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There I stood in an empty art gallery on an early spring morning in a gritty neighborhood of North Minneapolis almost seventeen years ago.

Dressed in my best suit, I was filled with the kind of nervous excitement that a person feels when they’ve traveled quite a few steps outside of their comfort zone. This day was the culmination of years of work, on both my craft and myself.

At last, my very first book signing for a collection of poetry called, Continuum (now out of print.) A good friend, Juan Parker agreed to set up a table for me during one of his art gallery openings. I could only hope that the place would soon be packed with people willing to their hard earned cash for an autographed copy of my book. The owner of the gallery had entrusted me with the keys so I could come in early and get everything set-up for the big event.

As I began to stack new books on the table I saw a fleeting image of a man out of the large gallery window, his shadow streaking across the well-worn hardwood floor. The man quickly turned around and peeked his head in the door.

“Anyone else here?”, he asked as his eyes scanned the gallery. His hands clumsily tugging on a leather tool pouch and as he walked closer I immediately noticed the smell of wine and several missing teeth.

“Just me,” I said, “we open in a half an hour.”

At that moment my intuition told me something was wrong and I should probably get out of the building but I felt responsible for the gallery since I was the only one there. We stood in silence for a moment. I could tell his wheels were turning, much more slowly than they normally would due to the wine buzz.

The man quickly walked towards a windowless hall, stopping in front of one of my friend’s paintings, a scene of an old boat resting on a peaceful shore.

“Come here for a minute. I got a question about this one.” As he said this I noticed he was slowly pulling a scratched blue pry-bar from his tool belt.

“What would you like to know?” I asked cautiously, trying to nonchalantly inch further away and closer to the door.

His eyes shifted nervously from side-to-side and his chest heaved as his breathing quickened. “Umm, there’s offices back here, right?”

“I’m not sure. How about we come outside and talk?” I said, wanting nothing more at that moment than to find a witness. I heard the heavy steps of his boots as he ran outside to meet me.

“Man that’s cold!”, he said as his eyes bulged and stared me down with rage.”

“A man want to look at paintings and because of the color of a brotha’s skin you ask him to come outside and talk?”

We stood face to face outside the gallery door. Before my brain could process what was going on I felt the breeze from the pry bar swung just inches from my head. He then rushed in front of me, we were standing toe-to-toe.

“You nothin’ but a racist motha f*cka!” he said. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll kill you and make your coffin!”, he yelled as he pulled a claw hammer from his leather tool pouch. Now he had the pry bar in one hand, the hammer in the other.

“If you want to fight, we can fight, but put down the tools. I don’t have anything to defend myself”, I said.

Suddenly, this man’s face registered a kind of surprise as if this response was the last thing he expected. Luckily, it wasn’t his intention to fight me at all. He dropped the pry-bar and it hit the ground with a heavy thud. Then his eyes softened.

“Man, I done seven years in the pen. They beat me more times than I can count.”

“I’m sorry about that.” I said in a voice as calm as I could manage.

“I’m the wrong one to f*ck with today! I been livin’ on the street for two days. My girlfriend threw me out, the bitch.”

“Life can be hard sometimes.”, I said. “What happened?” The hurt began to splinter across his face as his eyes pooled with tears.

“We have a son together, you know. She was makin’ me breakfast and we just started arguin’.”

“Maybe you can go back and talk to her and work things out?”

“Come here a minute.” I said as he followed me into the gallery, still carrying his claw hammer.

“This is yours to keep” I told him. In retrospect, going back into the gallery wasn’t the smartest move.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking as if he wasn't entirely sure how to process the gesture.

“It’s a book of my poetry, go back and read her this one”, I said with a wink and nervously paged through the flimsy book to a poem called Imaginary Embrace and handed it to him to read.

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Imaginary Embrace ~ Your presence to me is like a calming of the storm, you fill my heart with sunny days, for your touch is soft and warm, you have angelic beauty that I hold in an imaginary embrace, as my sweet romantic daydreams take me to a far off, distant place, a place where I would love you and you’d do so in return, for your happiness, your hopes, your dreams are with all that I’m concerned, when pondering for a moment, to me it’s very clear, that every moment you’re away I wish that you were near, as I sit daydreaming in my far-off, distant place, I hope you too are holding me in an imaginary embrace.

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A childlike-look washed across his face and the remnants of tears were still streaming down his cheeks from before.

“You alright!”, he said, looking at the book and then back at me. “Maaannn, you wrote all these?”

“Yep” I said. We just stood and talked -- human to human. I began to slowly see the real person emerge from behind the tough facade that, no doubt, allowed him to survive in his world. Afterwards, we shook hands and he disappeared around the corner.

Seconds later he peeked his head through the gallery door, blind anger again beginning to reclaim his soul.

“You know what? Tomorrow you’ll be gone but I’ll still be out here livin’ in these streets!” He turned and once again disappeared into the chill of his world.

My brain was a maelstrom of what ifs. All I could manage to do was breath a heavy sigh. I couldn't utter a word.

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I am an American novelist, poet, traveler, and blockchain enthusiast. Your upvotes, comments, and resteems are always appreciated!

Eric Vance Walton - Media

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