I Don't Say Grace I Say Gratitude

I was visiting my father two weeks ago. We sat down to have lunch and I—as has become my habit—put my hands together and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Have you become a Christian?” Dad asked, not with irritation or mockery but with curiosity.

“Nah,” I replied. “I don’t say grace, I say gratitude.”

When I am eating with others, it’s very brief: I just close my eyes for a second and internally say thanks. When I am alone, it lasts a minute or two acknowledging all the things I am fortunate to have: Food. A roof over my head. A job. I compare my situation to those poor people in Gaza or to the mentally ill left to fend for themselves here on the streets of Portland. I don’t pray for anything, it feels wrong to ask for anything when expressing gratitude…the closest I get to praying is the occasional “For fucks sake, I really hope this apartment works out soon.” But when I say words before eating? No. I just acknowledge how fortunate I am and express my gratitude.

Hobo Joe was back yesterday at work. He’s a determined character, I’ve seen him more than a half dozen times. Because of his white facial hair I am guessing he’s in his sixties but you can never tell with homeless folks. Maybe he isn’t homeless, maybe he has a flat somewhere and collects recycling to suppliment his social security. Maybe he sleeps in the rough but clever lean to next to the fence. As curious as I am, I have to stick to the script: Drive up when I catch him rummaging in the bins. Wait until he packs up and leaves. Most of the homeless know the drill and start walking off the moment I pull up in the patrol vehicle. Hobo Joe is a bit spicier, taking his time, he goes into the bins unlike the others. I don’t like this part of being a security guard, the homeless are just trying to get by, but if I am to keep my job and not join their ranks I have to address their trespasses. Most are silent, including Hobo Joe who has grumbled a few times, but yesterday I had some ol’ boy having a fit, thrashing his arms and screaming at imagined enemies. That fellow needs help, he shouldn’t be left to gritty parking lots and overgrown vacant areas to fend for himself.  I wish I knew the answer. I write down all this stuff for a future book; whether it’s about being a security guard or this time in Portland I’m not sure yet.

I do not say grace, I say gratitude. When I do I apologize for all my whining and complaining I do. This is my second week working six days, a total of…sixty hours? I’m tired enough I can’t count. The apartment people are dragging their feet so I’ve been in this hotel room for a week and a half. Tonight I work 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. But, I have a job so I can pay my bills, I could buy all the food I could want, and I have a roof over my head so I am grateful.