Franklin Finch was on his second cup of coffee when I walked into the café that morning. When I passed him sitting at the bar, something told me that he was going to finally make that phone call. He had talked about calling for the past two and a half years, each time with flushed cheeks and reddening eyes. “Just let me know when you’re ready Franklin,” I always told him. But he always sucked back the tears, handed me the phone and headed back to his apartment. “Maybe next time,” he said. “Okay, whenever you’re ready,” I repeated. ---- Franklin is a guy that lived two doors down from my place. He started coming to the café somewhere in 2006 or early 2007. In 2010, with Tim Lincecum on the mound, trying to win game one for the Giants in the World Series, Franklin turned to me and said, “Han, my name isn’t Franklin. It’s Larry.” “What?” “It’s Larry,” he repeated. “Umm, why the hell have you been answering to Franklin?” Then I followed it with, “No dude…you’re Franklin! You passed the cut off line to fix this, I can’t think of you as a Larry now,” I told him. Franklin never became Larry. When his friends talk about him, they don’t refer to him as Larry either. They refer to him as, “the guy you call Franklin.” Franklin used to trade food with me. He’d come home from the food bank with potatoes, spices, dressings, pasta or whatever was there and he’d come into the café and say, “Hey Han, you think we can do a swap?” I told him, “Franklin, just get whatever you want.” But he’d keep insisting until I say, “Okay, lets see what you got?” Then we’d go to his car and I would always feel like I’m doing some illegal drug deal out of his trunk. “You itching for a burrito and a medium cup of coffee?” I’d joke. “You see something you can use?” He asked, holding up carrots, celery, Rice-A-Roni packages. “I’ll take some sweet potatoes.” He would load up my arms with more stuff, and I told him to get his food whenever he is ready. --- Franklin Finch asked me for the phone. “It’s time. I have to do it, I don’t know how to handle her anymore,” he said as his eyes welled up. I handed him the phone and walked away. When he was done, he placed the phone on the bar and walked out. I could tell he was crying but I didn’t say anything because words to some pains are like shooting blanks at a target, there’s no connecting now matter how good your aim. I stood there. Ten minutes later I heard the police and fire truck. Franklin had finally mustered the strength to call and have his wife of twenty-five years taken away. She has early onset of dementia, throwing knives, screaming and the only way he was told by the social welfare people to have her admitted to a facility was to call the police on her. Shortly after his wife was taken away, Franklin moved to a low-income facility close to his wife so they can have daily visits. I haven’t seen him much since he’s moved, probably once in the past year. I like Franklin and think about him especially when I meet guys name Larry. I hope when he visits his wife, she will remember who he is. I hope all the memories made over twenty-five years will come to her even if its in bits and fragments. I hope she remembers the joy that made that phone call so agonizing. I hope she has some glimmer of what she means to him, a glimmer that words can never hit, no matter how good the aim.
Posted on: Wed, 07 Aug 2013 04:01:02 +0000
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