His name was Varnell. He had many, too many, nicknames and I can't remember a single one. Just his given name, Varnell. He was ex-homeless, a recovering crack addict, overtly gay in his gestures, mode of speech and constant innuendoes. Varnell was estranged from his family and maybe that's typical. He probably also had a diagnosed, due to his various stints in prison or stays at treatment centers, but largely untreated, mental illness. Physically, he was tall, black, with lazy red eyes and charred crooked teeth. He wore a pink rosary - ironic, quirky, and interesting.
We meet briefly as he was harassing someone for something and suddenly latched on to me. His first words were "damn, did you see her, she's beautiful." as a woman passed between us "You know you deserve that." He emphasized know and not deserve, which changed it's connotation so lewdly I sort of liked him right from the start. Sort of because I knew he wanted something from me, money probably.
As we walked, he was supposedly going to the same pizza place as me - what a coincidence! - he told me his life story beginning with his father; a gay drug addict, like himself, except his father was also a post-op transsexual. His mother, a lawyer in marin county, had disowned them both leaving Varnell to be raised, from 12 on, by the state. They didn't do a good job. As he went on and on I found him to be intelligent beneath his damaged and mangled personality. Now, after years of living on the street in north hollywood, going in and out of prisons for what he alluded to were violent crimes, and most recently having graduated a drug treatment program he was in san francisco trying to get up to marin to stay with his mother. She was dying and had invited him to try and bridge the divide she has tossed him over in his youth.
As we sat in the pizza place he choose a different table. One already occupied by a laborer with a soft face and hard eyes enjoying his piece of the pie and not, under any circumstances, interested in Varnell's stories or forced compliments. Varnell complemented every single person who wandered into his cross hairs, and most of them wanted nothing to do with him. He understood this reality and that understanding was reflected in the strained, yet oddly melodic song he sang loudly in the pizza place for a good 20 minutes. The few verses I recall were that he "wanted you like a tree wants a leaf", and that he's alone becuase of something the "motherfuckers" had done or not done to him. His song became increasingly violent and bitter as it progressed.
The story ended up costing me 4 dollars and a slice of pizza, with habaneros. It probably isn't true.