Page 192 - Eggs and Ashes pages

Good Friday 191

A tabloid newspaper portrayed George as a dirty old drunk, on its front page one
day. Some photo journalist shot him as he sat alone out on the front stoop of the
shelter with a ‘dead soldier’ beside him.
He looked like a poor, pathetic soul: dressed in a crumpled tweed jacket, bowed
down by heavy drink. The angle and light didn’t do him justice, made his face look
ugly and guttered. ‘A Skidrow Alcoholic’, the title underneath the picture read.
There was a story concerning the growing number of homeless and the face of
downtown. There was no report of him talking gently, humanly to Tommy as he
lay writhing in hell, of the wars of liberation and absurdity he’d fought in through
deserts and jungles and back streets; no mention that he had a wife and grown chil-
dren somewhere, or of his dreams to become a fine artist who mirrored the soul.
No quote of him speaking knowledgeably, sensitively, passionately about the
rich, beautiful, soaring music of Gustav Mahler.
The guys were mad. Somebody wanted to go down and teach the reporter a
lesson. ‘Give the poser a slashin’.’
Phil said it didn’t surprise him. ‘People have been painting him like that for ages
now. Still hurt him though, I bet.’
George had one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. Sitting across from
him one night, I told him that; I’d felt overwhelmed. He said thank you, that I was
a gentleman.
It was hard to express with words. George’s face was like grainy, grey rock, its
features sculpted and etched by wind and rain, pocked and scarred by ice and snow;
like an ancient landscape that had experienced fecund, young times of flowers;
sudden rifts; slow, glacial change. George’s face shone with the experience and
wisdom of ages –
‘Maybe that’s what they mean,’ said Phil. ‘About suddenly seeing the face of
Christ.’

Neil Paynter