Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [58]
What? I mean, seriously, what? What was he talking about? I didn’t know. Hell, nobody knew! And we loved it. Anytime Mustafa wanted to add commentary, he was given the floor. Automatically, no questions asked. His remarks usually ended with us either grabbing our bellies in laughter or looking around at each other in absolute disbelief. For me, it was usually both. And he loved it. He loved being the center of attention.
Mustafa and I always talked. He would tell me about his tough times in prison and what he did to relieve the dreariness of everyday life. He became very spiritual throughout his time behind bars (for which he would never reveal his crime). At night in his cell, he clogged the sink, filled it with water, and soaked his Bible. In the morning, he ripped out a page and drained the water into his mouth. The holy water, he said, kept his mind clear while he was incarcerated and enabled him the freedom to be mindful of the evils that got him locked up in the first place. And that’s when I realized that there was some merit behind his insanity. Sure, he had some crazy ideas running around in his head, but ironically, that is what kept him mentally sound and out of trouble. His insanity kept him in touch with normalcy. In his crazy little world, he was able to distinguish right from wrong. So who were we to say what a barracuda was or wasn’t or call him a nut for soaking his Bible in holy water when that was what was keeping him from making the poor decisions that had landed him in prison in the first place?
It also turned out that Mustafa’s natural ability to entertain was not limited to the shelter. He would stand down at the corner of Columbus and Meeting Street in front of the Piggly Wiggly throughout the day, every day, preaching. He wouldn’t ask for money and he didn’t pose a threat. He was just there, speaking to anyone that would listen. No one could be certain of the topic of his sermons, but I can promise you it was eye opening. Passersby would cross his path, pausing to listen to his far-out words of wisdom, and then walk off with a snicker, far more puzzled than they had been before. After repeated inquiries about his identification and purpose, the local newspaper did a full spread on him while I was still in the shelter, but it didn’t do any justice to the real personality of Mustafa Frederick. That guy was one of a kind.
Sarge didn’t show up on Monday night, and the rumor spread quickly from person to person around the shelter that he had been gunned down on the street, when in fact, he was in the hospital after suffering a heart attack. Either way, a few guys were excited to be free from his constraint for a few days, but the shelter veterans knew that he would probably be back the next day. And he was. I heard he’d even checked himself out of the hospital Arnold Schwarzenegger style—just ripped the wires and tubes off his body and walked out of his room—but nobody really knew if that was fact or fallacy. I just knew that all of the rumors running around spoke of Sarge’s reputation at the shelter.
And I knew that he was back. “Ha! Sarge’s gonna die in this place, I’m tellin’ you,” one guy said. “Literally. Here at the shelter. On this floor right here. He’s gonna keel over and die, work himself to death.” And he was probably right. Sarge’s passion shone through every night, and I began to wonder if the guys at the shelter truly appreciated what Sarge did or if he was just another security guard to them. Either way, I was grateful to go to bed every night with the assurance that I was protected from the people outside just as I was protected from the people on the inside. If he wasn’t getting any appreciation, he was certainly getting plenty of respect. Most everybody knew that Sarge got his kicks from removing troublesome characters from the shelter. Some would