My Uncle's Shoes

The Mexican Leprechaun

Tom Froehlich

He was a 5’6” Hispanic man with a lost and frantic look in his eyes. Kind of like a squirrel locked in a cage, eyes frantically darting about looking for an exit. The family member who brought him in said he had been living on the streets of San Francisco for seven years and he had no idea what combination of drugs were in his system. Another staff member did the in-take, doing the paperwork and getting him settled into his room. I just kept thinking, “This guy may last a week, but most likely he will be gone by morning. He’s never going to make it.” His name was Peter.

An hour later, I walked into the dining room and Peter was eating dinner by himself. I will admit that it was more out of a sense of duty than compassion that I sat down to join him. No one should eat dinner alone their first night in a rehabilitation facility, right? Caged squirrel or not.

His frantic eyes darted my direction as he looked up from his plate of pasta and said, “I lived on the streets with hookers and dealers and crooks, you know.”

I simply said, “I know,” and offered him a gentle smile.

He continued, “But it wasn’t scary or anything. I mean, I became one of them so I could study them and write their stories with my painting. I even took out my front tooth so I would blend in.” He smiled at me, more to show me the gap where his false tooth had once been, than for any other reason. His smile held no shame, it was more of a “You can accept me or not, this is who I am” kind of smile, with a bit of mischief and mirth thrown in. I couldn’t help but smile in return. With that, his smile broadened and I think it was in that moment I unknowingly made a new friend.

He went on to tell me of the hotel he lived in a down and out part of San Francisco. Of how he was not just a drug addict, but a well-respected artist and writer as well. It had just gotten out of control and he wasn’t sure of the time period. His brain wasn’t working well enough to make that determination.  He told me of how he lived among the homeless. How he quietly observed. Silently watch and listen and finally see inside of them, seeing who they truly are and then tell their story in his paintings. Tell of their trials and challenges, as well as, their joy and happiness. “Because everything on the street isn’t all bad you know. There are some amazing people out there,” said this little brown man.

My thought was, “Probably the only truth I’m hearing is that he lost his front tooth. Maybe sold it for an eight ball of heroin.” But truth or not, it was one hell of a story!

A moment passed as he twirled the few remaining strands of pasta on his plate. And then, as if he had made a decision and wanted to act on it before he changed his mind, his frantic eyes looked at me and he asked, “You want to see one of my paintings?”

I said, “Sure,” figuring I may as well ride this one out and see where it landed. I’m not really sure what I expected. Maybe some sheets of Manila paper with crayoned stick people and cauliflower clouds or psychedelic, schizophrenic swirls of watercolor. He left for a moment, going into his bedroom and returned with a canvas folded into a two-foot square. Walking into the living room he unfurled the canvas that was longer than the seven-foot sofa it rested on. I was speechless and trust me that is a rare occasion. All I could say was, “Oh my God!” It was far from the stick people and cauliflower clouds I had expected. It was as if Pablo Picasso, Edgar Degas and Salvador Dali were all mixed together in a blender and spit out onto a canvas.  It was Egyptian hieroglyphics and Roman bas-relief sculpture and stained glass cathedral windows. It was amazing. As I continued to look along its richly colored and intricately designed length I once again uttered a profound (not!), “Oh my God!!”

“You get it don’t you? I knew you would,” and he flashed me a joyous smile, no less radiant for lack of a tooth and the look in his eyes was no longer frantic. It was simply a look of trust, knowing that you see beauty in what I see.

I smiled in return and said, “Yes, I do. This is amazing.”

He began to walk me through the story told in this eclectic work of art. He told me of the people who walked across the canvas and showed me the hotel in which he lived. Not much talking was really necessary because the canvas easily told the story. That was the beginning of an unexpected friendship.

As time passed Peter’s body rid itself of toxins and more art manifested itself. Everyday I came to work I looked forward to seeing what he had created the night before. He ran through paints and canvas at a rapid pace, but when he ran out of traditional supplies that didn’t stop him. An old discarded spool of wire was spun into mobiles housing Barbie Dolls in cages. A box of old wire hangers meant to be thrown away were transformed into a serpentining Op Art room divider.

No matter what medium Peter used he found the magic in it. He explained to me that you had to let the paint or wire or a piece of junk he had pulled from a dumpster do what it is supposed to do. Not force it into being something it’s not. “You just don’t get street art do you?” he said. “Kind of like life, you know what I mean? It’s kind of like life. You have to accept it for what it is and work with it. Not try to make it something it’s not.”

I thought, “Frankly, Peter I’m beginning to think I didn’t get a lot of things before I met you.” Over time, I began to see things not so much through Peter’s eyes, but through rediscovering my own.

When I told him I had been planning on painting again after many years he just looked at me and said, “You should. I bet your work would be amazing. Spectacular.” He said this based on nothing other than his sense of who I am and I believed him. I believed him, because Peter saw people for who they are. No bull shit. No facade.

One day he said to me, “You know, Mike the cook talks a lot about all of his accomplishments. I think it’s because he really needs a lot of recognition to feel good about himself.” I was shocked because he was spot on. He continued, “And Sean, the house manager, acts frantic all of the time, but I think he just needs people to see how busy he is because he needs to make sure he gets credit for all he does. It’s okay, I don’t judge them. We all need to feel good and all ask for attention in different ways.”

“And you? You could be big scary guy, because you’re like a foot taller than me, but you’re not, because you’re just a big doofus who everybody loves, because you are so kind to everyone.”

“Doofus?!” I questioned, somewhat surprised by his assessment. Surprised mostly by the fact that he was once again, “spot on”. My ego was fleetingly bruised, but I knew it was not said unkindly. I have a very difficult time pulling off cool and sophisticated.

“Yeah, but a lovable one!” he said giving me the grin I had grown to love accompanied by his mischievous laugh. Whether it be oil paints or people, Peter saw it for what it was. Maybe it was that his eyes saw it before his brain was able to reinterpret into something else. Something other than its authentic self. I think we often reinterpret people and things to make them fit more comfortably into our world. Peter was building his world by seeing and accepting things for what they truly are. An authentic world. And I learned from him.

Pointing to the sunset above us, filtered through the clouds, he would say, “Look at that color. It’s almost hot pink.”

And I would add, “Except around the edges, they’re almost peach.”

Peter would continue, “You mean right by that wedge of a cloud that’s almost…”

“…turquoise.” We would finish simultaneously, and laugh out loud.

Peter helped me find the eyes I thought I had lost. The eyes that had become clouded by my reinterpretation of reality. Trying to make it something it is not meant to be.

I went to the art supply store this week and bought paints and brushes and a couple of canvasses.  My easel is coming through the mail.  The best part is I am going to let it be what it is. And I bet it’s going to be spectacular. And the fact that this is all a metaphor for my life has not been lost on me. I get that. I am learning that life does not need to be reinterpreted for it to make sense. Seeing it in all its authenticity and perfect imperfection is where the beauty lies. The place it truly makes sense. No bull shit. No facades.

If the Mexicans had a leprechaun in their folklore it would be Peter. A 5’6” little brown man who taught me to once again see the world, through my own eyes, unfiltered by what I expect it to be. To learn to be comfortable in the uncomfortableness of authenticity. If you are waiting for me to tell you, Peter showed me how to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I will have to tell you he did not. Rather, he has taught me that there is no need to chase happiness to the end of the rainbow. He has taught me that if I am brave enough to see the world in all of it’s beautiful, perfect, imperfection, I will find that my pot of gold is right in front of me.