It was a clear, cold evening downtown in vintage 1995
Memphis. On my most savored evenings, in
the vogue of those days, I’d acquire an expensive cigar at the Peabody Hotel
and then stroll to my favorite watering hole, Sleep Out Louie’s.
It was a short walk.
That was fine with me since, despite that vogue, I was having little
success with cigars, being prone to swallowing too much smoke and turning
vividly green.
Outside Sleep Outs, thinking it impolite to bring my cigar
in, I cocked my wrist in readiness to flick it with finality into the gutter. Suddenly, out of the night, came a startling
cry, “Noooooooooo!”
I looked up to see an old-fashioned Hobo emerging from the
alley. He wore a mismatched ensemble of
formerly excellent clothes. His vest was a Scottish-plaid of dark green and
burnt orange, his coat a wide grey pin-stripe, his hat straight out of
Christy’s of London – although possibly a bit worse for the wear.
Exuberantly, he ventured a smile and allowed as, “No reason, I can’t finish that fine cigar,
is there, my gentleman?” Shaking my head
and smiling, I couldn’t help saying, “Not that occurs to me.” And, there was a quick transfer of the cigar from
my hands to his.
Entering Sleep Outs, it occurred to me how long it had been
since I had seen someone who conjured up the real notion of a “Hobo.”
As I reflect back, after these many passing years, it may
have not been just his attire. For he
held himself as if from a high station in life, not beaten down by experience,
but finely weathered by it and, yet, as someone who could easily savor a can of
pork’n beans, just freshly heated in that same can over a wood-rubble fire.
Sleep Out Louie’s was a legendary establishment. It was named, supposedly for it’s owner, a former
lawyer, who had told all his friends, “I’d rather Sleep Out than ever enter
that courtroom again!” In theme, the
dark wood walls were lined with framed ties of men who had decided by age or
inclination to take off the mantle of their professions.
But the sparkle of Sleep Outs came from behind the bar –
Ginger. Gorgeous, with her auburn-hued
hair and sassy smile, she was an athlete, pivoting one way then another as she
served drinks, never suffering fools lightly, cheeky and street smart. I would have gone to any place to behold her
in action.
All of us at the bar would have given our family fortunes,
if any, for exactly the right words to say to Ginger. But, despite our best and worst attempts,
those words were damn elusive. You would
think that somewhere those words had to be commercially available, maybe generated
from theoretical mathematics, or by the CIA’s super-computer…
Just as I got comfortable at the bar, with my New York Times
and Pilsner Urqell, I caught a faint fragrance of smoke… cigar smoke. I craned my head around and, low and behold,
who sat at a table near me, but the Hobo, holding himself like the high Duke of
Winsor, my cigar royally mounted in his hand, and spewing smoke everywhere.
Quaffing a beer, he jauntily exclaimed, “Finest cigar I have
ever smoked!” As several patrons turned his
way, I looked with exasperation at Ginger, “That was my cigar! I was tossing
it when he appeared out of nowhere and wanted it. And, now he’s over there smoking it!”
Ginger, seeing no social injustice incurred by me, just
matter-of-factly said, “I serve everyone who comes in and can pay for a beer.” I
stewed and ate my stew. Finally, I heard the Hobo’s chair push back and him say
to no one in particular, “Well, I think I must be going”.
But, before I could grab another swallow of beer, the place
was again shocked by his voice. Now
standing at the door, he turned, loudly calling out, “Ginger!” – then again
“Ginger!”
She pivoted up and answered just as loudly, “Yes?” With a sparkle in his eye, and the poise of
Cary Grant, he proclaimed, “Ginger, Ginger -- You are a wonder to behold!”
With that, he bowed and left the place.
At first, Sleep Outs was filled with a stunned silence… And, then the place burst with sudden applause
and laughter! He had nailed it! He had
said exactly the right thing! Ginger
beamed and beamed and beamed as we all celebrated the moment (and Ginger) with
our drinks, laughter and applause.
The hobo had taught me a lesson of a lifetime. Maybe
we rely too greatly on “marketing” ourselves and too little on creating charm
and style within us.
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