October 15, 1963

           “Daddy, you even listening to me?” Homer Junior asked.

            Homer Senior was not listening. He was looking out the front plate glass window of his auto parts store. It was a clear fall day.          

        Across the street at the Stop & Wink Drive-In, the waitresses in their skin-tight black uniforms were just beginning to traipse out to the cars under the green and white striped canvas awnings. Next door to them at Stubbs’ Car Wash, young black men in cherry red coveralls were horsing around, popping each other with newly wetted towels.

Everywhere he looked, the cars, the trucks, the buses, even the people who had all just been ciphers to him before, seemed imbued with something, some God-stuff that made them come alive with meaning.

“Daddy?” Homer Junior asked again.

            “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I ain’t deaf yet.”

            “But Daddy, are you listening to what I’m saying? You don’t go helping people because you heard something on the radio. Daddy, we aren’t in Maypearl anymore. We’re in the big city.”

          “Son, I know exactly where I’m at. I’m at Homer’s Auto Supply on Beakley Avenue in the heart of Oak Cliff. It is Tuesday, October 15, 1963. Fellow traveler John Fitzgerald Kennedy is President, Landslide Lyndon, the most popular politician among the dead, is Vice-President, and old what’s-his-name, the egghead, is in the U.N.

          “Stevenson, Daddy. Adlai Stevenson.”

          “I knew that, and I know I’m not in Maypearl either. But son, I listened to the radio this morning, and KJCG had this preacher, and I swear, he was filled with the Holy Spirit. Your mother knew I could divine that, remember?”

        “Yes, Daddy, I remember,” Homer Junior said as he leaned his angly-frame against the counter making check marks on an invoice for cork gaskets.

        “He said . . . now, son, I want you to hear this, so get your head up. Thank you. He said, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself, and do something good for some poor soul today before it’s too late.’”

       “Daddy, I’ve heard those sayings before and so have you. Why do they mean so much to you today?”

       “I don’t know, son. I guess it’s because I’m getting old. I know I haven’t been a good person. I’ve spent all my life running after stinking, filthy lucre, but you can’t worship mammon and God at the same time. I know that now, so I’m going out today to find one person and be good to him. It’s the Lord’s will.”

        “Daddy, do what you have to do. I know I’m too busy to argue with you. I’ve got to find some of that filthy lucre and pay some bills, plus I got a couple boxes of stocking to do. You go out and do a good deed if it makes you feel better, but be careful. This isn’t . . .”

       “Maypearl. I know, son. Now I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about me. The Lord has taken me into His hands.”

       Once outside Homer Senior surveyed the street. A lone black woman waiting for a bus caught his eye. Her white dress told him right away she was somebody’s maid, a poor soul just ripe for his compassion.

“Howdy, ma’am,” Homer said.

            Startled, the black woman didn’t know what to do, whether to speak or not, so she studied Homer, all the while wondering what the old cracker was up to.

           “What you want?” she finally asked.

           “I was wondering if I might give you a ride. I’d be right happy to do that, ma’am.”

          The woman’s dark eyes examined Homer, then shook her head and snorted, “You get away from me. The last woman in my family who took a ride from some old white man found herself in the family way.”

         “No, no ma’am, that’s not my intention.”

         “Yeah, he said the same thing. Now you leave me alone. I got work to do. I got to clean the Lennox’s toilets and wash their linens.”

          “All right, all right,” Homer said, then retreated to the front of the auto parts store. He tried to ignore his son standing behind the counter shaking his head, but what bothered him more was the woman at the bus stop was still eying him like he was some kind of pervert.

          But fortunately for Homer, in less than a minute, a city bus butted up against the curb and swallowed her whole. But just as Homer was fixing to breathe a sigh of relief, he spotted a man chasing the departing bus, his pencil-thin arms waving trying to get the driver’s attention. But to no avail.

        The bus, leaving a parting cloud of diesel smoke, puttered on as if the man didn’t exist. The thin man, however, didn’t take that lying down. He saluted the back of the bus with a clenched fist and a right arm at a 90-degree angle. Then for good measure hit the bus stop sign with his fist.

          Homer Junior saw all this from his stool, then watched as his daddy strode across the parking lot toward the man. While Daddy talked, the thin man spent most of his time concentrating on his bleeding knuckles.

          Homer Junior didn’t like it. Something about the man didn’t seem right. Sure, he was dressed nice enough in dark slacks, a button-down shirt with a black tie, and a white pullover sweater, but to Homer Junior he looked suspiciously like someone who’d gone to seed.

After a few minutes, the thin man followed Homer Senior to the latter’s black Buick Electra parked in front of the door. After Homer Senior let the man in the car, he stuck his head into the store.

“Son, I’m going to give this man a ride.”

Homer Junior shook his head and heaved a heavy sigh.

            “Now son, don’t be that way. This old boy’s had a whole passel of bad luck. He’s a veteran, an ex-Marine. He and his wife got one child and another one on the way. He doesn’t have any hope of getting a job unless I take him downtown for an interview.”

           “But, Daddy,” Homer Junior started to say, but his father was already out the door. Homer Junior, breaking out in a thick sweat of panic, rushed around the counter and sped out the door.

          “Daddy,” he called.

          Already in his seat, Homer Senior smiled beatifically up at his son.

         “Thanks for seeing me off, but we'll be okay,” he said.

         “All right, Daddy,” Homer Junior nodded.

         Then Homer Senior turned to the stranger, who instead of staring at his bleeding knuckles was now busy biting his nails.

“Don’t you worry,” Homer Senior said, bestowing a smile filled with the holy spirit on the poor wretch God had surely meant for him to save. “I’ll get you to the Texas School Book Depository in plenty of time for your interview, Mr. Oswald. It’s the Lord’s will.”

(Author's note: This story first appeared in scrivenerspen.org a few years ago. October 15, 1963 is the actual day Oswald got his job at the Texas School Book Depository.)