I parked the car around 3 p.m. to start my afternoon excursion. I knew a bit about what I wanted to do: catch the pre-game festivities in front of the Sommet Center, possibly catch a bit of the UT/Florida game, pick up my hockey tickets and watch the Nashville Predators take on the Columbus Blue Jackets later that evening. I knew there would be some down time in between all of that, but I decided to just play it by ear.
I walked up the street to Broadway and mingled in with the tourists. Nashville has a rather humorous group of visitors who stick out like a sore thumb, mostly because they are wide-eyed and often in cowboy boots and hats. Few obey basic traffic conventions like crosswalks and sidewalks, but the Metropolitan Davidson County government is more than happy to take their tax dollars and send them along their merry little way. I made my way over to Bailey's Irish Pub to catch the UT game. Samantha was supposed to have spent her afternoon there with the Davidson County UT Alumni Association (she's on the board), but other projects had come up. The bar being full, I made my way up to the patio.
I claimed a table in the far right corner and sent out a Twitter and Facebook status looking for company. One of my co-workers showed up a few minutes later as my drink was arriving, so I hung out with him for a little bit. He was in search of zombies; more specifically, the kind that walk around Nashville every so often creeping out that batch of aforementioned tourists. I had missed the memo, so I was not of much help on his endeavor. As 4 p.m. neared, he finished off his drink and continued on his quest. I watched the football game from the relative safety of the patio.
Curiosity got the better of me (and the football game was taking an inevitable turn for the worst), so I paid my tab and headed down to Riverfront Park to join in on the search. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of someone who either was a very messy eater, extremely pale, or walked around with a bit of lurch. These things alone did not necessarily throw them in the category of "zombie," but combined the resemblance was unmistakable. It began to rain, and I walked under a tree to dry off my phone's screen. A group of teenagers (not nearly as pale as those other few had been) walked up to me and very politely asked if I would take a picture of them. I obliged, and the leader of the group handed over a camera. She then instructed the group to gather in front of the river, and everyone was to make a face like a fish. I snapped the photo, let her review it, and they were on their way. I have no idea what had just happened, but it was not the strangest thing I had seen on that Saturday afternoon.
I walked back towards my tree, stopping briefly to check to see if I had any messages about zombies. An elderly black gentleman walked up next to me and lifted his umbrella over my head. I appreciated the gesture, but immediately took a rather defensive stance. Riverfront Park is where you will find a good portion of Nashville's homeless population, and I could tell by his friendliness that I was about to hear a story in exchange for some financial help. I thought to myself, "It's Saturday and I'm hunting zombies; at the very least this guy could have the leftover $7 in my wallet." I easily had a full foot in height over him, could move a lot faster, and the most dangerous thing he had in his possession was an umbrella. I cannot remember his name, so for this story I will refer to him as Ben.
Ben asked me if I was from Nashville, and I said no. That's not typically the answer I give, but I wanted to see what he would say about the city to a non-resident if I told him that I was from West Tennessee. He told me that he was originally from Union City in northwest Tennessee, a place where he and his wife had lived in the nineties. He was wearing a sweatshirt, but I could see the top of an untied apron around his waste. He told me about being a cook over there until he and his wife had moved to Nashville in early 2000. "I'm 60 years old, don't drink and don't smoke." He had worked a few odd jobs at Belmont in their kitchen and a few hotels over the years. His speech was clear, and he generally used correct grammar. He was putting off the part where he described his current predicament.
In 2003, his wife died of breast cancer, an event that he says traumatized him. While skeptical of such a story at first until he he went into some of the finer points of how much he missed her. His breakdown precipitated into shutting off friends, and anger kept him from keeping steady work. "I am going to be completely honest with you, it messed me up. I wasn't ready to lose her." In January, he lost his housing allowance from the Metro Development and Housing Agency. He rented a room from some people affiliated with a local church, but said that he quickly wore out his welcome with them when he was unable to find work. "I wasn't born yesterday, and anybody can tell when you're no longer welcome somewhere by they way they talk to you."
So for the last four months, he had been living on the streets. The Metro Police Department had cited him for trespassing when he napped on the nearby pedestrian bridge, but waived the fine. "That's the good thing, because there was no way I could have paid it anyway." He said that the only time he got to clean up was when he walked over to the Farmer's Market bathrooms (private rooms with locking doors) with a bag he kept hidden in the bushes.
He claims to have had a recent moment of clarity, when he realized that that the only one he had to blame for his rough luck was himself -- "Sure, I lost the love of my life, but that's no reason to be angry at everybody." He said that things were already changing for him. He had just finished his first day of work in more than year, and he had found a place for him to stay for $12 a night. "Now, it's a small place. My feet almost have to hang out the window to be comfortable, but it's my place."
The total duration of his story as the rain beat down on the umbrella was about eight minutes. I reached into pocket and handed him the $7, saying that it was all I could give him. At the very least, I had paid him a reasonable rate to listen to his story and have him stand there and hold an umbrella over my head. He offered to walk with me to wherever I was going, but I declined, saying that I had a group to catch up with. I shook his hand, and walked on down the street. I looked back a few minutes later to see Ben walking with a guy across the street, holding an umbrella over the gentleman's head. I wish him the best of luck.
Oh, and I did find the zombies. They were surprisingly friendly, and even let me take a few pictures as a few hundred of the undead walked around downtown. The hockey game went well too, with Nashville winning 3-2 when Shea Webber slapped in a shot from the left face off dot. It was a fairly productive Saturday.