June 13, 2007
Our phone was stolen. We thought.
But it wasn’t stolen. It was returned to us by a homeless man named Love.
It didn’t get taken from the taqueria when we put all the stuff in our pockets on the counter so we could sit down and eat. It fell out of our sweatshirt later on the walk back home, when we were looking through some girly shoes discarded on the side of the street in the neighborhood.
We discovered the loss and re-traced our steps, of course, but by that time, Love had already spotted the phone on the sidewalk by the shoes and picked it up for safekeeping, and waited for the owner to call so he could return it.
Did we mention he’s homeless? As in, needs money really bad?
Love. Our phone was returned to us by a homeless man named Love. And here we were all pissed off about how f’d up the world is. After all, someone HAD walked into our house this past weekend while there were four people at home and swiped one housemate’s computer from the front room. Talk about balls (or tubes).
We thought that phone was gone daddy gone, just like the computer. Or did we?
Funny thing is, we’ve been trying to play with The Force recently — “creating our own reality,” or “manifesting”, or other terms that make close friends’ eyes roll. Hell, they make our OWN eyes roll. That’s why we usually just refer to quantum physics and call it The Force.
So on the steps-retracing mission yesterday, we firmly told ourselves the phone WAS on the street somewhere, not stolen, and that we would indeed find it. That the universe was not THAT f’d up. That just because we live in an economically distressed area of town, not everyone is a douchebag. Really, we were telling ourselves this. That phone is not gone. That phone is not gone.
Then, it seemed that phone was gone. It WAS gone. Bummed, we went home and called the phone company and suspended service and emailed out a bulletin asking all friends for their numbers again.
Maybe we need to have a little more faith in the universe.
Hey, but at least we only suspended service. Something told us not to cancel it. The same something that told us not to go to the phone-store for a new phone just yet today, to do random paperwork instead, to avoid leaving the house. To call the phone one more time, if only to see if the battery had died or if there were any new messages.
That’s when Love answered.
What’s your name? we asked. Do you know whose phone this is? … Hold on a minute, he said, calm down now, don’t talk so loud, honey. Love. I’m Love. Everyone just calls me Love…
So maybe we need to have a little more faith in faith in the universe, then.
We met Love in the 7-11 parking lot last night. The most handsome of his friends, and intimidatingly big but good-natured, he shone, with clear eyes and sparkly white teeth and a clean white shirt and pressed clean clothes.
The first thing Love gave us when we got out of the car was a big hug. We returned it willingly, and handed him a large to-go container of leftover lentils and rice with chipotle, and $40, which is more than we can afford by a mile, but we wanted to brighten his day the way he brightened ours.
Oh yeah, and we’re not supposed to mention that he’s black, right? But listen up, all yall racists and don’t-even-know-you’re-racists and everybody’s-racist-cuz-we’re-conditioned-by-the-media-and-each-other-to-be-racist-readers out there: HE’S BLACK. And he’s HOMELESS. And he RETURNED THAT PHONE. He lives in the Bayview, near San Francisco’s most murderous ghetto, and he went out of his way to return our phone.
And most “religious” suburbanites we grew up around, and some people out here we know now even, would cross the street to avoid him.
Think about that the next time some college-educated white guy snags you in an online identity-theft scheme.
Was this a visitation from God?
Do we have any reason to believe that it wasn’t?
Don’t they say God is Love?
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