The Grifter

Gray is the color of north Birmingham in late Winter--black and gray.

The landscape is gray: gray streets, gray trees devoid of leaves, gray buildings that once produced commerce but now sit empty and idle. A few little gray houses that once were homes for workers but are now occupied by old folks with few possessions other than memories of the good old days. It has a forlorn look of hopelessness. I imagine I can hear the clang and clatter of a product that once defined a city: iron and steel. The Pittsburgh of the South is no more. I am in the shadows of Sloss, now a rusting relic that once fueled the magic in the "Magic City."

The faces are black, except of course mine and one other traveler on this cloudy February day.

I am passing through at lunch time. I have options: fast-food fried chicken or fish. These two fine dining choices have a common parking lot. I choose the chicken because I have always had a weakness for fried bird. This bird is the famous "New Orleans style," which means it has been breaded in hot spices. Otherwise, it's nothing special. It sure ain't my grandmother's chicken, but it will suffice.

The restaurant is mostly empty. As I take my first bite I am approached by an old Black man. He is thin and angular, dressed in jeans and an old army field jacket. He is wearing a baseball cap and new tennis shoes (that's "sneakers" for those of you who don't speak Alabamian). He walks right up without hesitation and sits down at the table next to me.

"How you?"

"I'm good, sir. How 'bout yourself?"

"Well, I'd be doing pretty good if I was like you."

"Like me? How's that?"

"Eating."

"You need some money to get something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could use a little something."

I reach in my pocket and hand him a bill. He takes it and rises, heading for the door.

"You sure you going to get something to eat with that? Or are you getting up some drinking money?"

"Naw, I'm gonna eat. I can't eat this chicken. I'm gonna go over there and get me some of that fish."

I watch him slowly amble across the lot to the fish place next door. He disappears inside. I eat my #2 special--maybe I've done a fellow man a little good on this gray day.

As I leave, I see my man accosting another traveler in front of the fish place. He only scores pocket change this time. He doesn't look my way as he heads back toward the chicken joint.

It's a gray Valentines day in north Birmingham. Try to stay warm and have one on me, my friend.