Of Time and Light
September 5th, 1970
We’ll start at an endpoint for this story since the actual beginning is as far in the past as the past could ever be; at the beginning of time, before time became measured and later chronicled. In an epic tale where the threads of time span beyond the history of the world, the death of a vagabond in a small town would seem of little consequence.
But as we’ll see, Chaos is far more than just a theory; nonetheless, within that theory, it has been suggested that the flutter of a butterfly’s wings on one continent can later create a typhoon on another. Often, the slightest and seemingly insignificant events can, over time, significantly impact, create, reshape, and even wrinkle the shroud of history.
The past is a worn tapestry, woven by billions of threads. Each of us at birth has a thread that unspools until our death when our thread is finally cut. Time is but a large loom weaving and connecting us together. How long is your spool? Who are the weavers?
This story ends with a mysterious drifter lying dead on a downtown street. Nearby, a nine-year-old girl is crying into her mother’s chest while holding tight in the women’s arms. The mother, wearing a white mid-length dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat, is hysterically screaming at the sight of the lifeless man and the horrific event that occurred just moments earlier that led to his awful demise.
A curious crowd was gathering near the commotion, while other horrified witnesses quickly shuffled away from the gruesome scene. One man and a woman began pushing a distraught mother with her nine-year-old daughter away from the scene, further down the sidewalk while trying to console them both. Other men gathered around the body, blocking the view of the curious, distant audience of onlookers.
The men nearest to the body could see the massive head wound, the bright crimson blood pouring onto the pavement and into the gutter. Those closest would never forget the sight of the old man’s open forehead, eyes closed, and a slight smile, seeming to show enlightenment on his wise weathered face. No one touched the stranger; everyone knew that he was gone. Someone took the red and white checkered picnic blanket that the traumatized mother had just unfurled onto the ground for her family moments earlier and draped it over the corpse along the curb. The blanket hung in the calm air for a moment before gently settling across the unknown vagrant’s body. The air was usually still, for being along the wide-open waterway whose waters remained placid and mirror-like in the mid-morning sun. Sounds of raw sorrow, not just from the mother and child but also from the other witnesses, held in the atmosphere until the sounds of sobs were overtaken by the wail from a siren echoing through the nearby plaza.
At about the same time, the pop and groan of a truck door opening awoke several bystanders from their shock of seeing a stranger dead on the road. The driver of a worn and rusted tow truck, sitting in the middle of the street, slowly emerged from the cab. The rather rotund man, pale-faced and sweaty, was dazed and expressionless. His filthy coveralls bearing the name patch of “Carl” matched the hand-painted name on the truck door: Carl’s Towing and Scrap. A trail of dark blackened lines contrasted against the gray pavement behind the truck, marking a memorial of the incident that would last for months after.
“He, he just jumped out in front of me,” Carl explained softly to no one in particular.
Several men said reassuring statements to Carl as they directed him onto the other side of the street, out of the view of the checkered blanket with the body underneath. At about the same time, the loud siren from a polished police motorcycle shut off as the first officer approached the scene. The onlookers watched it unfold as if it were a horrific, choreographed street performance—all of them wishing that it wasn’t real.
The officer dismounted his motorcycle, wearing an immaculate dark parade uniform with its sparkling badge and name tag: Officer M. Henley SAPD. He looked up at the large digital clock atop the towering Exchange Bank Building and noted the time: 9:42 AM, 74 degrees. A well-dressed man standing nearby the covered body approached to address the policeman.
“This man here is a hero. He saved my little girl,” gesturing to the blanket on the curb, with its crimson stain expanding. He then pointed to his wife and young daughter, still crying and being consoled close to the ancient seawall.
Henley quickly glanced over the scene. First, the officer looked across to the truck in the center of the road with its trail of black skid marks. Then he walked towards the curbside at the blanketed body.
The police officer spoke to the man, “Struck by the tow truck?”
“Yes, sir,” the man stammered as he answered with tears welling up in his sad green eyes, “This man dashed out into the road and pushed my daughter out of the way.”
The officer walked over and stood over the blanket, “And your name, sir.”
“Richard Weston,” he answered solemnly and then looked away towards his wife and daughter as the officer lifted the blanket.
Henley let out a low murmur as he looked at the sight before him, observing the peaceful expression on the man’s face, wearing a dirty white untucked shirt, dinghy khaki pants, his feet bare.
“I spoke with this man only a few hours ago,” Henley declared to no one in particular, “He was asleep against a gas pump earlier over at Mick’s Gulf Station, just across the bridge.”
As he continued speaking, he let the blanket fall, “He was a most peculiar vagrant. After I woke him up, he asked me about the parade. I told him I wasn’t sure there would be a parade today. That last night’s storm had downed a few trees, blocking part of the parade route.”
Officer Henley continued as he looked towards the bridge, “I remember thinking, why would this guy care about the Founders Day Parade? So I joked with him, asking him if he had a float to catch? If he was Ponce De Leon? Then I sent him on his way and watched him head for the bridge.”
Now dazed, Henley roamed slowly back to his motorcycle and radioed for an ambulance, stating that the older white male victim was deceased. In the radio exchange, he received confirmation that the Founders Day Parade was now officially canceled.
The small crowd of onlookers began to disperse as a white ambulance arrived and groaned to a stop near the checkered blanket. Two men stepped out of the white Cadillac station wagon; one lifted the blanket to assess the victim, while the other opened the car’s back door to retrieve the gurney.
Mr. Weston was still nearby, explaining to anyone who would pay attention, including the ambulance driver, about the heroism of the dead man before them. The driver listened to Weston as he performed the dreadful deed of turning the body on its side, checking all of the dead man’s pockets for any identification. Every bag was empty.
Two more disheveled police officers pulled onto the scene in a squad car, speaking with Officer Henley before walking across the street to talk with the tow truck driver. About the same time, a local newspaper reporter from The Record walked up as the men lifted the body, laying it to rest on the gurney.
A seasoned reporter, wearing a traditional grey fedora hat, introduced himself to Weston as Lance Jenkins, “Call me LJ,” Jenkins would always say to everyone he met.
Richard Weston didn’t introduce himself; everyone in town knew the local real estate developer and owner of many properties downtown. Instead, he explained what he had witnessed, pointing over to his wife and daughter, sitting on a stone bench at the seawall overlooking the calm water, with their backs to the traumatizing accident scene.
The demise of an unknown shoeless man, along with the gale force storms of the night before, caused the cancellation of the Founder’s Day Parade, celebrating the 405th anniversary of St. Augustine, Florida, on Saturday morning, September 5th, 1970.