Prichard, Alabama—I’m pumping gas. This is a bad part of town. The kind of place you see on the evening news, where they string yellow tape on people’s porches.
Here, locals often speak to news cameras, saying: “He seemed like such a nice man, pumping gas, minding his business, then WHAM!”
I should’ve waited to buy gas somewhere else.
I see a man pushing a shopping cart full of tin cans. After him: two women in leopard-print Spandex, probably on their way to Bible study.
When I pay at the pump, I hear a voice. It's a man. He makes a beeline for me, hollering, “Hey boss!” He's old, wearing a backpack and an Army ball-cap. His eyes are bloodshot.
He says, “Help a veteran out, man. I'm a veteran. I swear. You wanna see my veteran card?”
I shake his hand and introduce myself. He misunderstands me when I tell him my name and calls me “John.”
This man's breath is strong enough to kill mosquitoes.
I reach for my wallet. All I have is a ten and
a Target gift card. I hand them over.
It's not much, but he thanks me and says, "John, I'm gonna use this to buy food, John, I promise."
I wish he’d quit calling me that.
Anyway, modern wisdom says it’s unwise to give money to men like this. And maybe that's true. But, I come from a long line of men who do stupid things with cash.
My great grandaddy, for instance, was a card-playing gambler and a whiskey sipper.
My father was frivolous in a different way. Once, I rode to Franklin with Daddy. He picked up a hitchhiker. We rode some two hundred miles while that young man talked Daddy's ear off. He was filthy, and smelled like a substance commonly found in cattle pastures.
My daddy just listened.
We pulled into a truck stop. Daddy bought him lunch,…