I had named him, Wild-Eyed John. To be honest, this grizzly, grey-bearded man of the streets never would tell me his name. Wild-eyed John was too busy preaching his hell-singed sermons to be answering the inane questions of folks like me.
“Are ya rightch with Jeeez-sus, young feller?”
John would fire those words at me with a holy fire, but his voice was not nearly as frightening as those piercing blue eyes that peered deep into your soul. Everyday I would nod; some days I would smile; once in awhile I would shout back an amen. And when I had the gumption to offer that nervous Amen, Wild-eyed John would echo back my “Amen” then turn his attention to another white-collared sinner on his way to work.
To be sure, John was a priest of the city streets, somewhat tattered but surely faded. Most of the street folks become invisible after a few days, but not Wild-eyed John. With his well-worn Gideon Bible clutched into his second-hand black suit and with his passion burning in his heart, this old, whiskey-ed warrior worked this parcel of concrete covered earth and worked it everyday until the day Wild-Eyed John showed up no more.






