Hope Is The Tattooed Man

Tattooed man.

See him with the long scraggly hair, stubble beard, and prison tattoos?

By Citizen Correspondent Shawn Goodman

Date Posted: 12/17/06

Reader Rating:

I'll give you a single reason. Be careful, though, because it's not what you think: nothing earth shattering or heartbreaking. No heroes or urban saints. No billionaire philanthropists. In fact, it's something small. So small you may have to prepare for the anti-climax of it. I will point it out to you so you don't miss it, or I should say him, the grubby looking man at a bus stop in Reno. See him with the long scraggly hair, stubble beard, and prison tattoos? His right forearm is in a cast, no doubt from a drunken bar fight. I noticed him as I drive by in my pickup. I noticed him the same way I notice other possible dangers. It's good to be a little defensive these days. It's good to be safe. So I say.

I drove over a section of road that was torn to hell and my ride bounced severely. It made me wonder about the lumber and tools in the bed. I bought one of those nice plastic liners to protect the paint, but it's slippery; cargo tends to slide. Then someone behind me laid on the horn and blinked the lights. It was an old man in a Toyota Avalon, a safe car. Maniacs and serial killers don't drive Avalons. "Pull over, pull over," he shouted. I did as he said. "Your stuff, it fell out of your truck a couple blocks ago. You lost all your stuff. You should go back."

What was he talking about? I was slightly disoriented, but then I remembered: the red oak boards, the bag of tools, several hundred bucks worth. I looked over my shoulder in the back. The bed was empty. Right away I got nervous. I thought of the ex-con at the bus stop making off with my new Porter Cable drill. Or maybe a big truck ran it over and smashed it to bits. A cold feeling crept into me, the kind you get when someone cheats you or rips you off. Of course nobody ripped me off, but it felt that way. I just lost about four hundred dollars. How could I afford to repurchase those tools? I couldn't.

I made three right turns, coming up on the bumpy section of road by the bus stop. Adrenaline coursed through me. I felt like a kid waiting for a grade on an important test. The kid thinks mistakenly that, somehow, his tension and worry will improve the grade. Of course, it doesn't. He passes the test or he fails- regardless of the emotion. He gets the job or he doesn't.