
Now when I look at that picture, I think about how ridiculously proud that man was. And wonderful. Nathan stood in the middle of all that was wrong with this neighborhood and let the world know he was better than that. That everyone around him can be better than that. That someone could stand in the filthiest spot on earth and be clean and prideful and happy.
I look at that picture and I remember the day he couldn’t get his leg down and was too silly to ask for help. And I laugh until I cry. And then I cry until I’m laughing.
My lord, I miss that man. I miss him so much…