All Saints in an election year

Posted byJames ErnestPosted inMemoirTags:, , , , ,

Not much of a story, but it’s true. I failed to get the whole story. I wish I had asked more questions, but I didn’t want to be any more intrusive than I already had been.

Friday evening around 7, when I was getting home from work, a light-colored minivan that preceded me up Glengarry from M-37 was going slowly, haltingly. Trying to figure out where to go? Or scanning for something? I couldn’t see inside the van at all. I noticed that it had no license plate.

At the stop sign, the van turned right on Costner. I turned left, to come home.

But in my rearview mirror, I saw that the van was still moving slowly. It appeared to me to stop at a house almost to the place where Costner bends westward and becomes Alanada.

The night before—Halloween—after the trick-or-treaters were gone, a young man on a motorbike rode through the neighborhood with no lights on. Prime suspect in the theft or vandalism of Harris signs. Maybe this van was scoping out yard signs.

I pulled a U turn and drove up Costner, across Glengarry, then left, up Alanada.

I caught up to the van halfway around the loop, at the top of the hill, just a couple of houses short of Glengarry. It was stopped on the right, lights on, engine running, I pulled up next to it, stopped, and rolled down my passenger-side window. I looked over at the van driver, saw his face for the first time.

Oh, great, I thought. Now I’m the white guy in the white neighborhood who follows the Black man and hassles him.

He was holding his phone. It looked like he had a mapping app open. When I signaled to him to roll down his window, he did. I asked him if he was lost and needed help finding his way. No, he said.

You don’t have a license plate, I followed up.

I have a temporary tag, he replied. I followed the directions. They said to put the tag inside your left rear window.

I didn’t see a tag, I said. But it’s maybe it’s because your window is dark-tinted.

I told him: We’ve had some trouble with people coming through the neighborhood pulling up lawn signs.

I’m giving out fliers, he said.

I said: Oh.

I thought: Well, you’re not likely to be in league with the people stealing the Harris signs.

He had a bit of an accent. An immigrant. Didn’t sound like an islander—probably from Africa.

He answered my questions patiently. No sign of annoyance. He seemed weary—too weary to be annoyed. Close to despondent, I thought.

I drove on, slowly. As I got to the stop sign at Statler, I could see he was still sitting there. I turned left and drove down the hill, turned left on Costner, pulled the Kia into the driveway. The Subaru was sitting out on the driveway as well. I got out of the Kia, got into the Subaru, and drove back north on Costner.

A vehicle was crossing Costner on Glengarry Drive, headed out toward M-37. Was it the van? I followed, caught up. Not the van.

I did a U-turn at Glengarry Court, drove back to Costner, and turned right, then followed Alanada up to where the van it been. It was gone. I drove on.

Wait—there it was. It had turned left on Glengarry and was parked there, lights off, not running. I drove past on Costner, then turned around in a driveway, came back, and parked in front of the corner house.

Just around the corner to the right, the driver was standing by his van. The side door was open. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. Leaning forward, hands on knees. Was he coughing? Was he OK?

I got out of the Subaru and walked toward the corner. He wasn’t coughing or gagging. Rather than turn right and walk up to the guy, I crossed Glengarry, then turned right down the sidewalk on the opposite side. I loitered a bit, watching.

Then I walked back to my car.

But where were my keys? Not in the pocket of my fleece vest. Crap. In ny distraction, I must have locked them in the car.

But now—a car coming the opposite way on Alanada had turned left onto Glengarry and parked behind the van. Blue and red flashing lights came on. A KCSO deputy.

So someone else had observed the van and called the cops.

Well, I was going to have to walk down the hill to get extra keys. So again I walked to the corner, crossed the street, and started down the hill. I thought of the bad things that happen sometimes when cops stop Black men in white neighborhoods. I stood and watched for a bit. The van driver was back in his van, in the driver’s seat, the deputy standing next to the window speaking with him. The driver handed a little card out the window—driver’s license, I assume. The deputy walked back to his cruiser, got in, sat down to run the license. All is calm.

I walked on down the hill, passing a gaggle of little girls who were headed uphill to check out the lights. Got home, went in the house, told my wife what was going on, got keys, headed back out.

When I reached the corner of Costner and Glengarry, the deputy was driving down the hill. He stopped at the stop sign, then headed on out of the neighborhood. No problem with the van driver, apparently.

I walked on up the hill, around the little bend—and there’s the van driver—walking down the middle of the street.

Hey, I said. Aren’t you the guy with the fliers?

Yes.

Do you have an extra one? Can I have one?

I still wasn’t sure of that story about delivering fliers. But if it was true, I wanted to see one. Maybe it would be a Harris flier and that would give me an opportunity to say something appreciative and encouraging.

Yes, he said.

He reached into a long pocket in his cargo pants and pulled out a door hang-tag and gave it to me.

I read it: Trump. Help Me Make America Great Again.

Not what I was expecting.

Thanks, I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Postscript

Other Caledonians referred me to news articles which they thought might explain how an African American man with mental-health challenges landed in several Caledonia neighborhoods where his erratic behavior sparked concerns. These articles are about Elon Musk’s use of his super-PAC funds to pay to recruit paid canvassers and transport them to battleground states to knock on doors and deliver campaign materials for Donald Trump. News reports indicate that many of the people swept up into these operations were African American men.

I didn’t know about any of this last Friday evening when I encountered the van driver in my story. I now suspect he was a non-Michigan man with mental-health challenges who was brought to Michigan and sent into our Caledonia neighborhoods by Elon Musk’s campaign operatives. I hope he got home safely, wherever his home might be.

Follow these links to the news articles:

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