Free Dire Means by Geoffrey Neil Page A

to enjoy its lunch elsewhere. The homeless man cursed the bird, picked up the empty pretzel paper, and threw it hard, but it only floated down by his feet before he grumbled back to his bench.
    Mark leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his sore face in his hands. All his family members who would accept a collect call from him were scattered in various cities across the country. He knew that his small circle of friends would be at work right now and he hated to need them. He would wait for Milten.
    §
    Mark shook his head with his face still buried in his hands—unable to believe his circumstances. His head throbbed. He felt a tap on his shoulder and from behind heard a voice say, “Son, I’d be honored if you’d take this change.”
    Mark turned to see a short, slightly hunched-over old man, two quarters pinched between his index and middle fingers. The man’s hair was pure white, a neat crop around his ears and tapered to the neck as if he had just been to the barber. He was clean shaven and wore a two-piece, single-breasted brown suit and brown wing-tip shoes to match. His trousers were too short so that green socks protruded from his shoes, exposed to a place well above his ankles. His fist squeezed the straps of a small wrapped and tied black duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
    Mark took the quarters. “Thank you, sir.”
    The man dropped his duffle bag on the ground, raised both his hands in the air and shouted, “Woo-hoo! No, thank you!”
    “Why are you thanking me?” Mark said. He knew that many people who wandered around here suffered from mental illness. Mark was grateful for the quarters nonetheless.
    “Cause you’re takin’ my grace,” the man said.
    Mark felt a sermon coming on. He wasn’t in the mood to hear a religious pitch from a potentially crazy person who felt they had purchased sermon time in exchange for fifty cents. He held his palm open, ready to give them back. “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Folks around here call me Uncle Leon. And you?”
    “I’m Mark—Mark Denny.” They shook hands.
    “It looks like somebody took a whuppin’ to ya.” Uncle Leon’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to hone in on Mark’s swollen eye as he continued to shake Mark’s hand.
    “I’ve had a very tough day,” Mark said.
    Uncle Leon had a firm grip and he smiled as he shook hands—a smile that deepened the permanent wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His greeting had the warmth of a grandpa.
    “Well God bless ya, son. You needed some quarters, now you got ‘em.” Uncle Leon picked up his duffle bag and turned to leave.
    “Listen, Uncle Leon…” Mark said, stopping him. “If you’ll give me your address I will be glad to pay you back by mail—with interest.”
    Uncle Leon laughed. “You’re sittin’ on my address. And if you tried to mail it here, what are ya gonna write on the envelope? Third Street Promenade, fourth bench north of Broadway Street?” He pointed his finger around to the other benches on which other homeless people sat. “Hell, one of my roommates would get the mail that day and I’d never see your money.”
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t know your situation. I was just looking to repay you for your kindness.”
    “Thank ya’ is just fine. You try to pay me back and you’ll ruin my grace.”
    “What’s with this grace?” Mark asked. He was anxious to go make his phone call, but Uncle Leon intrigued him.
    “Unmerited favor—that’s what grace is. I showed you favor you ain’t earned. If you pay it back you ruin my grace. If you don’t pay me back, my favor comes back to me better and different.”
    “Interesting…philosophical,” Mark said.
    Uncle Leon stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger a few times while he examined Mark. “You’re new to beggin’, ain’t ya?”
    “Oh no, I, uh just, I’m just trying to make a call—I mean this is temporary… and I…” Mark stammered.
    “Hold up, son. You’re gonna choke on yer