Mike 3/13/2003

Mike
In the background of every Village, town, city or metropolis, there are persons we never see. They are the castaways of society, the bungled and botched, unable for one reason or another to become a part of that which their brothers built up.
We of coarse cannot acknowledge their existence, for this would mean that we are responsible to them. It would mean that we, as a people would need to look at ourselves, reexamine the way we know ourselves as a people.
I knew a man who, at one time, was the pearl of our Village. He was a decorated war hero, the spokesman of the Militia and oldest man to graduate from the military academy. His war record was filled with self sacrifice, decorations and heroism.
As much a hero as he was in war, he was equally useless in our town. He could find no work to match his skills, skills he found in war. There was no place for a man who could kill from great distances in time of peace.
There were a sympathetic few, who lent assistance as long as they could bear to hear him carp bout how he had been cast aside by those he had given so much for. They tried as best they could, but like most there is a line to charity and once crossed, well
I would see him walking through the snows or rains as the sun sank behind the highest peaks. He rummaged through the refuse of our village for clothes, shelter and maybe, just maybe a small crumb of bread.
At night when my family slept, I would sneak into the pantry and make him two sandwiches. I left them by the back door and would pray for his soul as I was instructed to do.
During the mid point of Early Year, when we no longer have to go to school, I decided to wait for him to show up for his nightly meal. I wanted to know this man. I wanted to know why this man who’s life began so smartly, ended up the way it had.
As my parents slept I sat in the pale half light of the night waiting for my dinner guest to arrive. It was not until very late that he did show. He appeared out of the night like a street animal, timid and untrusting, wary of the change in his habit.
I’m the one who’s been leaving the food. I said to him.
He slowly came up and set down on the ground in front of me. He didn’t speak, just held out his hand for the food. He snatched it out of my hand as I offered it to him and gobbled it down.
You happy now kid? he growled as he choked down the food.
About what? I asked.
You got to see the poor thing you’ve been feeding for so long?
I actually wanted to know if all the stories about you were true. I replied.
Which one’s? he asked with less venom in his voice.
Did you really save all those men?
His eyes twinkled in the night as his mind took him back to his glory days. He regaled me with all his exploits from first to last, with all the corrective information where fact collided with folklore.
I noticed, as he spoke, the closer to the resent he got, the slower and more sad his voice became. His stories began to loose polish and it seemed his efforts to cling to his glory, the more others in his life tried to take that glory from him.
He was a hero, and a hero should be honored for life. However, it seems that veneration gets to be burdensome when the venerated comes to expect his tributes as a way of life.
In short, his life was filled with gifts, until the gifts became his staple for survival. No one wants to provide for anyone who is unwilling to reciprocate.
Finally his stories ended in anger and mystification. Foulness spat at those who owed him for his efforts. He couldn’t understand why they would turn their backs on their liberator.
Would you like another sandwich? I asked as he sat glaring at the grass in hate.
Huh? my voice snapped him out of his miasma.
You like more to eat? I asked again.
Why?
Well, if you would like more, I would be happy to get you more. You deserve it right? I smiled as I spoke.
Not tonight kid, maybe tomorrow. He stood unsteadily and shuffled off into the night.
Good as his word, he returned the next night. We sat in the darkness and talked, I of my life and he of his. This was how it went for several nights. I enjoyed our talks and hearing the details of some of the stories he had skimmed over earlier in our chats.
He was a man of great experience, a man of deep obligation and still he seemed a little disadvantaged. And I felt for him.
One night he came to our feast and he seemed changed somehow. I couldn’t tell what had changed, but he seemed complete, like all the missing parts had been found and he understood something.
I’ve told you my life. He sat and smiled. Now I need you to understand my life. For all my medals, for all my praise, for all my achievements I never really understood what my life meant.
I had a wife, a home, children but I had no center. And by center, I mean I had no will to give them a happy life. I became addicted to the praise, I became addicted to the lie.
No man is greater than another. No man stands above the rest for things they do. More people will remember your father than they will me. Your father provides a home and food for his family, he sees to your needs rather than his own.
I spent the remained of my life trying to feed my need for fame. I had to keep alive the feelings I had earned in my youth, the pride I felt and the joy deserved.
The pursuit of fame can only lead to your destruction. If you want to be remembered, be remembered for what you did for your family and community. If you must feel pride, feel it for the returns you receive for the deeds you perform.
The best kind of pride is to know you have enriched another’s life and helped them to improve themselves, rather than elevating you.
We never spoke again. He died two weeks after that conversation. He was buried in a pauper’s grave, a small plain box with his medals thrown across his chest.
No one from the village attended the end of his life. The priest and the grave digger were the only souls to bid him his last farewell. It took three weeks for anyone to realize that he was finally gone. He had been dead a month, and no one really knew it. he was right about his passing, no one knew, no one cared, and then they were told, they didnt remember the war hero, they remembered the homeless, dirty, bum who strolled the streets at night, looking for food and maybe one last friend.
His death hit me very hard, it was a turning point in my life. I heard every word he said. It all settled in the depth of my heart creating a foundation for which I live my life. I cannot, any longer, live to elevate myself from my station. I tried and met Mike’s failure every time.
I have been told I should publish this collection of memories. I don’t think I can. This is for anyone who wants to read it and if my point helps others to do, be or say something life changing, than I have done that which I promised a homeless old man I would.