my lunch with andre
Andre is a man born in the geography of where my grandparents were born, in what used to be known as Jugoslavia. I met Andre at the homeless shelter when he sat down at a table where I was sitting all alone, my arms around my plastic tray, a habit I’ve carried over during meals from more aggressive eating environments when portions of a meal have gotten stolen.
“My name is Andre,” he said.
“I’m Father Luke.”
I watched. Most people will have an immediate reaction. I used to hand out a business card which gave, as my company title:
“Average American”
I had a thousand cards printed and I got nine hundred and ninety nine laughs.
“Father Luke?” Andre said. His accent was thick and somehow familiar. “Are you a Priest?”
“Was,” I said. “I’m Serbian Orthodox, and I had a problem with some of the Church Politics during the Balkan war. I’m on sabbatical, but I don’t think that I’ll ever go back. I’m having too much fun.”
Andre laughed. “Serbian? That is where I come from!”
It was true. He sounded like my grandparents, this slight man with a smile and happy eyes.
Today we ate watermelon. There was other food, tuna sandwiches, I think it was, but I chose watermelon only. It was so hot today my saliva had turned to paste and the cool, refreshing, sweet watermelon was enough of a meal for me. I ate my fill.
We ate and we talked, Andre and I. The sun began to go down and it wasn’t cooling off at all. I was off to find a place to sleep where I wouldn’t be savagely beaten like I had been nearly two weeks ago. Andre and I parted with polite salutations.
“See you tomorrow,” said Andre.
I find my saints on street corners, and in alley ways. I find solace and comfort in writing. This is where those two things meet.
