FICTION
The Beauty of Gil
He could see the inside of people
Gil stepped out from behind one of the pilings at the base of the Santa Monica Pier, shook the sand from his sneakers and humped his way up the stairs to the boardwalk, clunking along in that heavy stride of his toward Ocean Boulevard. Looking as dirty and haggard as he did, it took him a full hour to beg a few bucks for a cup of coffee.
By mid-morning, Gil was wandering along the Promenade, watching the throngs of shoppers pass by.
And listening in to their thoughts.
Though Gil was burdened to a near breaking point by bearing witness to so much naked reality, he never complained (to whom?). Rather, it was Gil’s habit to drink. Booze, Gil had discovered long ago, was an effective defense against the clashing cymbals, pounding drums, and piercing guitar solos that assailed him pretty much all the time.
Being gifted as he was, Gil witnessed some incredible things. Once, he watched the pores on his forearm opening and closing like tiny little mouths. And maybe they were. One never knew with Gil.
But today he was not soused. His mind was as clear as the bright blue Southern California sky. You see, Gil was focused. He was on a mission. He was in search of a pure human channel, a person who could translate what Gil called the holy flaupungementent, that essence that flows through and infuses all things, that rises up and spreads out endlessly, that percolates up into the human psyche to give birth to thoughts, feelings, and ultimately, deeds.
Leaning against a light post near the door of Hungry Herman’s Grande Deli, Gil scanned the mass of shoppers flowing by like a river.
And listening in to them.
Most of these people simply wanted to be set free of themselves. That was the common desire, Gil well knew. A few of them sought affirmations from others — to know that they were “okay,” that they could proceed on with whatever they might be doing, that they could release their heavy load.
Many were focused on physical pleasures, the most powerful ones being food and sex. Some hungered to feel the touch of another. These in particular Gil drew away from, for their thoughts were coated in a molasses-like goop that once touched was difficult to shake free of.
Some never thought about people at all, but only of their dog or cat waiting at home for them, and the way their beloved little being would rush to their lap or graze them with a willing, wet nose.
Gil felt the full force of the flaupungementent moving beneath all that wanting. What was happening at that deep level, he was certain, was every bit as important as what was playing out on the surface, out in the world.
If you saw Gil, you’d probably do what most people did: give him a wide berth. Gil knew that. Actually, he didn’t mind it. Gil was not a hater. Physically, he was a stooped-over old man with a bulbous nose and thickets of gray hairs sprouting from ears that wiggled slightly when he talked. The street kids called him the gnome. If anyone had taken the time to get to know him, they would have found out that Gil was more like an angel.
I first saw him loitering in front of Wahoo’s Fish Taco. I, too, assumed that he was just another crazy old fart, mentally unhinged through no fault of his own, like the hundreds of homeless people dressed in ratty clothes pulled from the dumpsters in the alleys.
Gil was holding a balloon given to him by Piter the Ballooner, a Serbian who formed the thin rubber sacs into beautiful animal shapes and sold them to the parents of small children.
I stared at Gil, sensing an incongruity in the man in the dirty overcoat. I didn’t yet know that he could see the thoughts of people bouncing around in their minds like an endless stream of Ping Pong balls.
No one on that Promenade had any idea that great turbines of compassion were churning in the hunched-over figure. It was a sad irony, since none of these well-dressed pretenders could hold a candle to Gil in most ways.
At some point, he disappeared.
The last time I saw him he was leaning against a wall outside Starbucks. I asked him if he had found the pure human channel who could translate the holy flaupungementent, even as I took a moment to glimpse the pores on his arm, which thankfully, were not moving.
Yes, Gil said. Actually, he had.
Really? I said excitedly. And?
Gil began to cough. He coughed very hard. He wanted to drink from the cup in his hand, but it was empty. I told him I’d go inside Starbucks and get him some water. He smiled and thanked me.
Inside, in the pleasant forest green cafe, I was surprised to find a full pitcher of ice water and ample paper cups, free for the taking.
But when I stepped outside, Gil was gone.
There was a scrap of paper at the base of the wall where he had been standing, pinned down by a rock. I bent down to pick it up. Though the writing was nearly illegible, I was able to make it out.
The note said, “Who is the great translator of the flaupungementent? Why, it’s me. I’m the one. Ha ha. Ha ha.”
Yes, I thougth with a smile. He was certainly correct. And I was glad that he knew it. I thought about him all the way down to Arizona Avenue.
I never saw Gil again. Something changed on the Promenade that day. Something had left it. There was no feeling of magic anywhere, and little of interest. Perhaps the flaupungementent had settled way down to the point where it had become remote and distant.
(I left Los Angeles to deal with family stuff in Virginia.)
