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Even now, all these weeks and days later, I can think of him only as “Red.”

It’s one of those “days after.” The market has misbehaved badly and the Dow is down a gazillion points.

I am at Five Points Station and from not far away approaches a man who would otherwise be anonymous except that he is covered from head to foot in the blood red clay-turned-to-dust of the Georgia drought. He wears no hat and no boots, but from the look and smell of him, he’s been working hard at something.

Asking if I can possibly spot him a dollar, he volunteers he needs it “…to get on the train.”

“Red,” as I have now dubbed him in my mind’s eye,  is not at all pushy about the thing;  I search my pockets, find a  dollar coin and  grant his wish.

Despite the fact that this is one of those “days after” — a bad one– I have little to no interest in the stock market. Some years ago, my own 401-K became a 201-K and then very quickly a NO-OH-ONE K. But for me this has been a decent week — better than most, especially of late — and a dollar is a bargain basement price for the privilege of playing the role of ‘genie in a bottle’ even if the master’s only wish this time is bus fare.

It’s also but a small down payment on my own pledge to pay something forward whenever I could.

*********

Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe not. Who can really know? But as things work out, a few minutes later, Red filters out of the “Now Boarding” throng and ends up standing next to me inside the transit rail car identified as NUMBER 128.

“It’s me again,” he grins.

It takes a minute, maybe two, for the rest of the crowd to pack in and for the train to get on its way up the line. Today’s rush hour mob is uncharacteristically silent and perhaps being uncomfortable with the silence — or maybe his landing spot — Red breaks the quiet:

“It looks like Warren Buffer took a real beating yesterday,” Red says. “I heard it all on one of them stock market shows.”

“Uh, it’s Buffett, Warren Buf-FETT,” I pronounce.

“Thas what I said…’Warren Buffer’ . I hope that he didn’t get hurt too bad. I seen him on TV and he seems like a nice guy. I sho hope he don’t go through what I went through. Los my job, my family, my house … ever’ thing. I always worked hard too.”

“I’m sorry” I say. And maybe feeling a little guilty, I  attempt to assuage Red’s concern: “…but I don’t think that you have to worry about Ol’ Warren though. I think he will be …”

“Maybe Warren Buffer ought do one of those legger-ridged buy ups. I wish he’d buy MARTA.”

“It’s Buf-FETT and you mean leveraged buyouts, don’t you?” I say in a quiet chuckle to myself  but not meaning to be disrespectful.

“Yeah, thas what I said… maybe he needs to do one of them legger-ridged buy ups.”

“Well,” I laugh all soft and polite-like, “Don’t worry too much about him. Warren will be okay. ”

“…jes don’t like to see anybody lose that much money… and in a single day too…just like that, in the flash of an eye. I know I wouldn’t. Times are tight,” he smiles wanly. “These days, I’m broke all the time.”

At the next stop, Red turns toward me, spreads all five fingers of his right hand in a shallow wave and says “Thanks again. Have a blessed night, my friend.” He then manages his own egress from the crowded train and disappears into the Avondale twilight.

As Car Number 128 hurtles through what is now night and on up the line, I ponder about Red and what seemed like his sincere concern for  Warren “Buffer”. I also wonder whether or not the moneyed class spends as much time thinking about the welfare of the working class as the working class, at least some of them, spend thinking about the welfare of the higher ups.

I haven’t seen Red since. I suspect I never will. Who knows about such things? But there is some sort of lesson in our encounter, something for me to learn. I am sure of it. And the lesson had only cost a dollar.

About Will Cantrell

Will Cantrell (a pseudonym) is a humorist, author, and speechwriter.  He is a graduate of Georgia Tech and a former banker. The legend is that at an early age he wandered south, got lost and, like most males, was loathe to ask anyone for directions. He was recently sighted somewhere close to I-285, still lost and saying that he was trying to “...write his way home.” Of course, there are a lot of people who suspect that “Cantrell ain't wrapped too tight” but hope that he keeps writing about his experiences as he finds his way back to the main highway.

Will has recently completed a first book entitled "The Color Fuqua — a mostly true collection of modern tall tales." He is currently involved in writing a second book, "Nouns and Other Issues."

Below, is what one recent editor said about him:

Will Cantrell has issues...and ideas... and questions---big ones---- and they often keep him up at night. Cell phones, fast food restaurants, intrepid weathermen, egg yolks, volcanoes, color blindness, election polls, ketchup and “…the hell why doesn't Martha Stewart teach people something useful like how to make their own gasoline instead of lemonade.”  These are just a few of the things that trouble him. He's also puzzled about why people talking loudly on cell phones ALWAYS manage to sit next to him on the bus … as well as everywhere else. Will’s got a host of other issues, too numerous to list here. And while all of this is unlucky for him, it’s fortunate for us because he writes about them all in that hilarious way that is only Cantrell’s.

Lucky for us, Will's issues are the same ones that vex the rest of us too. And Cantrell “comes with solutions.” Be warned though, Will Cantrell does not think like you and me.  Through Will's quirky way of viewing the world, and everything in it, he's come up with different kinds of solutions for life's issues and problems. Or, as Cantrell says, he has  “…different problems for life's solutions.”

Now that you've been warned, be prepared to be delighted as you follow Will Cantrell's romp through life and his search for answers to the questions that baffle, befuddle and puzzle us all.

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