THE MISSION

Folks are friendlier in Charleston. Maybe South Carolina civility was preserved along with its historic architecture ‘cause the South beat the North on that particular day. Even the homeless are friendlier. Especially Freeman Carter.

Freeman holds court in Marion Square. Every day, he sits cross legged on the park bench close to the Holocaust Memorial. For an old guy, he’s limber, not brittle. Regal. I often wondered if anyone who’s been homeless for so long kept a journal. Turns out, he did. He wrote it all down in a small black notebook.

I met Freeman in early January, 2018. I’d just left Chi-Town to escape another bad-ass winter, and serendipity had its way – Charleston got dumped on by five inches of snow! I’m dashing across Marion Square in a white-out blizzard, late for a job interview at the Francis Marion Hotel. That’s when Freeman approaches me out of nowhere.

“You don’t know me from up, sir. But if I don’t find a place to spend the night, I’m gonna freeze to death.” He wore a hoodie with a fedora on top, and was wrapped in an ice-caked blanket.

“Sure you will,” I replied. After all, I was raised in Chicago.

“If you would do me the honor,” he said, shivering, “of giving me twenty dollars, I will never bother you for another dime as long as I live.”

“Come on, man,” I say, indignantly. “I’m late.”

Freeman holds out a coal-black hand that had literally turned white with frostbite. “Ten dollars buys me a meal at Panera and a bus ride to the shelter up on One Eighty Place. I will forever appreciate the hot shower and a good night’s sleep.”

“What about the other ten?”

Freeman smiles. “That’ll bring me back to where I belong.”

Maybe it’s his no-bullshit honesty, but I hand over the money, which is completely out of character for me. Growing up in the projects, nobody ever gave me anything except unemployment checks, so I never gave anybody anything either. Except for Freeman.

Maybe he was a good luck charm, because I got the job! They liked my story about why I was late. The general manager says I would be “good with people.”

Since I’m a bellman, I see old Freeman nearly every single day now. On my lunch break, I like to walk in the park and feed the squirrels. Never once has he hit me up for money. Just conversation. Good conversation.

“You and I? We’re in the people business,” he once said. “You get your tips by opening doors for people. I earn mine by opening minds for them.”

“Yeah, right. Where I come from, the only one guy who talked like that was the dealer on our block, at least ‘til the police got him.”

“He was destroying people’s minds, not opening them. He got what he deserved.”

“That’s life in the projects.”

Freeman nods knowingly. “That’s life anywhere.”

“What I want to know is how you open up people’s minds.”

He pulls a weather-worn notebook out of a tattered backpack. “All I do is ask a simple question. If you pledged to change one thing in this world, what would it be?” He opened it to the pages separated by a cheap Bic pen. “I’m ready for your answer.”

“Come on, man.”

“It will make a difference in your life. Maybe the world.”

I laugh. “So you’ll just wave that magic Bic wand and ‘Poof!’ The world’s gonna change.”

“No, sir. I’m just going to write it down.” Still, he has a twinkle in his eye.

Freeman seems to be a man on a mission. I take his request to heart and bubbling up from within, I hear myself saying, “I want to be in a position to help as many people as I possibly can.”

His eyes sparkle. “I’m sure you will. And your name?”

“Jermaine Tomlinson, but you can call me JT.”

He nods approvingly and writes it down. “There, JT. Your mind has been opened to the possibilities.”

Freeman was right. I find myself engaging with hotel guests with a focus on their satisfaction. The tips follow. I’m making more than ever before, yet need it less.

“Freeman, you da man! All I can say is I’m glad you came into my life.”

“It’s been my pleasure, JT.” His weathered brow crinkles as he smiles.

“You know, I fled Chi-Town ‘cause I was a runner for that dealer. When he got arrested, I got out fast. Yet down here, I’m not fleeing anything or anyone. Instead I embrace them.”

“Then you know the true meaning of charity.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I reach in my pocket. “Come on, man. It’s time I give you some kind of payback.”

Freeman grimaces, slightly. “Have you forgotten our deal?” To my surprise, he walks off.

Life gets complicated. They make me head bellman. Now that I’m bumped up the ladder, the further from the ground I become. All relationships, including girlfriends, check in and out like the guests.

I see Freeman speaking with a passerby. Afterwards, as always, he dutifully writes in his book. It’s a chilly fall evening, and I grab two Starbucks coffees and cross King Street to the park.

“Hey, stranger,” I yell out. “Need a hand warmer?”

“A warm hand is even better. JT, it’s good to see you.”

I can’t believe he remembers my name. “How long has it been? Got to be months.”

Freeman raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on you.”

“Come on, man. I’ve got responsibilities, now.” I pretend to be offended, but he’s nailed it.

We walk over to the Holocaust Monument and sit his bench. He points with an arthritic finger. “A lone bronze tallit lies on the floor of this rectangular space. Some people see the symbolic walls around it as a synagogue. Others see it as a prison, or even perhaps a gas chamber. The tallit indicates prayer and life cut short, but also the rites of proper burial denied.”

Freeman reaches into his backpack and pulls out another little black notebook and finds a page with 1999 inscribed at the top and reviews his notes. “When this site was dedicated, I asked people what they saw. Most of them replied, ‘unfulfilled lives.’ Tell me, JT, what do you see?”

In a moment of clarity, I reply, “I see the irony of a statue of John C. Calhoun, defender of slavery, towering behind it.” I shake my head in shame. “Someday, that statue must come down.”

Freeman smiles sadly. “Maybe next year.” He walks away.

Life moves on, unless you’re a timeless guy like Freeman. Charleston is again named the number one city in America per Conde Nast. The hotel is crazy busy. 2020 is destined to be a year of vision, a year of change. An invisible coronavirus makes sure of it. By April, the pandemic has shut everything down including my hotel. I’m furloughed.

Spring is here, but gone are the tourists. Likewise, the tips. I’m back in the unemployment line. The only thing I’ve got left is time, and I spend it talking every day with Freeman. He seems happy to spend time with me, because the only other life around the park are the squirrels. I truly trust him.

“Freeman,” I say, “what are you gonna do with these books of yours?”

He nods. “JT, do you remember what I asked you back on January 3, 2018?”

I’m a bit unnerved how well he remembers. “I do, indeed, sir.”

“And since you made that pledge, what have you learned?” He peers through me.

“Well, I do believe I started out on the right track, but somewhere along the way, I fell into that trap. You know, working for the man.”

“That happens a great deal, JT. But now that events have changed in your life, how do you feel?”

Again, something bubbles up inside me. “Maybe it’s a sign that I can start over. You know, change the world and all.”

Freeman places his hand on my shoulder, the first time he’s ever done that. I feel an eerie warmth surge through me. “In my life, I’ve asked thousands of people what they would do if they pledged to change one thing in this world.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

“And you’re the only person who said you wanted to change yourself.”

I feel my shoulders slump. “Then, I guess I got it all wrong.”

“To the contrary, my friend, you’re the only one got it right. You can’t change the world unless you change yourself first. You wanted to be in a position to help as many people as you can. It’s nice to wish for things like better weather, lose weight, more money…” Freeman glances toward the Calhoun statue. “Equality and harmony. But none of that happens. None of it, unless you change people’s minds first.”

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a stack of little black notebooks of different sizes and shapes. “I was given these by a retired preacher in 1969. A nurse passed them on to him in 1919. She got them from a former slave in 1867. He was given them by a tailor in 1810. The tailor received them from a militiaman in 1776. The militiaman was given them by a farmer in 1712. Best I can recollect, the farmer got these from someone who brought them to Charleston when it was founded.

“Why’d the preacher give them to you?”

“Because I answered his question the same way he’d answered the question. The same answer you gave me three years ago. I figured you’re the perfect candidate to carry on the mission.”

“Come on, man. Are you jiving me?”

Freeman breaks out laughing. “Do you think this is some kind of voodoo spell?”

“How do you know it works?”

“How do you know it doesn’t? America broke from Britain. The Civil War freed slaves. Best I can see, big changes only happen when people come together. For that to happen, someone has to plant seeds of change. I promised the preacher I’d do my part. Will you promise to continue the mission when I no longer can?”

“What do I do?”

“Simply ask people you’ve engage with, ‘If you pledged to change one thing in this world, what would it be?’ Write down the date, their name, and their pledge. See if it works.”

We shake hands on it. Miraculously, the next day I get my job back. I look for Freeman to give him the good news, but there are massive crowds cheering the government removal of the Calhoun statue.

A week later, a doctor approaches me at the hotel and delivers a tattered backpack to me after a homeless patient died of COVID-19. Freeman told him it belonged to me. In it are the stack of books and an old coffee can. I quickly open the oldest book. Page one is dated 1670. Turns out these books are a manuscript history of Charleston as chronicled by thousands of pledges to make the world better.

Also inside the backpack is a coffee can filled with currency and coins dating back to the Confederacy. The best that I can calculate, it’s $20,000. There’s a note inside the can:

“Dear JT: I can die in peace knowing you will continue planting seeds of change. Since you’re out of work, maybe this money will help you get through. It was passed on to me, but I never needed it. Neighborhood charity was always enough to get me by. Hope you figure out a good use for it. Your friend, Freeman.”

I wipe a tear from my eye, strap on a tattered backpack and take a seat at Freeman’s bench. A frontline healthcare worker sits next to me and buries her head in hands. The money can wait. I’m on a mission.