Like I said before, when Mr. Ron promised he wadn’t gon’ catch and release me, I was skeptical. But listen to this: Not too long after I preached at Pastor Tom’s church, Mr. Ron asked me would I move in with him. And you ain’t gon’ believe where—at the Murchison Estate in Dallas, in a mansion where Mr. Ron said United States presidents, movie stars, and even a fella named J. Edgar Hoover used to stay.
I guess the Murchisons at one time was the richest folks in Texas and some a’ the richest in the whole country. In 2001, Mrs. Lupe Murchison passed on, gone to join her husband, and their kin was wantin Mr. Ron to live on the estate and sell off all a’ their art. They had hun’erds a’ pictures and statues and what have you. Mr. Ron said it was all worth about a zillion dollars. So he hired me to live on the estate with him and be the night watchman. That suited me ’cause I was ready to work for a livin and earn some money of my own. The mansion was real old and grand, built in the 1920s, Mr. Ron said. A coupla nights while I was guardin it, I met some ghosts wanderin around.
Not long after I moved into the mansion with Mr. Ron, I found some paints in the garage and decided to paint me a picture. I was gettin paid to guard all them silly-lookin pictures by fellas like Picasso. Didn’t look to me like they was very hard to paint. Sure ’nough, it only took me a coupla hours ’fore I had made a picture of a angel that was ever bit as good as some a’ them I was guardin.
Mr. Ron liked it a lot when I showed it to him the next mornin. “How much do you want for it?” he asked me.
“A million dollars,” I said.
“A million dollars!” he said, laughing. “I can’t afford your paintings.”
“Mr. Ron, I ain’t askin you to buy it. I’m askin you to sell it like you sell them other million-dollar pictures.”
After that, though, I showed my angel picture to Sister Bettie and she said it was her favorite paintin she had ever seen, so I gave it to her. She’s like an angel to me anyway. Then Mr. Ron set me up my own studio in the room right next door to Lupe Murchison’s five-car garage. I guess I’ve painted over a hun’erd pictures by now. Sold some of em, too.
Carson and Mr. Ron have done sold off most a’ the Murchisons’ art, and somebody bought the mansion, too. Now we’re livin in another house on the estate while they sell the rest.
During the day when I ain’t workin, I carry Miss Debbie’s torch, the one the Lord told me to pick up so she could lay it down. I still go down to the Lot and help Sister Bettie and Miss Mary Ellen. Sister Bettie’s gettin on in years, and I worry about her. Once a month, I preach at the Riteway Baptist Church. I take clothes over to the homeless people and take care of my homeboys that’s still on the street, maybe give em a few dollars.
I do some travelin, too. In January 2005, me and Mr. Ron went to the presidential inauguration. Mr. Ron was invited and he asked me to go with him. That was the first time I ever went on a airplane. We landed in a snow-storm, but I didn’t know I was s’posed to be scared.
So there we was, on the White House lawn, sittin on the front row, and I’m lookin around at all the astronauts and war heroes and wonderin, how in the world did a fella like me wind up in a place like this? It was somethin I never even dreamed of. I wadn’t that far from the president, but I wanted to check him out a li’l better so I got up outta my seat and walked up closer to where he was sittin, gettin ready to make his speech. But this Secret Service man, a black fella like me, held up his hand.
“Sir, where are you going?”
“I’m gon’ walk right up here and see the president,” I said.
He looked at me kinda firm. “No. You’re close enough.”
Later that night, me and Mr. Ron went to the inaugural ball. The president and his wife was dancin right there in front of me. I had on a tuxedo and a bow tie. I felt purty good about that.
The next day, I got to stand on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial. I remember way back when I was li’l bitty fella, Big Mama told me ’bout how President Lincoln freed black people from slavery. That’s why they shot him.
I felt mighty blessed to be able to go and see the president. Me and Mr. Ron done some other travelin, too. I been to Santa Fe and San Diego. Back home in Dallas, we still go to restaurants and cafés, the ranch and rodeos, and to church on Sundays. All in all, we’s purty tight. Lotta times, we’ll sit out on the back porch at the Murchison place, or out on the patio at Rocky Top, lookin at the moon shinin on the river and talkin about life. Mr. Ron’s still got a lot to learn.
I’m just messin with you. Even though I’m almost seventy years old, I got a lot to learn, too. I used to spend a lotta time worryin that I was different from other people, even from other homeless folks. Then, after I met Miss Debbie and Mr. Ron, I worried that I was so different from them that we wadn’t ever gon’ have no kind a’ future. But I found out everybody’s different— the same kind of different as me. We’re all just regular folks walkin down the road God done set in front of us.
The truth about it is, whether we is rich or poor or somethin in between, this earth ain’t no final restin place. So in a way, we is all homeless—just workin our way toward home.