Going Home
Going Home
I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few yearsSHOWER CURTAIN, to be told a new in one form. or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an endwoven label; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part.
They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree boys and three girls and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold of New YorkROLLER BLIND. vanished behind them.As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his agegucci shoes. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his lifecanvas painting: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herselflandscape painting.“We're going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear it's really beautiful.”“It isportrait painting, ” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.ilence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's,and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beachespicture painting. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfullybag making machinery, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.“Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife,” he said. “ I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me, I'd understandadidas shoes. Get a new guy, I saidshe‘s a wonderful woman,really somethingand forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me for nothingair max. And she didn‘t. Not for three and a half years.”
“And you're going home now, not knowing?”“Yeah,” he said shyly. “ Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her again. We used to live in Brunswickabstract painting, just before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town. I told her that if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget itno handkerchief, and I'd go on through.”She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. The woman was handsome in a plain wayindustrial heater, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak treebanner stand manufacturer. The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood, full of the silence of absence and lost years.
Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five. Then,suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except Vingo.Vingo sat there stunnedmen's shirts, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the windcross bike parts. As the young people shouted, the old con rose and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faithgas scooter spare parts, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have lovebrand handbags, I gain nothing.Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.
I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few yearsSHOWER CURTAIN, to be told a new in one form. or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an endwoven label; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part.
They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree boys and three girls and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches as the gray cold of New YorkROLLER BLIND. vanished behind them.As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his agegucci shoes. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his lifecanvas painting: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herselflandscape painting.“We're going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear it's really beautiful.”“It isportrait painting, ” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.ilence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's,and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beachespicture painting. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfullybag making machinery, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.“Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife,” he said. “ I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me, I'd understandadidas shoes. Get a new guy, I saidshe‘s a wonderful woman,really somethingand forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me for nothingair max. And she didn‘t. Not for three and a half years.”
“And you're going home now, not knowing?”“Yeah,” he said shyly. “ Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her again. We used to live in Brunswickabstract painting, just before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town. I told her that if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget itno handkerchief, and I'd go on through.”She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. The woman was handsome in a plain wayindustrial heater, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak treebanner stand manufacturer. The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood, full of the silence of absence and lost years.
Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five. Then,suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except Vingo.Vingo sat there stunnedmen's shirts, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the windcross bike parts. As the young people shouted, the old con rose and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faithgas scooter spare parts, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have lovebrand handbags, I gain nothing.Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.
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