family – Jas Mardis

What if you meet a former love interest who is now homeless?

I live in Village now on the outskirts of the Metroplex where I worked and was retired prematurely, at 62, by a corporate takeover and Union fiasco, a few years ago. “Hi-Ho, Bye-Ho!” I don’t complain and spend my separation deposits in a full time Art Practice that is going rather well. It puts me in the company of conversational strangers and flirty Thrift Store cashiers that could have modeled the character from that Steve Martin movie, “Shop Girl”, but on a very small scale and extremely cruel pay level. My shopping goal is for articles that become creative layers within the art field of Assemblage. So, curiosity abounds when I layout my collection of jewelry, gadgets, forgotten brass statuettes and endless clattering things on the counter; prices reduced on 20% off Seniors Day. Each discount Tuesday, they repeat their request and the flirty compliment to see my license and verify my age…noting my address…”not that far from here”…”Smile. You look like you need a hug”.

There are more stores than ever with second-chance themed purpose. For a long time it was just Goodwill and Salvation Army that hosted folks on the climb out of despair: job centers and skills training on typewriters, keyboards, tablets and now touch screened devices and inventory management. For those familiar with the original Job Corp salvation where drug-addled cousins, young mothers and the lost boys from the 1970’s were scuttled off to before returning home with the gospel of industry on their weed and prescription pill-lusting breaths. These days, the aisles and registers are havens for those reaching for the brass ring of becoming anew. Every location is awash with myriad younger, diverse cultural varieties of the newly washed, waxed and waned. Some have fully invested in the idea of correct posture. Others bemoan the dress-for-success totem but wear name brand donations impressively in their wrinkled state. Still, others adopt the mantra of thrift store item expertise and could give the cast of “Glengarry Glen Ross” a run for their money with the hard sale.

However, there are occasionally those with honest gumption, flair, striking aplomb and attractiveness. Game recognizes Game. In the short line at one of the newer places I observe the old Covid -19 era six foot distance rule. Ahead, the Cashier catches my attention and raises an eye-brow, then coquettishly shields her grin with a hand. Her amusement becomes flirting and then suddenly I am before her. She grins forthright and says, “Wouldn’t it be a shame to get all the way up here safe and then I sneezed on your dusty items?” I laughed and replied, “If you do and I get the cooties, then you gotta come over like Tom Hanks did in, “You’ve Got Mail”. Without missing a beat she replied, “I guess we’ll see “28 Days Later”. We continued that way until she was no longer part of the store. One day, I was hearing about her daughter’s marriage; her insurance woes and never having gone fishing in 58 years. The next trip: poof! The Manager, “Who?”

That was over a year ago. Last week, while checking out at the Library, my radar was triggered by a figure angling toward the self-serve desk. My Village, and most cities following the pandemic, has a strict “Don’t Bother Patrons” policy that mainly applies to the assumed homeless population. That equates to interactions generally being familiarity, celebrity or curiosity. Familiarity raised a flag. My very own ShopGirl approached with a question, “Am I going to be embarrassed if you don’t remember me or are you going to fake it?”

I cannot fake it. “Don’t you owe me a fishing trip?, she says when I pick up my books and move over to a curved couch. “I bought worms, but they cooked in my trunk when you disappeared from the store.”, I say as we sit. “Sorry about that, but I never got your number to let you know what was going on”, is what she says, and I notice that she’s carrying three drawstring bags, stuffed heavily. I saw your show in June at the City Center last year. You really are what you said you are!” she tells me and I notice her shoes are oddly dingy and the heavy collar of a mid-weight cotton jacket is poking from one of the drawstring totes; a rack of sandwich cookies, chips and bottled soda are in another. The third tote is bumpy with wadded up things. What I say to her is, “A lot can happen in a year. My Mother and former Mother-In-Law both died in March. I’m still working that out as an Artist. Nobody has their styles of jewelry or hats. One was in Seattle and the other lived in San Antonio.”

To her credit, she douses me with a reality check and abandons the protocol of deception familiar in desperation. The afternoon is long gone. We’ve chatted into nearly 5pm and the last few hours of daylight and secure places in our village are coming to a close. When she reaches across and touches my forearm it is without shame and bursting with valor. She tells me, “I’m homeless. Well, I’ve been homeless for eight months and I don’t have enough money to get a room for tonight.” By an unqualified instinct I say, “Damn. What about your daughter?” and have to swallow my innate Karenism as she tells me, “She and her family need their space. They don’t really have a way to help me out right now.” I push all my high-brow Karanisms further down. “I can’t figure a way out of it right now. I usually can get enough for an unrented motel room if I get to the place by 5:30 or 6 o’clock.” Then, she says, “I’m not gonna get into trading sex for stuff. I’m not going that far. I’ll figure things out. I just need a good night’s rest…somewhere safe.”

In my mind I see my daughter, five States away now, the world collapsing and me long in the grave. I see the naked guy, wrapped in a comforter, back in 2021, running thru the parking lot and bumping into my car in the restaurant drive-thru lane. I see a childhood friend, just twelve years out of high school and a sex worker in a known area that we used to laugh about. Again, there is a touch on my forearm and I am pulled back into the present as she says, “I do it this way so that I can keep myself clean and away from the temptation”.

For nearly three years I have carried a folded hundred dollar bill in my wallet. Since being retired it is my safety net; my last solution; my guarantee of getting back home. I put it there to be sure that in a world where I had no place to be expected daily; no place where I would be missed if I didn’t arrive on time, that I could use this bill to ensure a reset. I excuse myself to the restroom and leave her perched on the couch. When I return, after washing my face and retrieving the folded bill, I give it to her, quickly wave off her responses and wish her well before escaping to my car. Behind me, I hear a pleading, quivering voice coming toward me, “Hey, will you at least let me hug you?”

Jas Mardis is a 2014 inductee to The Texas Literary Hall of Fame and is the incoming Poet Laureate of Lewisville, TX for 2026-2027.

for Anne

I am awkward at love. Even now, at the age of sixty-three with an unwed son and daughter and an already remarried, impregnated and divorced again ex’s, I am thunderously awkward at holding down a woman in my life for more than ninety days…tops. I am better at fishing. Last July the two conditions came together when I met a young widow and discovered that she had never been fishing. Not as a child and not as a college athlete or post college newlywed or in the ensuing 30-odd years of wedded, child rearing and subsequent disillusioned early demise of her spouse. So, ready to win her heart with the smell of worms, minnows, Blue gill and largemouth bass, I brought her out to an enclosed City pond and took her heart on the roller coaster that is first-fishing-at-fifty!

The city pond is just an acre and a half of water surrounded by playground, bathrooms and dotted every forty yards with those memorial benches and gates of the wandered-off loved ones. We began with baiting the hook and when to know the fish had bit; followed by reeling and squealing instead of yanking and tripping over the tackle and lunch boxes. Good thing, too because as soon as we lowered the line into the water and rested the rod against the railing it took off, bending the rod and lifting it nearly over to the pond! (insert spilled tackle box and rolling oranges, squashed grapes and smashed crackers).

The memorial bench on the walkway where we fished became my refuge for the next two hours as my friend lifted forty-three fish out of the pond. As a first fishing trip she quickly moved from a trembling bait toucher-to-a quick dehooking and self-baiting pro after the initial twelve red ear bream and powerfully built small mouth bass. I merely leaned back against the bench and snapped and eventual seventy three pics to document her prowess. She was kind enough to document my two very small bass of the day before we paused to eat lunch in the heat. Both she and the fish are pretty good dancers according to the photographs. Before leaving, she removed her head scarf/bandana and tied it around the arm rest of the memorial bench to mark the occasion and location to show her grown children later.

As for love, unlike the success of Jesus with the loaves and fishes, not even seventy-three fishes were enough to land me back in the throes of love and we parted ways Christmas-eve in the most awkward exchange of my dating life sagas.

I told as much to an elderly gentleman this morning as I fished and he stopped to visit three times before asking if he could sit on the bench with me for a minute. He smiled and laughed with me at the idea that I was returning to warm up the area for another shot at love-by-blue gill this summer. He agreed that it was worthwhile and even offered to ask his “lovely wife” to do what she could to boost my post-fishing luck with a new friend. I paused when he offered her services and asked if they lived in the surrounding neighborhood for her to swing by a pie or a plate of sandwiches to help my love game.

“No…no, she’s recently passed” he offered and moved aside my jacket to touch the name plate behind. “She’s been listening and laughing at your story. I’m rather sure of it!”, he mused with tears coming into his eyes. “She always loved a good story and you tell it pretty good”, he said, moving his touch to the date below their names, “1965”. “We met in high school and attended College in Oklahoma together and married our senior year. Two kids came after almost eight years later and we have just one grandchild. It’s a sixty year love affair, Mister Sir. I’m sure if you keep bringing your potential sweeties here to fish my Anne will whisper a hint to their hearts to help you out.”

He stood, wiped his fingers gently over her name and said, “I better take off since crying probably won’t help you catch any more fish”, and then headed off down the walking path. No other fish took the bait and the sun grew too hot for anything but packing up and leaving. On my way to the car I read the bench placards and wondered if they get visited, too. A soldier. A son. A full family and a favorite dog are among the memorial benches on that park. As for me and memorials, I really had to admit that I don’t return to the park and that bench, set into the curve of the walking path, in the hope of fish. I honestly stop trying after my second smallmouth bass. I squeal inside myself and dance a pointed-toed jig, with my rod squeezed between my knees and let the fish dangle and wiggle and jump itself into loops before reclaiming my hook and returning the monster back to the tiny sea. Then, I take my knife and notch the rail just in case my last chance at love comes by to remember the spot where we caught a day of joy.

JAS