Bob's Blankets

Bob bought every blanket the army surplus store had, then gave one away to anyone who seemed to need it.

by Carol Denney

My Volkswagen squareback had the metal letters FORD across the back, so neatly placed that they looked natural, unless you were someone like Bob Nichols, someone with an eye for subtle humor. One December, Bob asked me to drive to the army surplus store in Oakland where he bought every wool blanket they had.

Bob's own car had died in Arizona, almost making it to California from Pennsylvania, where he grew up knowing he had to leave. He hitchhiked the rest of the way as a young man, meeting a lot of people who were hard to define. He had met people like the guy behind the counter at the army surplus store; touchy, short-tempered people with imperfect knowledge about the military gained entirely from being surrounded by the equipment and the uniforms of old, worn-out wars.

Bob didn't explain what we were doing in buying all the blankets. The wars were not over for Bob. Their wounded never seemed far from his mind, wandering the streets and huddling in doorways, despised by almost everyone.

Officials devised programs for them that involved a lot of paper and walls. Most of them hated paper, and had lost their most important papers long ago. Most of them couldn't bear walls and noise, and didn't have watches, or didn't have watches for long.

Bob walked everywhere, so he knew their names and patterns. He knew the ones who were almost invisible residents of the territory between his home and his work, his home and the BART station, his home and the ballpark. He knew who would drink away a monthly check after the first of every month, and who had finally saved enough money for a camera that got stolen the next day. Bob couldn't be much help, but Bob listened.

Bob knew wool could get wet but stay warm. We stacked the army surplus blankets like olive green and gray cordwood in the back of the car, almost too high to see out the back. He spent about two hundred dollars, and ended up with forty or fifty clean, used blankets. Then he gave them away. He'd take one with him on the way to work and hand it to anyone who seemed to need it.

He knew a lot of people who panhandled. He knew a lot of drunks, junkies, and crazy people. He wasn't bothered by craziness, or incompetence, or repetitive, self-serving stories, or addiction. He knew people were cold. He gave away a lot of money in quarters and ones and fives. He bought people sandwiches and smokes. He knew it wasn't enough, but he knew that, at least for a moment, it mattered.

Bob is gone now; he died in his sleep almost a year ago. The blankets are probably still out there, because the people are. Some of them died, but most have moved around, traded corners, found housing and lost it.

They'll be there come December, waiting for Bob and the blankets. Bob might be there, too, handing out cigarettes and trading jokes. If you see him, tell him hi. Tell him I miss him. And tell him thanks.

STREET SPIRIT
1515 Webster St,#303
Oakland, CA 94612Phone: (510) 238-8080, ext. 303
email: spirit@afsc.org

© 2002-2006 STREET SPIRIT. All rights reserved. - Published by American Friends Service Committee