The Noticer Returns

Sometimes You Find Perspective, and Sometimes Perspective Finds You

Thomas Nelson

CHAPTER 1

I found him.

I wasn't looking for him, but there he was, real as life. Itwas only a glimpse at first, but he stopped and turned, almostas if he felt my gaze upon him. The instant we locked eyes, hegrinned. And it was like the old man had never left.

But he did leave. He had disappeared several years ago withoutso much as a good-bye, and like the old man himself, thecircumstances of his departure had been odd. Leaving our tiny,coastal community without being seen by a single person wasstrange enough—small-town folks don't miss much—but tuckinga cryptic message inside a beaten-up suitcase and abandoningit in the middle of a parking lot ... well, the whole thing hadbeen perplexing. It had also been the number-one topic of conversationin our town for weeks.

In time, however, the residents of Orange Beach came tobelieve he was gone for good, and a mourning of sorts had settledover the whole community. It wasn't a tragedy. We had sufferedthrough hurricanes and oil spills—we knew what tragedy feltlike. It was more of an emptiness we couldn't quite define.

So in lieu of anything specific, we talked endlessly about whatwe did remember. We discussed his clothes and wondered why wehad never seen him in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt.Besides the leather sandals on his feet, that particular ensembletypified his entire wardrobe. We had seen him at a wedding on thelagoon, in restaurants, and even in church a time or two, but neverdressed in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt.

No one had ever known where he lived or even where heslept at night. To our knowledge, he had never so much as spenta rainy evening at anyone's house. He didn't own property inour county—we all have friends working at the courthouse, andthey checked.

Neither, we all agreed, could he possibly have had a tent inthe small brown suitcase that never left his side. And about thatsuitcase ... until the day of his disappearance, none of us hadever seen him without it. It was an early weekday morning whenTed Romano, the owner of Pack & Mail, found the old, scuffed-uppiece of luggage sitting by itself in the middle of an almostempty parking lot.

Yes, we all had stories about watching the old man strugglethrough a door with it or carry it with him as he filled a platefrom a local salad bar, but as far as we could tell, no one but theman himself had so much as touched that suitcase until the dayhe vanished.

There was also the age thing. We were almost obsessed withthe subject of how old the man might be. We had concededlong before that it was impossible to know his age for sure. Hisappearance yielded no real clues. "Old" was as close as we couldguess. His hair was longish—not long enough for a ponytail,but longish—and as white as polished ivory. Usually only finger-combed,his hair was casually worn and almost beautiful. But hishair was only the first thing about him anyone noticed.

It was the old man's eyes that stopped people in their tracks.Sparkling as the laughter of a child and imbued with a color Ican describe only as tranquil blue, his eyes verged on luminescence.Set against the brown skin of his face and framed by thatsnowy hair, his eyes would hold a person as long as he cared totalk. And he could really talk ...

None of us had ever had the opportunity to listen—trulylisten—to anyone like him before. It wasn't that he talked a lot.He didn't. It's just that when he did talk, the words that tumbledfrom his mouth were so precise and significant that folks drankin every one.

You may think I am exaggerating, but there are more than afew of us in Orange Beach who credit this old man with changingour lives. In fact, I might be at the top of that long list. Butthen, my relationship with Jones has spanned more years thananyone else's.

He found me at a particularly tough time in my life when I wastwenty-three years old. For several months he was a friend when Ididn't have one and told me the truth at a time when I didn't wantto hear it. Then he disappeared for close to thirty years.

The next time I saw him was a few years ago when he arrived,as he had the first time, seemingly out of the blue. One awfullycurious thing I became aware of during that time was that theold man had apparently been in and out of our town for years.Maybe for decades.

Remember how I said we didn't know how old he was? Well, Italked to some people who were pretty old themselves, and theysaid the old man had been around when they were kids. Andthey swore up and down that he had been an old man then. Ofcourse, that doesn't make sense to me even now. When I firstheard it—and I heard it a lot—I ignored all the talk. Still, I hadto admit that he didn't look much different from the first time Ihad seen him.

His age wasn't the only strange thing about the old man. Hisskin color was another. He was deeply tanned. Or dark brown.No one could agree on whether his pigmentation had been determinedby genetics or a lifelong aversion to sunscreen. As for me,I simply didn't care.

It was curious, however, that African Americans seemed totake it for granted that the old man was black, and Caucasiansassumed he was white. I saw it happen so often that I thought itwas funny. I even asked him about it once. His answer didn't havemuch to do with the question, though, and I was not surprised.

I loved the old man, and I was not the only one. And Ialready told you how much of a difference he made for many ofus. But I would be remiss if I did not submit this for considerationas well: there were people in our town who thought the oldman was crazy.

It was all very strange ... how he was mocked and ridiculedby some and the way he just grinned and took it. Some folks—rightto his face—even called him names.

Me? I just called him Jones. Not Mr. Jones. Just Jones.

CHAPTER 2

Gulf Shores, AlabamaNovember, thirty-two years ago

It was a cold night on the Gulf Coast, and I was wearingeverything I owned, including an insulated denim jacket Ihad found in someone's trash. It was almost midnight, and I wascoming from a marathon session of cleaning fish for Jeannie'sSeafood at the intersection of Highway 59 and the beach road. Iwas headed back to the Gulf State Park Pier, exhausted and cold,eager to climb under its shelter and sleep.

As was my habit, I got off the main road and walked behindthe homes and businesses on the beach. I did this in order toavoid attention from anyone who might wonder what a kid wasdoing walking the streets of a small beach town alone at night. Iwas trudging through the concrete pilings under the Pink PonyPub when Jones joined me.

It was not a surprise, really. I was becoming accustomed to theuncommon way he would commonly appear. This night he simplymatched my stride and walked with me. As usual, the old man wasin jeans and a T-shirt. "How do you keep from freezing?" I asked.

"I think warm thoughts," Jones replied, before noting,"Woowee! You smell like fish."

Continuing to trudge through the sand with my head downand my hands in my pockets, I said, "Yeah, well, spend a day upto your elbows in twenty-six hundred pounds of 'em, and we'llsee what you smell like."

Jones was quiet for a while. I suspected he had sensed mymood and was being careful. My current station in life had takenan emotional toll that was not beyond repair. The circumstanceswere evident, however, even to those who knew me in passing.Jones was aware that I was a threat to fly into a rage or burst intotears or rip someone to pieces with my words. One or more ofthese crazy manifestations of how I felt at the moment happenedfar too frequently, and sometimes they happened in public. Ididn't want to behave or conduct myself in that manner, but Ibelieved it was nothing I could control. What can I do? I oftenthought. This is me. This is how I feel. This is just the way I am ...

I cut my eyes toward the old man and kept walking. He hada habit of turning up most often, it seemed, when I was tired ordepressed or angry. I'd look up from washing someone's boat orpause to stretch while cleaning fish, and there he'd be, over tothe side, twenty or thirty feet away, just watching me. He'd smilewhen I caught him like that, and I didn't mind. After all, he wasthe only person remotely interested in a young man who washomeless and living on the beach.

The old man could make me laugh, and he did so quiteoften; but mostly, he made me think. Not necessarily about acertain thing ... He made me think in ways I had never considered.Jones had a knack for turning a situation or a deep-seatedbelief upside down or sideways in such a manner that it becameperfectly clear and made total sense.

I didn't look at him again, but I could hear the fine, sugarysand squeaking under his steps. He was quiet, simply offeringhis company to a lonely young man, and I couldn't help feelingguilty for how I sometimes acted toward him. I often grewfrustrated with the old man, sometimes to the point of anger,and then would regret the sharp words I used as I took that frustrationout on my friend. In saner moments I wondered if theoverwhelming frustration I felt might actually be with myself. Icertainly struggled to think the way he did.

"You can't just come up with some answer to everything,"I'd said to him only a few nights before. In an ugly tone of voice,I had sneered, "You act like an answer is waiting around thecorner, and when you find it—boom!—the problem's solved, likesomebody waved a magic wand!" I remember stepping close tohim for my big finish. With contempt dripping from my words,I had said, "Things are not that simple."

Jones had shrugged and, with the barest hint of a smile,replied, "Seems to me that when the answer appears, the problemis solved. You might be scared or frustrated or discouraged or allthree, but when you find an answer, life is never the same again.So actually, son ... things aren't that complicated."

I had wanted to scream.

Approaching the Holiday Inn, we could see that high tide wassending its waves to break upon the foundation of the resort'spool area. Only a seawall protected the hotel's elaborate concretebeach from the waves of the real thing; therefore, it wasthe only place on our walk where we couldn't stay on the sand. Iexperienced this obstacle regularly and knew that to avoid wadingthrough the surf, it was necessary to cross the pool deck.Together in the dark, all alone, Jones and I climbed the stepsthat would allow us to negotiate the array of lounge chairs,circle the pool, and exit the property by way of the stairs on theother side.

Despite the security guard who roamed the hotel grounds atnight, I wasn't too scared. The lady who worked the night deskinside the lobby was a middle-aged, African American womannamed Beverly. She was also a friend of mine. I called her Mrs.Beverly and occasionally gave her fresh fish as my part of anunspoken agreement that prompted her to look the other waywhen I used one or another of the hotel's amenities. Still, I wascautious. I didn't want anyone in trouble with the hotel manager.Especially me.

I crouched low, making my way across the deck. Arriving atmidpoint, right beside the deep end of the pool, I turned to tellJones to do the same. I flushed with annoyance, seeing he was notbent over and not hurrying. The old man was moving casually,absolutely upright, hands in his pockets, with those leather sandalsscuffling along the sandy concrete. Having trained myself toavoid attention and the subsequent problems that came with it, Iwas striving for silence, and the old man's sandals resonated like ametal rake dragging through gravel.

Irritated, I hissed at him to hurry up, get down, and be quiet.But before I could continue my short trek, Jones inexplicablysmiled sweetly and reached toward me in a gesture that indicatedhe wanted to place his hand on my shoulder but instead ...firmly pushed me into what was a very cold, unheated pool.

I was under the water—all the way under the water—beforeI had any comprehension of what had just occurred. Years laterI would carry a weird mental picture of the old man at that particularinstant. I would see him through the surface of the pool,leaning over me with his white hair blowing in the cold wind. AsI surfaced with a gasp, Jones was smiling. Not laughing (I mighthave killed him) but smiling as if he were curious or expectantor fascinated with the object in front of him—which was, ofcourse, me.

I kicked to the side of the pool and grabbed hold of the edgeat his feet. All the fire or meanness or whatever it was I carriedaround was suddenly gone. I wiped my eyes with my hands,looked up at him, and asked, "What was that for?" as he reacheddown to help me out.

Soon I was wrapped in ten or twelve towels from the HolidayInn laundry room and drinking coffee from the pot in the lobby.We were sitting on the floor, huddled in the not-quite-inside,not-quite-outside doorway that led to the hotel tennis courts. Itwas not comfortable, but it was out of the wind, and I was relativelysure we would not be run off.

After giving him the silent treatment for a time—conduct thatI must admit had no effect at all—I peered at him sideways andsaid, "Jones. Man, I don't get you. What in the heck was that for?"

He looked up at the ceiling, took a deep, contented breath,and crossed his arms comfortably. "Well," he began, glancing atme briefly, then back to the ceiling. "Son, you are at this verymoment in the biggest war you will ever wage in your life. It isconfusing, but you're fighting for what you'll one day become.There are forces clashing for space in your head that you don'trecognize, can't see, and won't understand until you're able tolook back on the whole thing years from now.

"You know, a lot of folks will tell you that little things don'tmatter." He flashed me a quick look and added, "You'd betterturn that on its ear, son. Little things do matter. Sometimes,little things matter the most. Everybody pays a lot of attention tobig things, but nobody seems to understand that big things arealmost always made up of little things. When you ignore littlethings, they often turn into big things that have become a lotharder to handle.

"'Don't sweat the small stuff,'" Jones said with disdain."That's a lie that'll ruin your life." He looked hard at me againand locked my gaze with his own. "Your choices, your words,and every move you make are permanent. Life is lived in indelibleink, boy. Wake up. You're making little bitty brushstrokes everyminute you walk around on this earth. And with those tinybrushstrokes, you are creating the painting that your life willultimately become—a masterpiece or a disaster."

Jones shifted in the small space to gain a little comfort andfaced me directly when he spoke again. "Okay, back to yourquestion ..." The old man tilted his head to the side a tiny bit.

"It occurred to me that I wasn't always going to be aroundto help you with your thinking. So I decided, then and there,that you needed to understand a very important fact about yourearthly existence. It is this: Every single day for the rest of yourlife, somebody is going to push you in the pool. And you'd betterdecide now how you're going to act when it happens."

Jones squinted and leaned toward me. "Are you gonna comeout of the water whining? Maybe crying or complaining? Willyou come up mad and defiant, threatening everybody? Will youthrow fists or worse?

"Or will you come out of the water with a smile on yourface? Looking to see what you can learn ... who you might help?Will you act happy though you feel uncertain?"

He stared at me for a beat or two before lowering his chinand speaking in an earnest tone. "It's time to decide, son," he said."Almost every result that your life produces from this momentforward—good or bad—will depend upon how you choose.Every day, in one form or another, whether you like it or not, youwill be pushed in the pool. You might as well decide right nowhow you'll act when it happens."
(Continues...)Excerpted from The Noticer Returns by Andy Andrews. Copyright © 2013 Andy Andrews. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
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