Encounter With a Pencil Salesman

    Mike was the old man's name.  He had no teeth, one good arm and legs that stopped at the knees.

    He came out of the rain yesterday afternoon, into my office.

    Tied around his waist was a Folger's coffee can.  It obviously was his display case for razor blades and pencils, when open.  But it was closed.

    The small bundle under his arm was his wardrobe — extra clothing to compliment the faded flannel shirt, dirt brown sweater and worn pants he had on.

    Mike had just arrived in town, he told me.  He'd hitchhiked down from the north.

    And he was calling on me because a friend had suggested that he drop by as soon as he hit town.

    
"Took the bus from Hollywood," he explained.  "Cost me 17 cents.  I've got a buck, maybe a buck and a half left."

    Over a cup of coffee and a cigarette, Mike talked about his life.  He was born in Ireland, came to the states as a baby and when he was a 15-year-old merchant mariner stoking coal on a cargo ship, the explosion which marred him for life happened.

    "Took me 12 or 13 years to get used to being a cripple," he said, "but finally I did.  I stay on the road now.  Keep moving.  Stay one jump ahead of them."

    "Ahead of whom?" I asked.

    "Lot of people, lot of places — they don't like you holding out a tin can or a hat.  They pass laws against guys like me.

    "Like up in Yellowstone.  There got to be so many panhandlers there that they kicked us all out.  Winos, drunks.  I got no use for them, either.  Kids with deaf-and-dumb cards were all over the place.  The kids can talk just as good as you and me, but I don't blame them.  I blame their parents."

    Mike's right eye blinked spasmodically as he talked.

    "I got no teeth," he said.  "Had a false set once, but somebody clipped me for them.  Don't know why anybody'd want to steal a crippled man's false teeth.

    "Things like that are always happening to me.  On the way down from San Francisco, I set my bedroll outside some truck stop and somebody clipped that.  Three good blankets, parka coat, my reading glasses — they're all gone.

    "I saved up for that coat out of the money I earned begging," Mike explained.  "Or," he corrected, "selling pencils."

    I asked him if he had to get a permit in each city, if the law gave him much trouble.

    He smiled and the tic on his eye went to work again.  "Lot of towns put the heat on you.  You live by your wits.  Keep ahead of the beef.

    "Take me," he continued.  "I work the quiet places.  By a small market, maybe, where I won't draw too much attention.  I hit the working class.  They're the ones who help you.  Not the rich people.  That way, I make four, five, six dollars a day.  That's enough."

    "How long do you plan to stay in L.A.?"  I asked.

    "Not long," he answered.  "I keep moving.  I go all over the country.  You do better that way, better than staying in one place."

    Casting a glance at the window, he added, "Kind of wet out.  You know a clean hotel?"

    I made a couple of calls.  I got him situated at the Y for the night, gave him a  few bucks to tide him over until he could get back in business tomorrow, and stuck him in a cab.

    A short time later, I got a call back from the man I talked to at the Y.

    "I'm sorry," the man apologized.  "All our single rooms were filled up, so we offered Mike the best we had.  He'd have had a couple of roommates."

    "You mean he wouldn't take the room?"  I asked.

    "That's right," the man replied.  "In fact, he was quite insulted.

    "The last I saw him," the man added, "he was back out in the rain, going down the street."