Lomax Freeman, the Essence of a Man
A Novel
by
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By now, they’d each had their bagels and coffee for the morning. This was Tuesday, the second day for Steve and Lomax. “Slept like a log last night. How about you?” “Not so hot, Lomax.” “I didn’t want to say anything before, Steve, but you, well . . .” Lomax was sizing Steve up, “you look it.” “Gee, thanks a lot, Lomax, old buddy.” “Don’t mention it.” Lomax saw Steve had a question in him by now. He knew this much about Steve. “Lomax, alternatives. Aren’t there alternatives to this? To living this way?” “A shelter for homeless men—is what you’re getting at?” “You stayed in one?” “More than one.” “And?” “Not for me.” “Why?” “It just didn’t work out, Steve. They’re unclean. Filthy. Unsafe. They’re not places to live in. Inhabit. There’s no privacy.” “Privacy, that’s the key for you?” “Isn’t it for you? They steal in those shelters. And fights go on, break out at any hour of the day. Violence. Inhuman behavior.” His eyes seemed troubled by the very thought of a homeless shelter. “When they steal from you, the little you have, the small possessions you own, you’ve been raped, Steve. They’ve raped you.” Steve felt no race or color in that statement, just Lomax. Minutes later. “Hey, Lomass! Hey, Lomass!” Lomax and Steve glanced up the street: Junkman John was on his way. He was rolling his junk cart up the street. “Coming at you, Lomass. Coming at you, Jack!” Lomax stepped off the curb. Steve stayed put. “Hey, Lomass!” “How are things this morning, Junkman John?” “Busy, busy. Ha. Junk keep you busy, Lomass. Junk keep you busy. Feet killin’ me, Lomass. Feet killin’ me, Jack!” Yesterday, Steve had followed Lomax everywhere he went, but, peculiarly, not now, on this occasion; not over to the curb where Lomax stood with Junkman John. Lomax entertained why. “Excuse me, Junkman John.” “Keep your eye on the prize, Lomass. Keep your eye on the prize, Jack!” Lomax stood directly in front of Steve. “Do you want to meet Junkman John, Steve?” And then Lomax walked back toward the curb. “Or does he count?” Steve felt a hard blow in his shoulder blades. Steve walked over to the curb. Lomax looked over at him. “Junkman John, I’d like to introduce you to Steve.” “Steve. Steve!” Junkman John mumbled. “St-Steve . . .” “Yes, Steve, Junkman John,” Lomax said. “Junkman John, Junkman John!” Junkman John said in introducing himself, thrusting his hand out to Steve. “Junkman John, Junkman John, Jack!” Steve shook Junkman John’s soiled hand. Should I ask Junkman John something? Steve thought. Do I have something to ask him? Junkman John looked at Lomax. Steve saw how their eyes danced. Junkman John opened wide his arms. Clearly, the golden chalice was seen by Steve anchored to Junkman John’s waist. “Rub it, Lomass. Rub it!” Lomax’s hand rubbed the chalice. “Good luck, Lomax. G-good luck.” Lomax hadn’t forgotten to shut his eyes. “Haha.” Lomax opened his eyes. “On my way, Lomass. On my way.” Junkman John looked at Steve. “Steve. Steve,” he repeated. “On my way, on my way, Jack!” Steve didn’t seem to know what to say. Junkman John began pushing his junk cart up Eighty-Sixth Street. Steve looked over at Lomax. “Lomax, y-you weren’t angry at me before—were you?” “I was.” “You thought I was—” “That was politics, wasn’t it? You were playing politics, weren’t you? Good old-fashioned politics.” Lomax paused. “You’d created a division,” Lomax said, lowering his voice. “A divide, didn’t you? Lomax on this side of the divide, and Junkman John the other.” Steve’s shoulders sagged. “I was. I was.” “Nonacceptance.” “Yes.” “See how easily it works?” Steve realized this was what he wanted to hear, learn from Lomax—was after. “Yes, yes.” “Was it conscious, Steve? On your part?” Steve remembered Brittany, last night, Brittany’s probe into that very same area, region of him. “Probably, probably not, Lomax.” “You wanted to rule Junkman out. Scratch him out the equation. Erase him.” “I was—wasn’t I?” “Eduardo, Joseph, you’ve had questions for, but not Junkman John, Steve—why?” Lomax was being hard on Steve. He’d finally reached that point. But it didn’t seem to affect Steve, for he wanted that. It was the only way, he felt, he was going to uncover things. “Lomax, if I knew the answer . . .” “All you have to do is talk to him. He knows your name.” “Yes, he does,” Steve said, shaking his head. Lomax went back over to the box; Steve followed. “He has a story too, Steve. You could write about him too. Just because you chose me doesn’t mean you couldn’t have just as well chosen someone else.” Lomax was getting at something now—something that must be troubling him about this odd-couple arrangement, Steve thought. “Was it because I was neat, clean-shaven? Not . . . not too offensive to the eye? Your aesthetic, Steve?” Steve remained silent. “Was this my attraction to you, attractiveness, Steve? That I didn’t look like a Junkman John. That I had a better look, breeding about me? More pleasing, acceptable? A, what, more-like-you look?” Silence. “Was that it, Steve?” Lomax seemed to be pleading for an answer from Steve—as if it needed one from him. Steve saw Lomax’s passion. It was good passion, he thought. He was getting involved with this man and knew it. He was getting under his skin—finally.
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About the Book
Lomax Freeman, a homeless man, lives in a box in Upper West Side of Manhattan. Steven Hart, who works for the New York Times, rents in the Kensington building. Lomax’s box sits outside that apartment. After living in that apartment for a short period, Steve experiences a black man who’s intelligent, sophisticated, kind, and gentle. He wonders how Lomax landed on the streets of New York homeless. He wishes to do a two-part series on Lomax. Once the paper green-lights the feature, Lomax agrees to do the article but with one condition: the tragedy that befell him is off-limits. Eventually, Steve violates the agreement when he, secretively, uncovers Lomax’s full name. Now, the question becomes, Should he include it in the article to expose Lomax’s privacy? Doesn’t he have family, someone from the past who’s in search of Lomax Emmanuel Freeman? Steve’s in a dilemma.