A little ditty that I would greet Harvey with as he stood in front of my table at the end of each market day waiting for payment for the work he did pushing my very heavy cart up from my locker in the morning and back down at night. Well, I'm not sure that it actually made it back IN to my locker each night. I would get reports of cart sightings in various places "down below". The point being - I didn't have to worry. Pack up. Go home. Harvey took it from there.
Harvey. Old and ageless. Same soft brown pullover with little flecks of meals past and present. Tooth challenged, he would often have a dribble that I would see splash onto the silk scarves used on my display. I would just bundle them up and take them home to wash.
He had a conversation constantly going on in his head. He would blurt out whatever part of the conversation he was in at the time he saw you and it was up to you to jump on board and go with it. "Hey, you know ...
this guy in Auburn...
this guy used to own a restaurant..
now, this guy had money. I mean real big money..
Most days he just wanted conversation, contact, friendship. Other days may have started in a more challenging way for him and by the time I arrived at the market he was spitting mad.
"Say, now. I'm telling you. That's what I mean. You can't tell them a f*ing thing. Those pot heads in that place can't make a f*ing hot chocolate. Not even a goddamn chocolate !" He bends at the waist, puts his two hands on the handle of the cart and starts to push.
Start of the market day. Harvey is swearing up a storm. "goddamn guy is spraying water on the street and got my shoes and socks wet. I had to take off my socks".
Despite this gruffness his voice would immediately soften, his eyes brighten as he chatted away with small children and dogs.
For months I thought that he didn't know my name and then one day he shows up and says "Well Kathi. How're ya doin'?" He looked quite pleased with himself and I felt that I had been accepted into the club.
Last year Harvey suffered a terrible beating. He had left some carts a little too long to push down below. It was late and the rowdy crowd was out and about. He is said to have mouthed off to one of them that had been giving him a bad time and ended up being beaten with a pipe. The community was stunned. No Harvey. How's he doing? Will he be alright? He did come back. Probably way too soon. Blackened eyes and bruised face. Limping more than usual. Bound and determined he knew that he had a job to do. He came back and got those carts taken care of.
This recent illness, this time in the hospital, this was different. He seemed to know that he wouldn't be able to come back. The nurses said that he was as gentle as a baby. Never put up a fuss. He was quiet. Quiet? Go figure. I guess he had finished all of his conversations.
So - market friends gathered round him acting as surrogates for the entire community. He passed peacefully on.
A Market Maintenance fellow overheard me telling a busker about Harvey's death. I've seen this tall, thin man for years now. I don't know his name. But the conversation heard in passing stopped him in his tracks. "Harvey? Harvey is dead?" His eyes filled with tears. He said that he had been visiting him in the hospital once a week since he was admitted. I didn't know.
People were heard to say that they thought the market would stop running without Harvey pushing the 40 some odd carts that he was responsible for. But it didn't. I push my own now. It's good exercise for me. Others have stepped into the void to take on the cart pushing responsibilities. The market goes on. A lesson perhaps in that anyone can be replaced. But it's the character and personality that can never be.
Bye Harv.
