"We dance the same"
They’re sitting there in our church parking lot, staring out at the rain from inside their rundown green Chevy Astro van. They showed up after church. Martin was looking for conversation, for help, for gas money to Calgary for a medical procedure, the usual. He’s aboriginal, around 55, dark glasses, long black hair, cowboy boots. The conversation meanders here, there, everywhere. “Am I late for the service?” he says. “I wanted to get here for the service.” It’s 12:10 pm.
I’m tired. It's been a long Sunday morning already, and I don’t have the energy for this. “Can I meet you tomorrow morning?” I ask him. “We can talk more, then. Besides, I don’t even have my wallet with me today.” “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says. “We’ll be here at 9.” He asks for my cell phone number. I pause before giving it to him. I don’t know why I do this.
As I drive down the highway the next morning I find myself secretly hoping that they don’t show up, that they’ve moved on, that they don’t have the patience for me. I’ve done a bit of sniffing around based on a few of the stories Martin told me yesterday and so far nothing really checks out. Just another guy trying to take me for a ride, I assume. I turn the corner into the church parking lot and there it is, the beat up green Astro van. There they are, with all of their complicated need.
