A Selfless Man

By Dwayne Phillips

The man was awkward, but not threatening. His pants had large stains on the legs and hung from his body. Surely, they were borrowed from someone who weighed fifty more pounds. A piece of paracord, wrapped about his waist three times, kept the pants from yielding to gravity and resting about his ankles. His long-sleeve shirt, attention grabbing during the Alabama summer, tried vainly to stay tucked into the bunched waist of the pants.

What garnered most attention from the man was his activity. He held a brown paper lunch bag in his left hand. From the bag he withdrew quarters. He then inserted the quarters into parking meters that showed fifteen minutes or less.

The man had made several passes up and down the old main street of Ft Payne. He closely examined the time left on each parking meter. Sometimes he waited a minute or two to allow the time left to fall below the fifteen-minute threshold. He ensured that none of the meters expired.

In the middle of the summer afternoon, a police officer approached the man.

“Hey bud, what ya’ doin’?” asked the police officer.

“Watching the meters,” replied the man. His shirt was now two shades darker from perspiration.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” said the police officer.

“Do what?” asked the man.

“Feed the meters. You’re not supposed to feed the meters,” explained the police officer.

The man didn’t know what to say or if he was supposed to say anything. He tired of the now silent conversation with the police officer, turned, and walked away. He stopped two cars down the sidewalk and deposited a quarter into a meter that had fourteen minutes left on it.

“Hey, bud,” called the police officer as he walked quickly and with great intent to catch up to the man.

The man walked to the next parking meter and inserted a quarter into it.

The police officer, now even with the man, attempted to resume the conversation. “Hey, bud. Did you hear me?”

“I hear well,” said the man. “Thank the Lord for good health and good hearing.”

“Well, you better act like you hear me,” said the police officer.

The man looked at the officer as he had before. It seemed to him that the police officer wanted him to say something, but he couldn’t find any words to continue the conversation. “Perhaps,” thought the man, “this police officer is bored or lonely or both. He needs a friend to fill his afternoon.”

The man smiled slightly. “Would you like to help me?” he asked.

The police officer twisted his face to bring lines to and fro across it. He shook his head slightly and quickly. “What?” is all he could say.

“Here,” said the man as he pulled a couple of quarters from his paper lunch sack and held them out towards the police officer. “You take these. You can walk with me, and the next time we see a meter running short, you can put a quarter in. Don’t put in a quarter if the meter has more than fifteen minutes, but if it is under, put in one quarter. Just one quarter per meter, mind you. We have to make the quarters last as long as we can. Let’s go.”

The man turned and started to walk down the sidewalk to the next meter. He noticed that the police officer hadn’t moved, so he turned back to face the officer.

“Sorry, sometimes I talk too fast,” said the man. “Did you understand? We put a quarter in each meter that is below fifteen minutes. But to do that, we have to walk from meter to meter. It fills the day, you know, and we can talk as we walk up and down the streets. This town has wonderful streets. I don’t see that much anymore. This is a pleasant town you have here.”

The police officer paused and shook his head again. He tapped his ear to exaggerate the outward show of his “are you crazy” feeling.

“Oh,” said the man. “Are you hard of hearing? I can explain again. You see…”

The police officer interrupted him. “I hear good. I get you. You don’t seem to get me, bud. You can’t feed the meters. Understand? You can’t feed the meters. You have to let them expire.”

The man stood quietly. Once again, it seemed that the police officer wanted him to say something or do something, but he couldn’t imagine what it was. He smiled, turned, and started to walk away.

The police officer quickly grabbed the man’s shoulder with his hand and spun the man around to where they were facing one another. “Listen bud,” he said with a firm and embarrassingly loud voice. “I told you. You can’t feed the meters. Stop it now or I’ll take you in. Do you understand or do I have to write it out for you?”

“Well friend,” said the man. “I understand that you don’t want me to put quarters in the meters, but I don’t understand why you feel that way. Is there something I can do for you?”

The police officer paused and shook his head again.

“Do you feel okay?” asked the man. “You seem to be shaking your head a lot. Do you have a headache?”

“No,” said the police officer. “Not yet, but you’re a headache.”

The man stood quietly for a moment. A hint of irritation crept in. He simply couldn’t think of anything that he could say. He smiled, his smile chasing away the angst, and said, “Have a good afternoon,” and tried to turn to walk to the next parking meter.

The police officer grabbed his perspiration-soaked shirt. “No you don’t bud. You’re coming with me to see the judge.”

The man halted and smiled. “Oh, a judge,” he said. “I like judges.”

The police officer pointed the man in the desired direction and walked two paces behind him. The police officer had to nudge the man along now and then as he stopped to put a quarter in a parking meter. They walked two blocks, and the police officer turned him into the county town courthouse.

“Oh, this is pleasant,” said the man as they entered the cool, air-conditioned building. “It was pretty hot outside today.”

The police officer rolled his eyes. “You won’t feel so pleasant when you meet the judge.”

The man wondered about that statement. He felt pleasant indoors and couldn’t understand why he would stop feeling that way.

The two walked down a few hallways. The man, one step ahead of his escort, smiled widely and swiveled his head about at each new sight inside the building. The people in the building looked at the police officer with questions. He responded to each by rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

The walk ended in a small room with the title “Small Claims Court” above the door. The room was strewn with a dozen metal and plastic chairs. Near one wall was an elevated wooden desk with a bored and somber man wearing a black cloak. He stopped reading a newspaper when the man and the police officer entered.

“Yes?” asked the judge.

“Judge Watson,” started the police officer. “I have here a fella who wouldn’t stop feeding the parking meters. I told several times to stop, but he kept on.”

Judge Watson sighed as he folded his newspaper neatly along the creases and set the result on his desk. “Name?” he asked.

The police officer nudged the man who was now smiling more broadly than before. “You heard him,” said the police officer. “Tell Judge Watson your name.”

“Oh, okay,” said the man. “My name is Peter Fish. I’m glad to meet you.”

The man extended his right hand and started walking towards the desk to shake Judge Watson’s hand. The police officer grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

“Don’t approach the bench unless asked,” said the police officer.

Peter stopped and wondered. The judge looked bored and lonely and seemed to need someone to greet him properly. The police officer, however, wouldn’t let him make friends with the judge.

Judge Watson spoke at a typical Alabama pace with a deep voice. “Okay, Mr., h, Mr. Fish. Do you have any identification?”

“No Judge Watson, just my face,” said Peter.

The judge paused and looked at the peaceful but somehow pathetic face smiling up at him. “Officer, bring me Mr. Fish’s driver’s license.”

The officer stood in front of Peter so that he couldn’t miss him. “You heard Judge Watson, give me your driver’s license.”

“Oh, that?” said Peter. “I don’t have one. I don’t have a car or anything, so I have no need for a license to drive something I don’t have.”

The police officer turned towards the judge. “Judge Watson, he doesn’t…”

“I heard him,” interrupted Judge Watson. “Mr. Fish, do you have any identification? Credit card, military card, library card, anything?”

“No,” said Peter.

“What do you have in your wallet?” asked the police officer.

“I don’t have a wallet,” said Peter. “I have nothing to put in a wallet, so why carry one?”

“Mr. Fish,” said Judge Watson. “Where are you from?”

“Oh,” said Peter. “Down the road. I walked into town from down the road.”

“Don’t sass the judge,” said the police officer. “Answer him.”

Peter stood quietly. He could see that the police officer was upset, but surely Peter wasn’t the source of his discontent. He had answered all the police officer’s questions as well as those from Judge Watson. With no idea what else to do, Peter looked at Judge Watson, smiled, and said, “You have a pleasant building here. The air conditioning is so nice on a hot summer afternoon.”

The police officer rolled his eyes again. “Your honor, this is the kind of bull he was giving me on the street. Makes no sense, some kind of smart ass. Sorry he’s so disrespectful to you. I thought he would straighten up once I got him in front of you.”

Judge Watson started again, “Mr. Fish. Do you know why you are here?”

“Well,” said Peter. “I think the police officer is bored and lonely this afternoon, so I’m spending some time with him. You know, sort of being his friend for the afternoon.”

At that, the police officer raised a stiffened hand to slap Peter. He caught himself before doing so. Instead, he stalked over to a chair and sat. He bent forward and held his head in the palms of his hands.

“No, Mr. Fish,” said Judge Watson. “That is not the reason. You are here because you disobeyed the order of a police officer. He told you to stop feeding the parking meters and you didn’t. Do you understand that?”

Peter thought about what Judge Watson said. It didn’t make any sense. “I hear you Judge Watson, but I don’t understand the logic. I mean, I was doing something kind for those poor people who didn’t have enough money for the parking meters.”

“Well,” said Judge Watson. “Let me explain it to you. This police officer has the job of writing tickets to those people who let their parking meters expire. Those people then walk down the street to our pleasant, air-conditioned building and pay twenty-dollar fines to the town. Those fines pay the police officer’s salary as well as the salary and expense of the rest of the city employees. So when you feed the meters, you put us all out of our jobs.”

“But what about those kind people?” asked Peter.

The police officer jumped to his feet. “Don’t address the judge unless asked and always address him as Judge Watson. Got it?”

Peter felt compassion for the poor police officer. Something was eating the inside of the police officer, and Peter wished he could soothe those harsh feelings. Peter looked at Judge Watson and pointed to the police officer with peaceful eyes. He then looked back at Judge Watson.

“Do you have something you want to say?” asked Judge Watson.

“Oh yes,” said Peter. “I didn’t know that I was taking the salaries of the city employees. This is such a fine little city here. I meant no harm. It troubles me to think that your employees would struggle to feed their families based on my actions. Please forgive me for my ignorant actions.”

“Unfortunately,” said Judge Watson. “We aren’t in a forgiving position. The fine for what you did is fifty dollars. That will help pay salaries and feed kids.”

Judge Watson slammed a wooden gavel onto his desk. “Fifty dollars fine. Pay the clerk on your way out.”

The police officer waved for him to exit the small courtroom, but Peter stood still.

“Come one,” said the police officer. “You heard Judge Watson. Let’s go.”

“But I won’t pay the fine,” said Peter.

Judge Watson overheard Peter’s response. “Mr. Fish, you will pay the fine. That is the law here. Be on your way.”

Peter turned to the police officer. “I’m not supposed to talk to Judge Watson unless he tells me to, right? So would you tell him that I won’t pay the fine because I don’t have any money? Let’s see,” Peter paused as he held the brown lunch sack to his head and peered inside. “I have three quarters left. That’s just seventy-five cents. That’s all I have. I don’t have fifty dollars.”

Judge Watson stood and leaned forward over his desk. “Then you’ll spend twenty-four hours in jail. That’s what you’ll do.”

Judge Watson couldn’t see Peter’s face. He could see the reaction to Peter in the face of the police officer. Curiosity overcame Judge Watson. “Look at me, Mr. Fish. Show me your face.”

Peter turned towards Judge Watson and showed a smile lighting his face with a loving glow.

“Oh,” said Peter. “I can stay in your jail? Is it air conditioned? I can wash and sleep with a roof over my head. Do you feed people in your jail? I hope so. I haven’t eaten in a few days, so a meal would be wonderful. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Invitation?” started the police officer. “What do you mean you haven’t eaten in a few days. You were dropping quarters into parking meters like they were on fire. What do you mean you haven’t eaten?”

“Well,” said Peter. “When I arrived in town I traded my last few dollars for quarters. That’s when we met, when we started our friendship. I didn’t know if I would have enough quarters left to eat, but you took care of that for me. You’ve taken wonderful care of me. You brought me indoors to a cool place and now you’ve provided me a place to sleep and eat and everything.”

The police officer nudged Peter towards the wall farthest away from Judge Watson. “Sit here,” he said as he pushed a chair against the wall.

Peter obliged and sat. “Thank you. I haven’t sat all day, I haven't rested my feet all day. Thank you.”

The police officer walked to the side of Judge Watson’s desk so they could whisper to one another outside of Peter’s hearing.

“What is going on?” asked the police officer. “We’re trying to punish this numbskull, but he finds a way to thank us for everything we do.”

“I know,” said Judge Watson. “I’ve seen this before. It was years ago, but I’ve seen this before.”

“Seen what?” asked the police officer.

“A selfless man,” answered Judge Watson as he shook his head. “He has nothing and wants nothing. We can do nothing to him.”

The police officer turned away from Judge Watson, walked to Peter, and walked him out of the small courtroom to where he would be placed in the air-conditioned jail for twenty-four hours.

One corner of Judge Watson’s mouth moved upwards to form a slight expression of happiness.

The End