King of the Road

16 January, 2015

San Francisco

Gentilly - 1962

I suppose nearly every neighborhood or community has its oddballs - its characters or "special people." Andy Griffith's Mayberry had Otis, the town drunk, for example. 

My neighborhood was blessed with three, when I was a little boy. There were two brothers, and neither had their right mind. One was quiet and kept to himself. If he did emerge from his house, he walked quickly and quietly, speaking to no-one - his face forever frozen in a scowl. 

 

His brother, however, was quite well-known by everybody in the 7th ward as "Junior." He would walk briskly down the sidewalk, his head cocked to one side, and he would talk to himself - very loudly. 

Whenever one if the neighbors happened to be outside when Junior passed by, he would shout out to that person, addressing them by name, and engaging them in a strange conversation. 

He would always tell whoever he'd meet:"I'm going to see my Daddy!"

It was sad. A few of the locals knew his real story, and all knew that Junior's father was long-departed from this world. Occasionally a new kid would tease him, but others would quickly put an end to any fun at Junior's expense. 

He would attend mass every day at any of the several Catholic churches, and, I'm told, he would sing with the congregation - loud, but sometimes slightly off key. 

There was a third neighborhood character whom I never saw until the first day of school in September of 1962. I had taken the school bus the previous year, but my grandparents' home was walking distance for a child of that time. 

The first day I set out for their place after school let out, attempting to retrace my steps of that morning, I walked steadfastly down Gentilly Blvd. I was doing pretty good, too, until I came to the intersection with Paris Ave. Ahead lay a complicated crossroads where two major thoroughfares traversed each other,  and still another avenue branched off at an odd angle. Add that jumble to the nearby crossing Paris Avenue and it was a daunting experience to a young schoolboy not really familiar with the area. 

I stopped into, of all things, a bar room! "Any port in a storm,"as my grandfather used to say!  I looked around for someone to ask directions, but changed my mind and decided it would be better to just call home and get clearer instructions from my grandfather. There was sure to be a pay phone inside. There was. However, there was a problem: I searched my pockets in vain for a nickel, or any coin at all. I was loathe to approach the "row of fools on a row of stools" to ask for help. So I contemplated my situation, and as I did, this odd old man came sauntering up the sidewalk.

He cut a strange, amusing figure, dressed in baggy pants, ill-fitting shirt, and wore a kind of Derby hat. He was hunched over, was toothless, and kept an unlit cigar in his mouth. 

He came toward me, and seeing me looking at him, boasted:"I'm the King of the Road, Jack!"

I was never shy when it came to talking to people, and my situation made me even more bolder. 

"Well, Mr. King of the Road", I addressed this caricature of a man, "I'm wondering if you could help me: I'm lost," I explained. I  need a nickel to call my grandfather so he can tell me how to get home." I explained. "Could you lend me one, please?"

He did, gladly. Then he waddled off down Gentilly, again loudly proclaiming his royal status to no-one in particular. 

I called home, and got directions. I made my way through the maze of avenues, arriving at my grandparents' safe and sound, thanks to the nickel that funny old man gave me. I told my grandparents about the strange  old fellow, and they knew who he was. My grandfather told me his name, Hymel, and also told me not to poke ridicule at him, because the poor old man didn't have his right mind. I had my sneaking suspicions - from his walk, his dress, and from the way he talked to himself, as he ambled about the neighborhood.

I learned my lesson. From then on, I never left home without at least a few coins in my pocket, and those coins came in handy when I made the happy discovery that my newly learned path home intersected with the route of a Russell Sunshine Ice Cream truck!!

From then on, every time I'd hear the familiar music box tune, I'd stop and wait for the truck to come up Castiglione Street. I never had long to wait, and the same man, wearing a uniform and cap, would jump out and I'd make my request: a chocolate cup. After a few days, I didn't have to ask - he knew what I wanted - and I always had some money to buy at least one delicious treat. 

I quickly discovered that the little orange school bus that I took the previous year also went roughly the same way, and I'd see how far I could get before it would pass me by. When it did, I'd wave to a few of my schoolmates, and they'd wave back to me. There was this cute classmate of mine named Yvonne, and she sat in the back of the bus on the right hand side. When she'd smile at me sweetly and wave, it was hard to believe there was anything wrong in the world.

There was a virus going around, and I caught it. I had fever and chills. My mother worked every day, and I was too young to stay home alone in our apartment. So she took me to my grandparents', where tender, loving care and a generous helping of my grandmother's minestrone soup quickly got me back on the road to recovery.

About three-thirty the second afternoon, there came a knock on the side door. My grandfather came to see who it was, and of all people, it was the ice-cream man! 

"I see that kid every day," I heard him explain to my grandfather. "Today I missed him, and figured he might be sick, so I wanted to check to see if he was all right."

My grandfather and the ice cream man, of course, got into a conversation. "I'll tell you, my grandson likes ANY kind of ice cream..."

The man interrupted:"Oh, no, sir, you're wrong! All this time he hasn't ordered anything but a chocolate cup!"

My grandfather continued:"You didn't let me finish; he likes ANY kind of ice cream... as long as it's

CHOCOLATE!" The two had a real good laugh about that.

One day, some time later, I was on my way home from school, I heard this odd, raspy, yet familiar  voice call out :"I'm the King of the Road, Jack!" It was the old man, waddling down the sidewalk, just as before.

"Hey, Mr. Hymel! I got your nickel for you - the one you lent me to use the phone! Remember?

He remembered. He put it into his pocket, smiled, and then reminded me again that he was indeed still the "King of the Road." We went our separate ways. I'd see him every once in awhile, and he'd always stop and ask me if I remembered the time he lent me a nickel. Then he'd amble off, muttering to himself out loud. 

The years past, and I moved on with my life. We all got older. One day, in a passing conversation with a neighbor, I heard that that funny old man had been shot and killed by police. 

The story goes that he had a little water pistol, and was standing on Gentilly Blvd. in front of BC Supermarket. Apparently he was waving it at police - admittedly not a longevity-enhancing move - and the cops took it for a real weapon. They shot the poor fellow dead on the spot, no questions asked.

Nothing was said in the press, no demonstrations took place, no high-level inquiries nor investigations were held - and no CNN news bulletins were issued, and no movements got started.

There was just a body to be buried. 

To be sure, he was a "man of means - but by no means, King of the Road". Now the King was no more. He was just another wayward soul Orleans Parish had to claim.