MUDDY WATERS & THE FROG'S ASS

       I met Muddy Waters in a dark Atlanta dive around 1966. He was sitting on a short stool, playing his guitar, and crying his heart out with his version of "Cocaine." Sweat was pouring off him, and he could see it in my eyes that I wanted to play like that too. (Historically, none of my recollection can be corroborated.)

       But this morning at the shelter, a tall, black man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat was busying himself around the back of the kitchen, and then he swept the dining room. After that, he cleaned the back porch. He was never silent, and as I listened to his words, mostly spoken, I could hear lyrics that belong only to the brilliant and famous. Homeless, there he was owning the brilliance.

       "Can you write?" I asked him. He looked a bit confused. "Can you use a pencil and write words on paper?"

       "Oh, no, ma'am," he said.

       So I explained to him about his words and how I felt about them—how they sounded like something Muddy Waters might have sung. I told him that his words were wonderfully brilliant and that anyone could put them down on paper for him, or record them for him. It sounds so simple, but then getting the words to the artists who would make them famous—well…

       It just set me to thinking: How many great abilities are locked in homeless shelters?

       Saving the best for last, I will report on lunch now. We had a simple meal of chicken salad, baked beans, tossed salad, sliced tomatoes, and fruit.

       The little girl (now 9), and the younger teen were at lunch, and I enjoyed having Beanies and gum for them. I was disappointed to hear that the 17-year-old is in Florida (no reason given), and is not volunteering at the police station. Maybe Florida will be even better for her. Both the pre-release and the homeless groups were of good cheer and quite chatty today.

       A group of 3 or 4 pre-release ordered pizzas and set up a table for themselves for that. It was cute how they put out napkins, forks, cups, and plates—like little homemakers or party planners. Bad-Ass Tats was front and center in that group. Doug says Bad-Ass is a really nice fellow, and he likes him a lot. And Bad-Ass admits to having shot a law officer, 30-some years ago—which surely earns him "points" in his group.

       So the story of the week involves that idiot woman ("Brenda") who used to annoy me on Sundays by taking up my worktable to make PBJs… because the lady she had been making them with could no longer come on Thursdays… I never got that. This 50-some-year-old woman is one of those rare people who lives a singular life in every way. She will not put fake sugar in her mouth, or drink sodas, or eat bread from the store. She makes her own bread from freeze-dried zucchini… She does eat chocolate and she does dye her hair an unreal shade of pitch black. Anyway, a few weeks after she came into my life at the Sunday worktable, she took a position of gatekeeper. I cannot imagine her "managing" prisoners and drug addicts, but she's held the spot for quite awhile now. She works night shifts which include the breakfast hour.

       One morning last week, Doug was serving breakfast to the pre-release when Brenda came to the kitchen. She immediately spotted Bad-Ass wearing "shorts." Shorts are not allowed in the dining area. These shorts however, are more than knee-length, and this IS July. Still, to Brenda, rules are rules, and her mouth popped open like a blast furnace on steroids, "Mr. Tanner, we're not allowed to serve you breakfast unless you put trousers on."

       "What the hell's trousers?" he asked.

       Perfect person that she is, Brenda went into a long, serious description of trousers.

       Bad-Ass was unshaken. "You know how frogs have a big bump on the scruff of their ass and they're always trying to scrape it off? You're like that bump."

       Brenda must've been high on zucchini bread when she said, kindly, "Thank you for the compliment." Breakfast went on without further ado.

       To be perfectly honest: I often feel cheated that I get only a few hours there on Sundays.