When I was working at my first newspaper job I have to admit the first few weeks were very intimidating. I was new to driving, this was a new place, and on the first day I got chewed out by a secretary for not parking "straight" in the tiny parking lot along side the building. I had to learn the ropes, and aside from my snowball stand job, this was my first major gig. I had been told about the kitchen etiquette, how to print, who my boss was, my superiors, how a job sleeve worked etc. But nothing really prepared me for one specific Thursday afternoon.
Things were slow and everyone else had left for the day, it was more or less me and the boss. There were two ways to get into the back where I worked, a side door that opened directly into the space, and from the front, past offices and secretaries. I often used my Thursdays to do "the gospel". It was a local paper and each week was printed the "Gospel" for the following Sunday's church service. It was typed in French and English, and I was responsible for both. I was quietly clicking along when the back door opened slowly. In walked what appeared to be a middle aged man, a little overweight. He was wearing and old and ruggedly worn navy and light blue striped shirt. The collar was stretched out and his ensemble was tied together with too short khaki shorts, tube socks pulled up with two red stripes around their tops, and white velcro shoes worn down to the soles.
He walked in and you could tell he most likely wasn't "all there". So i said..."Can I help you?"...at that point I was hoping someone would help me because I was pretty freaked out. He just looked me right in the eye and never stopped moving. He went with machine-like precision to each trash can and carefully and meticulously would take out one piece of paper at a time, and tear it. A few minutes at one can..a fuller can took a little longer. Finally after shredding the entire office, he walked over and picked up a large bundle of dot-matrix printed information, tucked it under his arm, and left just as stealthily as he had come.
Never a word spoken, never a murmur of what he was doing. By this time I had caught my breath and tried to find reasoning. My finger following his path from door, to trash can, to trash can..to trash can to door. Finally, I got up and went to tell Henri (my boss) of the encounter. He never even looked up from what he was proof reading, and simply said, "Oh, that's Phil." So I said, "I think he took something off a desk." and Henri replied, "Yea, that's Phil."
Now that's all I found out that day, but at the office the next day I found out that Phil was a local presence that everyone knew. And he goes from place to place, tearing paper, and this is what Phil does. He is a mentally challenged man who was more or less embraced by the community. So he comes, and goes and has a job cleaning trash at a local gas station. Phil also attends the local church on Sundays at 5:30, no matter what, and he likes to hit the tambourine for the choir for the closing music.
He walks around town, keys on a lanyard around his neck and is always smiling. I know Phil will most likely never experience having a girlfriend, or driving a fast car. Phil most likely won't win a Nobel Prize in quantum physics or even figure out how to set the clock on a VCR. But this man's life of simplicity has always seemed pure and beautiful to me. Unknowing and unquestioning. Smiling and tearing paper, this is what Phil does. And the things he doesn't know, he doesn't care about, he doesn't aspire, but in his own way he doesn't need to. He loves his caretakers and his city and there's always that famous Phil smile. It seems to reason he has a very blessed existence, despite his downfalls. In my day to day activities, I often try and use Phil as an example of how life should be. To be inspired and happy with the little things, spend time with those you care about, and in your own way find joy in the mundane things in life.
