September 04, 2008
Larry
A lot of people in Tower Grove East might not know Larry by name, but would know him to see him. Usually, he's found in the alleyways or sidestreets, his shopping cart weighed down by six-to-eight sacks of teeming trash bags, filled with scrap metal and aluminum cans.
I used to see Larry at a local watering hole, where he had taken up nightly residence, sipping at a canned beer, dancing furiously with no one in particular, often sliding through the bar and clearing a path in his wake. No offense to the homeless, but showering and old, well-worn clothes can be major issues and the cat usually would wind up with a five-foot berth around him, before he'd inevitably pass out on a barstool. "Ah, that Larry."
Once, I stopped my vehicle when Larry was pushing his cart down Louisiana Street. I keep a recycling bin in the trunk of my car and he went through it for the cans, though I alarmed when he began firing the glass and plastic into the street. While doing this, he kept up a steady patter about how he lived in New Orleans (or was it Memphis?) and how he'd lost a good woman. It was the kind of stuff straight off the pages of a piece of blues sheet music, but felt more compelling when told in the middle of a South City sidestreet; it was interesting, though lacked brevity, as we stood there a good 12-15 minutes.
Last weekend, while taking my daily constitutional through the neighborhood, Larry hailed me at half-a-block, a bit to my surprise.
"How are we today?"
"I'm doing real well, thanks."
He began wheeling the car into the alleyway, now a couple feet behind me.
"Sure is hot."
"No doubt about it."
He paused. And then delivered his next line with perfect comedic timing.
"It's George Bush!"
Another pause.
"That white fucker!"