New Orleans is a mess of a city – and I mean that in the best of ways. It’s unique in its character, certain to make an imprint on tourists and leave its mark on homegrown citizens, normally stamped in the outline of a beer insignia. Indeed, announcing a visit to New Orleans will incur a barrage of questions. Living there, one gets used to it. You reside in one of the most famous cities on earth, after all.

Right down the road from me is an exquisite steakhouse, the type of place that I eat at only rarely because it’s so cost-prohibitive. Mr. John’s, its called. And right down the road from it dwells another person, equally simple in name. He’s homeless, and his name is Pope.

He’s sitting there on an orange sleeping bag, clad in thick woolen black socks. His boots are stacked neatly to his right, well-worn and built for a life of tromping the streets. A crate rests in front of him, brimming with books. In his hands, a James Patterson novel. As I approach, walking my puppy, he reaches out to pet her.

“Good dog,” he says. “Sit.” Blue, as is her habit, refuses to listen, jumping up to lick him. “Siitttt.” He put out a steadying hand. “Pretty coat. They call that cinnamon or red?”

“Not a clue,” I say. “I just know she’s dappled. Patterson, huh? Standalone or co-authored?”

“Stand-alone.” He took a drag of his cigarette and told a couple good morning as they passed by. “I feel like he cheats whenever he writes with other people. Gets them to do the work and takes the credit.”

I tie Blue to a street sign and left her a dog treat. Thus began my interview with Pope, New Orleans’ literate homeless man. I arrange myself cross-legged in front of him and we start shooting the shit.

He looks to be in his mid-forties. Beard going grey. Glasses. I give him a John Grisham novel to read. My mom gave it to me a few days ago, and I read it last night, so I figured it was time to pass it on. He puts it in the crate with his other books.

We start out innocently enough, discussing – as you may expect – our favorite authors. He cites Grisham as one, Clancy another, W.E.B. Griffin for a third. Says the only book he’s ever read twice is a a novel titled Brules, by Harry B. Combs. It’s a sprawling, epic western, and we talk about that for a while. It’s something we have in common, as I grew up reading my dad’s Louis L’Amour novels.

I ask him why he doesn’t read books more than once. He takes off his glasses. He appears puzzled.

“Why should I?” he asks. “I read for entertainment. I read for the stories. And once I’ve found it, I pass it on for the next person to read.”

Blue, tied to the street post, whines, but a few scratches from a kindly stranger consoles her. Meanwhile, I found his point interesting. I, too, read for pleasure rather than some mystic or deep pursuit.

He continues speaking. There’s disdain evident in his voice. Why, I can’t exactly say, but I can’t bring myself to disagree. “I don’t read to gain stuff. Gain anything. Knowledge or any of that shit.” He takes a sip of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Don’t have any use for that. Just find a good story the best way of passing the day. Doesn’t mean I won’t read the classics, though. Read Tortilla Flat. I liked that, even if it was confusing as all get-out. Steinbeck, wasn’t it?”

“I think so,” I say. “So you don’t read poetry or most non-fiction books?” A general question from me, I know, but I wanted to hear more of his thoughts on the matter.

“I don’t feel like hanging out with a damn thesaurus all day.” He says good morning to another couple, this time a church-going duo, by all appearances. “If a biography has a good story, hell yeah I’ll read it. But if it’s just to talk about yourself or another person, then I’m not interested. Give me a good story any day.”

The day is beautiful. The people, even more so. Probably feeding off the weather. The sky couldn’t appear any more blue if it tried. It relaxes me, to the point that I stretch my legs. Study my worn-down, dog-chewed Converses.

“Where do you get you books?” I ask. There is a hole in the toe of my left shoe. A bit past their prime, I guess.

“Free libraries. That, and people like you just choose to give me books occasionally.”

“Free libraries?” I’m confused. I thought all libraries are free. “Whatcha mean?”

“Free libraries.” He polishes off the rest of his Pabst and spins the bottle idly in his hands. “There’s a couple within walking distance. One right down the street. Another one on Louisiana Avenue. You know, little shelves outside of houses. People put books there they want to get rid of, take books they want to read. Trade and flow.”

So cool.

I find this concept fascinating and vow to take a turn down Louisiana Avenue soon. An ant crawls up my leg and I pinch in between my thumb and forefinger, wondering how best to approach the next subject.

A man with a to-go box brushes by us, giving me an opening. “So what do you do around here, mostly? Besides read?”

He shrugs. “Eat. Mostly leftovers from the steakhouse or whatever people bring me. If I have enough change, I’ll get a meal myself. I live well enough, all things considered.” His vocabulary is well-formed, if a bit rough, with the occasional misstep. Unsurprising considering his self-learned but relatively well-read approach to life.

We talk about food for a while. Lament people spending $45 for a $4 steak. Ordering $10 sides at a restaurant only to stab a bite or two from them before tossing them aside. We have similar views on this, I find. Eat until there is nothing left to eat. That’s how it works. Or how it should work. Anything else is nothing more than waste, a reminder that you have too much money to spend and should find somewhere else to spend it.

I promise him a Shiner Bock from my house. He accepts it with a grunt. That’s about all that’s in my fridge or I’d give him more.

“New Orleans native?” I did not think so. His voice did have that distinctive southern ring to it.

“Nah.” He shakes his head and flicks his cigarette into the street, lodging itself in a pile of other refuse. “Cincinnati. Grew up blue-collar. I had a good life, though. A real good life. Mom worked. Aunt worked. Grandmother was on welfare, but we all lived in her house. I worked, too. Since I was young. Had my first real job at fifteen, at Walgreens, stocking shelves. It was a good time.”

“Why’d you leave?” I itch to get the cigarette and put it in the trash. My inner-environmentalist speaking up.

“Marines.” He eyes me, as if I would not believe him. “Three years.”

“What happened?”

“Life’s a motherucker.” He smiled, showing off white teeth in a dark face. “Smoked too much pot.”

We share a laugh. Talk about the evolution of drugs in the United States. If and when Louisiana would ever shed its conservative view of the culture. A classic BMW passes us, 70’s model, and we spend a while talking about cars. Pope is a Cadillac man, it turns out. Had a roommate once, he tells me, that owned a ’76 Coup de Ville. Still his favorite driving car, to this day.

He says that this is his second trip to New Orleans. The first time, back after Katrina, he came here to help rebuild. Said the city ruined him. That he did not know when to leave the bar.

“It ate me up and spit me out.” He shook his head ruefully. “Worked, then worked at the bar. Drinking ’till I didn’t remember anymore. Went back to Cincinnati after that. Passed it doing odd jobs. Found my way back here.” He eyes me again, this time with a friendlier look on his face than the first time. “Tell you I tried walking here?”

“Bullshit,” I say immediately. The miles boggle my mind.

“Real talk.” He grins. “Look it up. Mywalktoneworleans.com. Made it as far as Tuscaloosa, writing about it and taking pictures as I went. Uploading everything at libraries. The Bible Belt, though, they stopped me.”

“What do you mean?” I shift, trying to make myself more comfortable. Young as I am, my knees do not do too well when they are crossed for too long.

He kept that grin on, but it was not that happy kind. Just seemed stuck there, kind of. “Black man, dirty as hell from the road, trying to get in the library? They weren’t having none of that.”

That type of racism strikes me as pathetic, but I grew up in the south. I know the truth behind those words. Not much I could do about it, though. And, being white as can be, there was no way I could truly empathize. Not authentically.

“I won’t be out here much longer, though.” He looks around, a man and what he looks at as his house, but not his home. “Veteran’s movement. They’re taking people like me and putting us up in apartments. Six months paid rent.”

“You excited?” I ask, then rapidly change that into, “What are you going to do?”

“Take some job-training classes.” He scratches his beard, grey creeping up his cheeks. “Program called Stride. They train us, brush up our resumes, get us ready to get back into the world.”

Time passes. I close my notes and we chit-chat about seemingly nothing. This homeless guy living next to a superb steakhouse, sprawled in the middle of the street, reading for a living and taking what life throws his way. It feels surreal.

I wrap it up with a promise to bring him the beers soon. Today, if I can. And print out this post so he has something extra to read. I make my way back home, Blue straining at the leash, and relax.

Books, it seems, touch more people than you know.

Pope and I.

*Note One: I went and read Pope’s blog. It was about what I expected. You know how some people are smart, but not necessarily educated? That’s him. I think sometimes people confuse the two. Yeah, his writing and musings aren’t going to win him a gold star in composition class, but there’s intelligence there. There’s a mind at work. And you can see it.*

*Note two: I got home about 5:15 A.M. after closing up the bar. Took Blue out for the first of her daily walks and saw Pope again, up and reading that new Grisham novel I gave him. Went home and got those Shiners I promised him earlier in the day. Left him there, leaning against the side of a building, drinking and reading. What can I say? When the man does it right, he does it right.”

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