Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Mr. Giovanni Estephani

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 21

Walking through Seattle’s Pioneer Square we sat on a bench momentarily to rest.  As we did, an odd light set down on the place where we were as light then light had become papery and golden.  A flock of pigeons flew from over our shoulders to the area around our feet and from behind us a voice spoke out:

“Have a good week.”

The birds skipped and moved towards some scraps or seeds and we heard:

“Have a good week.”

Turning around now we saw people walking past on the sidewalk lining the square.  On the phone or in a rush they did not look down at the voice that said:

“Have a good week.”

As stunned as we were by the change in atmosphere that was brought by the development of the light into a golden glow, we took pity on the man there as again he said:

“Have a good week”

and again he was ignored.  we resolved that the next time he spoke he would have an answer, from us.

“Have a good week,” he said, to a passerby, and we said, “You too.”

He did not turn or acknowledge us, but when he again said “Have a good week,” we replied again “You too.”

His voice and my own became entwined then, like a heart beat, or the steady breath of an athlete, there could be no rising action without a return to earth.

“Have a good week.”
“You too.”
“Have a good week.”
“You too.”
“Have a good week.”
“....what is your name sir?”

We had been ignored by so many people over such a long period of time that we broke the spell, asking the man his name.

“I am Giovanni Estephani,” he said.  “The name is Italian.”

He was slouched on the bench, dressed in an old army jacket and covered in buttons and pins.  Around his neck were nylon lanyards holding up stuffed animals, a bear and a rabbit, both heavily soiled. He wore two hats, with a baseball brim riding on top of a knit cap that had “USA” embroidered on the front.  He had a long beard and dark, scraggly hair.  His hand were covered in three quarter length gloves that were black and were worn as much as his flesh itself. He wore thick glasses and spoke in an every so slightly slurred manner.

“I was a preacher,” he said.

“No kidding,” we said.

“Yes.”

He told me how he had left the church, how it had led too many people astray.  He told me about Jesus and about feeding the hungry, and he said that at his former church it was required that the homeless hear a sermon before they were fed.

“And so I left,” he said.

“And now I wander,” he said.

As he was a preacher, and as it had been some time since we had encountered a man of god, we endeavored to seek guidance from this Mr. Giovanni. “Mr. Giovanni,” we asked, “Where do you find God now?  Now that you do not lead your church anymore?”

“God is right here,” he said, “Everything about God is right here on this street. Don’t forget that, and you won’t forget anything.  God is right here on this street. This is your church.”

We sat in silence. Turned as we were to look at Mr. Giovanni, we could hear only softly the cooing of the pigeons behind us.

“Have a nice week,” Mr. Giovanni said, as a man rushed by, paying him no attention.

“Have a nice week,” we said.  we began to get up, when we remembered our charge to write what we had seen. 

“Mr. Giovanni,” we said.  “Can we record your picture?”  He agreed.  We committed his likeness to paper. We stood, and we began to leave.

“Can you spare a few dollars?” he asked us.  “For a cup of coffee?”