Virginia Beach: A Taco Well Spent

   

Meet Taz.  Taz has been homeless for the past 4 years.  I bought Taz a taco.

 

 

 

Kodak Moment

 

In all honesty, he practically blindsided me.  I had decided to cut off about three pounds of my curly locks at the local barber shop while we took a two day reprieve in Virginia Beach, and the day had already a warm blue sheen from the receding daylight.  I was tucking my collar back behind my slightly scratchy neck when I turned my head to see him galloping over, a stitched together gait interlaced with strands of past addictions and scuffles.  With the diction of a fresh faced public speaker, he immediately launched into a convincingly well rehearsed boiled down timeline of his life on the streets.  As with anyone who has dealt with this type of encounter before, I could taste the point of this conversation coming to a head.  Sure enough, the subject of how many green backs were in my wallet at that time came into the spotlight, and it was then that I decided to embrace the mission I had set out on all those weeks ago. 

 

 

 "Sure, man.  I think I got a couple of bills here, somewhere."

 

   

"God Bless you, man, God Bless." 

 

      

   Some part of me cringed at the color by numbers lines he was rolling off of his tongue.  My turn in the conversation, now.

 

 

"Actually, man...you hungry?"

 

 

Even Colgate couldn't fix that grin he flashed me. 

 

"Now THAT'S pretty funny, man, haha."

 

 

I chuckled and nodded my head, and the hook sunk in.

 

 

"Yeah, well, I mean, if you want man, I can get you something, you know, close by, if you want to, bud." 

 

 

I shifted my weight to my other foot and gestured towards the littered Virginia Beach Boulevard, lined with neon veined chain restaurant signs and soccer mom vans.  He doesn't bat an eye.

 

 

"Yeah uh, so there's a Taco Bell like two blocks down, man.  I like tacos man, like, for real, man."

 

 

Can't argue with him, there.  Tacos are awesome.

 

 

"Alright, yeah sure, Taco Bell, man.  Hey, uh, do you mind if I like ask you a couple of questions, like a testimonial, type of deal?  You think?"

 

 

 

Momentary hesitation quickly proceeded by, what I imagine, a high pitched squeal from his stomach.

 

 

"Sure, sup' man, whatever, sounds good."

 

 

I have trouble keeping up with him over to the Taco Bell.

 

 

The wide eyes of the cashier girl's face as Taz ordered his banquet was absolutely priceless.  At that point,  I patted myself on the back in my decision to sit down with this six foot frame of bones and dirty cotton.  Curiously, he called himself Chester when the cashier asked for a name for the order.  Probably the only time he avoided eye contact since I had met him.  I guided his tray to the nearest table, whipped out my notepad, three clicks of the pen, and asked him to lay out his life story.  A piece of taco shell cemented itself to my left index knuckle as he began. 

 

     He thinks he started out probably after joining a gang at the tender age of ten.  What followed, as far as he could recall, was a blur of drug abuse, bullet riddled old friends, and street camaraderie.  At one point, he made a name for himself, in a sense, and purportedly became the #1 drug dealer of the Virginia Beach area.  Skepticism seeped into my furrowed brow, but that notion was quickly set aside as I noticed him hunch into a defensive posture, and his chewing dwindled in tempo.  He paused briefly to hack into a napkin.  A prolonged cough.

 

     I learnt that he was eventually arrested, and he served eleven years behind bars, and his life continued to implode on itself. 

 

Daughter?  Died of tuberculosis at twenty-three.

 

Parents?  Yet to be found/discovered.

 

Friends?  A bullet through his jaw and brain answered many of his prodding concerns.

 

     The other two times that he technically died also occurred after he was released back onto the streets.  Bronchitis from the dead of Winter took its toll, as well as an overdose, and all three times he was pulled back from being technically brain dead. 

 

My pen was weeping as it strained to keep up.

 

     He proceeded to detail his time on the streets and how he strived to be the guardian angel of his fellow street dwellers.  Incorporating the under the table help of his attorney, he secured the secrecy of an undisclosed secret homeless community with running hot water being siphoned off from a local business, complete with whole families and camouflaged tents.  This guy is my hero, in all his sour cream mustache glory.  Another hunched over prolonged coughing spasm into his napkin.  The whites of his eyes rolled upward and he took a minute to collect himself, swallowing painfully.

 

     So what of his battle with hunger?  Same as usual, I surmised as he rattled off his struggles:  most churches won't touch him, and the usual rounds consist of soup kitchens and the generosity of dollar bill toting "do gooders" who crave the media attention rather than the peace of mind of helping out your fellow man.  But he pushes on, until the hunger pangs are so debilitating that he can't even get to the local bus stop to get to his usual spot where he takes the burden of people's spare change from them.  And that's where I came into play.  He said that now, with a full stomach, (breaking his three day involuntary hunger strike), he can visit his friend and make sure him and his six year old daughter have a warm place to stay and a hot meal to look forward to  Again, is any of this true?  I never found out, and we parted ways after a walk back to the local bus stop. 

 



      

 

 

It was only until after, while in line to buy a pack of cards at Barnes & Noble, that I realized the dark staining flecks on his napkin weren't from the hot sauce.