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another breakfast with Billy Wayne and Joe Eddy
It is a nondescript morning in East Texas—neither hot nor cold, neither wet nor dry. The City Diner is open for breakfast, and once again, Billy Wayne and Joe Eddy are there.
Billy Wayne is contemplative.
“I run into a feller downtown on the corner of Main and First. I was waitin’ for the light to turn so I could cross when I noticed him standing beside me. I was a little taken by it because I hadn’t seen him, and then he was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with me.”
Joe Eddy takes the first sip of his coffee, which is almost too hot even to sip.
“I reckon there is more to the story?”
“Well, yeah,” Billy Wayne smirks. “What kinda story would it be if it ended there?”
Joe Eddy replies, “My thought exactly, and the kind you might be likely to tell.”
“So, anyway. I notice him there and I greet him with a friendly hello, which he returns with a grunt. I wasn’t satisfied with that so I asked him, ‘Where do you live?’ Now, mind you, he smells like a back alley, his hair is long and greasy, plus he wears a beard like a prophet.”
“Alright,” says Joe Eddy. “Then what?”
“Well, he proceeds to tell me as follows: ‘Where do I live? Right now, right here.’”
Joe Eddy: “Hm.”
Billy Wayne takes his first sip of coffee: “Lucille is trying her dead-level best to scald our tongues so we can’t talk at all. Anyways, I say, ‘So you are from right here in town?’ And he says, ‘No. You asked where I live, not where I am from. I am from another place entirely, a long way from it, but right now, I live right here…with you on this street corner.’”
Joe Eddy: “So, he’s homeless? He ask you if you could spare any change or to bum a cigarette?
Billy Wayne: “No. I don’t know. Maybe he is homeless. Anyway, he goes on to say, ‘Listen, son, wherever you find yourself, that is a good place to live, to really live, to be alive and aware in that moment, in that place. Too many people pick a place to call home and decide that is where they live. And then they sign on to work someplace and say, ‘This is where I work.’ So, they work in one place and they live in another. Since work takes up most of their waking hours most days, they work plenty and live little, if ever at all.’”
Joe Eddy: “He said all that? That was a mighty long light you waited for.”
Billy Wayne: “Well, the light musta changed a half-dozen times. I never moved from the spot. I was caught in this stranger’s web of philosophy. This fellow who looks like a street-dweller and smells like a dumpster had me caught like a deer in the headlights. He had me thinking.”
Joe Eddy: “There’s more?”
Billy Wayne: “Yes, so I nod in agreement and tell him I can see what he means and I confess maybe I do a lot more working than living and ask him what is the difference in his mind.”
Joe Eddy: “And…?”
Billy Wayne: “He tells me he has done all sorts of back-breaking labor and carried many a heavy load but he says, ‘I have never worked a day in my life.’ I figure, well, he is probably right about that. But he goes on to say that work is only work if you don’t want to do it or you would rather be somewhere else doing something else. Then he says, ‘I got my philosophy on the subject from a Sunday school lesson.’”
Joe Eddy: “And what was that?”
Lucille the Waitress, now eavesdropping for a substantial amount of time, chimes in: “Yes, praytell, Billy Wayne what did the street prophet learn in Sunday school?”
Billy Wayne: “He says it was a verse from Paul, which Paul wrote from prison. I looked it up and it is in Philippians chapter four , verse 11.”
Joe Eddy and Lucille the waitress in unison: “What’s it say?”
Billy Wayne: “It reads, ‘Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.’”
While Joe Eddy and Lucille the Waitress ponder the words of Paul, Billy Wayne continues, “So about that time, I turn my attention to the light, which is favorable for crossing. I tip my hat and say thanks and nice to make your acquaintance, but as I turn to walk, I feel his hand slip into my coat pocket, where my money clip resides. I remember that I only have a few bucks and the clip is old, so I pretend not to notice.”
Aghast and disappointed, Lucille says, “All of that just to make an elaborate distraction for a pickpocket move? Oh my God, Billy Wayne, you tell the worst stories. I am thinking about the beauty of life and how I should not consider serving you knuckleheads work, but living, and you go and ruin it.”
Billy Wayne puts up his hand.
“He didn’t take the money clip. When I reached the other side, I turned to see where he had gone but he was vanished. No sign of him. I asked a passing woman if she had seen him talking with me. She said she noticed me crossing the street but I was alone and there was no one on the other side.”
Joe Eddy huffs.
“So, now it’s a ghost story.”
Billy Wayne pulls a grimy, crumpled paper from his pocket. It is folded several times until it is a small square. He unfolds it and lays it on the table for his friends to see. The handwriting is unique, like that of a calligrapher, with swoops and loops, very elegant.
Billy Wayne says, “He took nothing from my pocket. He left this piece of paper in my pocket instead.”
“What’s it say?” asks Joe Eddy. “I don’t have my readers.”
Lucille picks up the paper, which is smelly as well as dirty. She reads aloud, “‘Where do You live, Billy Wayne?’ And it is signed Barachiel. What an odd name. Is this real?”
Billy Wayne sighs and nods. “I looked up the name on the Internet to see what descent it might be. Sounded Middle Eastern or something. Turns out, in Judaism and Christianity lore, Barachiel is the name of the angel in charge of all guardian angels. I ain’t sayin’ anything except that’s my story…” he stabs the paper with his index finger, “and I am sticking to it.”
Joe Eddy, lost for a moment in deep contemplation with a faraway gaze in his eye before pulling out his iPhone and punching some words into Google search. He finds what he is looking for and reads it.
“‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.’ That is from the Bible, Hebrews chapter 13, verse two.”
A long silence ensues. They each consider the crumpled paper on the table.
“The coffee was plenty hot today,” Billy Wayne says to Lucille the Waitress.
“Whose turn is it to pay?” she asks.
They each point at the other.
“His.”
Author’s Note
Billy Wayne and Joe Eddy are characters inspired by two men I saw one morning while having coffee with my grandfather. Billy Wayne is a tall, rugged Texas farmer, and Joe Eddie is a stout, meaty businessman. Lucille the Waitress could easily fit into any roadside diner. Since they are fictional, I reserve the right to put them into any era but always in the morning over coffee with Lucille attending to them. Here is the first in the series, if you want context.
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