To most, he was just the neighborhood drunk. He was ridiculed by many. And since he lived alone, he was often accused of unseemly behavior by the busy-bodies of the neighborhood. Like everyone else in the neighborhood, I believed the stories that were whispered behind his back. He heard them, but through it all, he simply smiled. Then one day, I stopped believing the stories, because I got to know him.
Mr. Melvin always had a nervousness about him. He never seemed to be at ease. When I first took over my brother’s paper route, I would throw the paper on his porch and run quickly to the next house. I never stopped. On Saturday mornings, when I made my collections, I would stand at his door, my head down, and mumble to him how much he owed. He would kindly slip the money through the cracked screen door, I’d take it and be on my way. I refused to make eye contact.
But then one day, as I was finishing my route, and came toward Mr. Melvin’s house, I heard a beautiful sound coming from inside and filling the streets. My curiosity got the best of me and so, instead of tossing the newspaper on the porch and running to the next house, I boldly walked up to the door, and knocked. Mr. Melvin quickly answered. He was a short, bulbous man, with an amazing grin that filled his entire face. He smiled and invited me in. “So, you like the music?” he asked me as I walked in.
We had a wonderful conversation that day. While he mentioned to me the neighbor’s talk, he never criticized them or refuted anything they had said. He simply just left it as, “well, people say all sorts of things.” He went on to give me an overview of his background, and while he did like to drink, he was not the type of drinker he was rumored to be. More than anything, though, he loved his music and he went on to tell me about his days touring with some of the biggest names in industry during the forties and fifties.
During those years that I carried the paper, I would often hurry through the beginning of my paper route, so I could spend more time with Mr. Melvin. His music was sublime. His wonderful stories were intriguing and spell binding.
I guess, like most, I could have went on believing the stories and ignoring the man. I didn’t stop by his house that day to set the record straight. And quite frankly, had he not been playing his trumpet that day, I would have just hurried past, as I usually did. No, the reason I stopped was simple. I was just a child with a curiosity about me. And because of that curiosity, on that day, I got to know a great man.
