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Franklin was one of my best friends, he introduced me to heroine. I remember when I met him, it was in Clifford Park. I loved places like this, not neat and tidy, they reflected the messy, primal, despair that permeated the air and the minds of those who inhabited it. The nice part was, it didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t. It wasn’t uncommon to see the rapid accumulation of garbage. These man sized hills of black plastic bags bulging with rotting food, waste, and needles would seemingly disappear randomly, only to appear elsewhere a few days later. This ecosystem took care of itself, but it wasn’t pretty.

When I met Franklin he was getting screamed at. A short, overweight, balding man was shouting up at Franklin, fully equipped with a knife hand and aspirated spit. Franklin towered over him, his snowy facial hair a stark contrast to his skin, he looked confused as if he just woke up.

“Get the fuck outta here man, we keep asking you to leave and you keep sleeping where we are practicing!” The man lowered his voice now that he could tell there was a bystander.

“And this!” The man said holding up a needle dangerously close to Franklin’s eye. “You junkies are ruining these parks, one of my players almost got pricked with this, you think that’s okay?!” He put the needle closer to Franklin.

“That ain’t mine, man.” Franklin said shaking his head slowly from side to side, in a rhythmic manner, the slow shaking continued after he was done speaking.

“Take this and throw it away.” The man insisted, again moving the needle so close, even I was uncomfortable. Apparently, Franklin was also not comfortable with the situation either. He quickly slapped the needle out of the coaches hand and stepped into the man’s personal space.

“Get that fuckin’ shit out my face, you diabetes muthafucka!”

It was very clear that this guy clearly was from the suburbs, here to volunteer and feel good about himself. He wasn’t from here and forgot that almost nobody gives a fuck and will cut you if you get in their face. I realized that seeing another white guy would likely deescalate the situation, it is sad how fragile some people can be. I may be complete scum of the Earth, but I try to use my white privilege to help others, even before I knew what that meant.

“Woooah, everything alright here?” I interjected with a smile and a short, chesty wave, the kind I imagine Ned Flanders would muster. Both stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, Franklin spoke, “We good, right coach?” He said sternly, “I was just leavin’.” He headed the other way.

“Hey thanks man, you saw that guy was about to get violent.” Coach huffed, he was so scared and wanted an ally.

“Hey coach, and you should look at eating less, really makes it hard to take you seriously as a coach. Just practice what you preach, ya know?” Franklin paused, he obviously heard what I said, I saw his head bob slightly and he continued on. Coach now filled with dismay that I would be such an unfair, nasty, race traitor. He had no words for me, looking up, still huffing he attempted his best disappointed dad pierced lips and firm shake of the head as he turned and walked away. He knew he wasn’t safe with me, he had to hide.

“Oh fuck you, Conner!” I shouted. His name didn’t matter, he mattered that little to me. I know with people like that, if you get the last word in it eats them up. He looked Irish, Conner was the most stereotypical name I could think of. I looked back over at Franklin who was sitting against a tree, his feet crossed and stretched out in the middle of the running trail, certainly a way to show that this was his home. He pulled out a joint and lit it, starring at Coach and the kids practicing, he defiantly flipped them off.

I was far too timid to approach him, so I didn’t. Instead, I would continue to frequent the park and see him there. I noticed that he stayed near the parks and would gamble for money, and he rarely ate, but almost always had a beer or a bottle of whisky. I had recently returned from Spain, and one of my fondest memories from there was participating in tapas. Tapas is this tradition in Spain where people go have a snack in one hand and a drink in another. A harmony and balance between drink and food, served anytime, although I never had it before breakfast. I have always loved that it was an excuse to eat, drink, and be merry, and was an excellent ice breaker.

For me, I loved cheese and I would have beer with it. So I approached him one sweltering summer afternoon, he was leaning against a hip high black metal fence. I walked up to him with a bag, through the stretched white plastic he could see the six pack of Tecate and tapas cheese (for me that’s Ibores, Idiazabal, and Manchego) I packed. He didn’t stand, he just looked at me expectantly.

“You want some beer and cheese man?” I said, holding up the bag as the plastic rustled.

Franklin scowled at me for what felt like an eternity. He didn’t say a single word, but suddenly he stood up and suddenly it was I who was looking up slightly, he looked over, around, and through me.

“It’s really just beer man.” I reassured him.

Finally, his brow unfurrowed. Franklin smiled, revealing yellow rotting teeth, which smelled horribly. It was as if any doubt he had or suspicion he sensed was immediately turned off on command. God, I still wished I could do that.

“A beer would be amazing. Let’s sit.” He said, leading me to one of his home’s finest public picnic bench.

I was half expecting him to shout out me, or explain how this was ‘the whitest shit he’d ever seen.’ But instead he grabbed a beer and thanked me.

“What’s your name?” I inquired immediately. He cracked his beer and sipped it.

“I’ve seen you around here a lot lately.” He deflected.

“I just moved here, I’m Jon.” I offered.

“Jon, huh? Jon White?” He smiled.

“That’s right.”

Why should I tell him shit, the guy won’t even tell me his fuckin name?

“Alright Mr. White, I’m Franklin. It’s nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, I shook it. It was withered and wrinkled, deep lines carved into his hands showed his age like ashy, white rivers.

“But I don’t talk to cops.” He finished, pulling back his hand.

“That’s good, I don’t either.” We both sat and sipped our beers, observing each other, but never letting the other know we were seriously intrigued by each other, Franklin was the first to cave.

“Why cheese?”

“Why not cheese? Cheese is good as fuck.” I philosophized, he chuckled.

“I noticed you are always here and not at Mass and Cass.”

“Now see, you go sayin’ shit like that, and it makes you sound like a muthafuckin’ cop.” He was playing cool, but I could feel he was unsure what to make of me, and I couldn’t blame him. I shrugged and opened another beer, I had finished my third piece of cheese, one each at this point.

“I know you ain’t a cop. Cause ain’t no way PD has that kind of money to spend on fancy cheese, and I’d probably be shot by now.” He persisted, trying to joke his uncertainty away. I smiled tightly, mouth full of beer.

“I don’t live down there because I’m not one of them.” He finally answered.

“You’re too good for the tents there?” I inquired, testing my limits. He frowned at my jab and I feared that I may send him into a violent or embarrassing fit, or worse yet, I had ruined my chance at friendship for rude commentary.

“You got fuckin’ jokes, but I really am, I’m moving up in this world.” He nodded, almost as if telling himself. He looked up at me and I matched his nod, raised my eyebrows and gave him a good ole “oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah, I got me a little side hustle. I will find all these needle and other nasty shit people be leaving laying all over the park, and then I will dump it on someone’s home, shop, grave, whatever.”

“On someone’s grave?!” I judged.

“What the matter, that bother you?”

“I mean, it’s pretty fucked up, Frank.” I said with my mouth full. I need to stop eating cheese.

“nawt” He shook his head, “None of that Frank shit, I told you once, it’s Franklin. Like that smart Ben Franklin muthafucka.”

“It’s still fucked up, even if you’re name is Franklin, dude.”

“It gets better though, I don’t just dump them on some random spot. Well, sometimes, but that’s only sometimes, when business is slow. People pay me to dump them places, man.”

“No fuckin’ way! People actually pay you, to dump needles, and other shit places, why?”

“Other shit like used condoms and tampons and pads, real nasty shit man.”

“That’s fuckin disgusting Franklin.” I kept saying his name so I’d remember it.

“When there’s a market baby.”

“Who actually does that?”

“Man, you’d be surprised, all sorts of people; exes, parolees to their PO’s, cops. Yo, one time I had this soccer mom come down here, she wanted me to get just a fuckton of used needles and put them all over this other families property so the other kid would get pricked and wouldn’t get in her kid’s way in a volleyball competition.”

I couldn’t say anything. I was baffled at what total and utter pieces of shits Americans were and I immediately missed the rest of the world, not just Spain.

“Well, in most cases, I can double dip man. I will dump the needles and shit at the place and after police clear out I will offer to clean it up for cash, I take the cash and only pick up the needles, then leave.”

This was impressive, he was right, he wasn’t like them. He didn’t spend all day laying in a tent, getting high. Well, maybe he was high all day, it’s difficult to tell if someone is high when they are in a constant drug altered state or if that’s just how they are. He was enterprising, he wanted to elevate himself from that life. Although, I don’t doubt that anyone who has been homeless wakes up and chooses that, few people have the will to rise out of that oppressive crushing bottom, but Franklin did.

“You should franchise that!” He laughed, he had a raspy, hoarse, succession of stacatto’d ‘heh’s’.

“Do you sleep here?” I asked, I was feeling more comfortable with him, and he with me, he was eating cheese now and was turned to the side, something I think he had made a point not to do when we began speaking.

“Gotta be out in nature as often as you can, before you have to live inside.” An interesting, positive outlook on his current homelessness situation. How could someone with such strong introspection and cunning end up at what most people would imagine is an all time low, and thrive? This only made me more fascinated with the drug riddled, unethical, capitalist I now knew as ‘Franklin’.

“Where do you go at night?” It was my turn to answer, and I too decided to give a non-answer, but he’d been honest with me, so I would return the favor.

“Oh, I go gambling.” I stated bluntly.

“Oh you a gambler, I’m pretty good at cards, man.” Everyone says they are really good at cards when you mention gambling.

“You wanna go tonight?”

“I can’t man, gotta pick up all the nasty shit, business is boomin’ baby.”

“I thought you were really good.” I coaxed.

“Listen man, I know I may look fresh and shit, but I don’t have much money to be throwin away.”

“Suit yourself man. I gotta get back to work. it was nice to meet you, Franklin. You can keep the beer.” I got up to leave knowing full well he’d stop me as I walked away.

“Jon.” I stopped.

“Thanks for the cheese and shit.”

“It isn’t shit, it’s Tecate.” God damn that should be a motherfuckin commercial!

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