Flea

After spending the weekend working at yet another beach festival, I have a lot of stories. I'm trying to get re-inspired to write every day, so I'm commiting right now to the next three days. (I'll start with a small goal.) I ususally don't write about specific people because I don't like to invade anyone's privacy. The guy I'm going to write about is someone I know from the festivals, and I couldn't tell you his real name if I wanted to. We call him Flea; he looks like the bass player from Red Hot Chili Peppers. He has another nickname but I won't tell you that one. Maybe that goes a little way toward preserving his privacy.

If you know what "real Flea" looks like, you will understand when I say that this guy we call Flea looks pretty rough. Through talking to him a little more at each festival, I've learned a lot about him, and before I say anything else I'll say that there have been a few times when festival-goers got close to messing with me. Each time that happened, Flea was standing next to me before I sensed any problem. He has a kind of sixth (or seventh or eigth) sense about when any of us in the VIP tent might need help. If someone touched or in any way threatened any of us, he'd have that person on the ground before anybody else knew it. He comes by just to do a "hand grab" or give us a hug and ask if we're okay. He is also the hardest-working person I've ever seen.

A while back he told me he'd had a heart attack in the fall. I'm not sure how old he is, but I would guess mid-forties. I said he was too young to have had a heart attack, and he told me he'd lived hard until the past few years. He said he was a heavy drug user and had four felony convictions. (I didn't ask what they were for.) He made the choice to turn his life around, and he's doing a good job -- as far as I can tell. I don't see him other than at the festivals. One of our other VIP ladies told me that when she was eating, he asked if he could join her. Before he ate, he bowed his head and gave a prayer of gratitude. She found it surprising but sweet and disarming.

Saturday was Flea's birthday, and I decided I would stop at The Fresh Market on my way in to get him a giant gourmet cupcake. (I hadn't gotten home on Friday from the festival until almost 11:00 p.m. and had to be back at 10:00 a.m., so that was the best I could do.) When I got to our festival booth, one of the other VIP workers had made him a printed out card for all of us to sign. (Since I started calling him Flea, they have too. So the card said, "Happy Birthday, Flea!!) We all signed it, and I wished him a happy birthday as he passed and told him to come back when he had time because we had something for him. Finally he was freed up and stopped by our tent. I presented him with the card and the cupcake, and I thought he would cry. He gave me a bear hug and said how much he appreciated it -- and he scarfed down the cupcake in three bites. Later I understood why he got so emotional. He told me that the card and cupcake were the first gifts he'd received for any occasion in over twenty years. It was heartbreaking. Then he said, "I love you all. You mean the world to me." And he was off, putting up barricades and hauling ice and whatever other heavy manual labor things he had to do. I like Flea a lot.