An empty bucket. That’s what caught my attention. It wasn’t the ragged clothes or the mangy dog. I did notice the shopping cart packed with what I assumed were all his earthly belongings. But not even that got my attention. It was the empty bucket sitting between his legs. A small sign taped to the lip of the bucket read, ‘Can You Please Help?’ Both the ‘please’ and ‘help’ were underlined, stressing the desperateness of his situation. Under the circumstances, I did have time in my day to stop and talk to the man and pet his dog.

The small dog snarled at me, growling until he said, “Cujo! You shush.”  

Inside the bucket, I saw a handful of change, a few loose bills, and one twenty, just as plain as day, right near the backside edge of the bucket.

I looked him in the eye. “Hi,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “My name is . . .” he interrupted me before I could finish my greeting.

“I know you,” he said, standing up and looking me in the eye. I could smell cigarettes and a faint hint of what I assumed to be alcohol before he stood. “You are Jim Barton, that real estate dude on all the billboards and whatnot.” His stench was a bit much. I did my best to hold my ground, but even that was tough. He touched me with a grimy finger, pointing it into my chest. “Tell me something, Mr. Barton,” he sat back on a padded blanket. “I suppose you are wondering why the bucket is not as full as you would think it would be,” he continued. “Would you be surprised to learn that I don’t really need it, just like I don’t need you or your conversational skills?”

Part of me thought it was the consumption of the booze doing the talking. The other part of me wondered how much he knew about me. I mean, yes. My picture was plastered all over the city, like a lifesized testament to all the hard work and dedication I put into our small town. But did he know more? And if so, what did he know? Did he know I would stop and check out the bucket? Or was that a fluke?

“How do you know about me?” I asked, scared to find out the answer.

“Have a seat, Mr. Barton. Or would you prefer me to call you Jim?” Jim is what I let my friends and potential clients call me. Salespersons called me Mr. Barton. Everyone else? I honestly didn’t care. It was the salespeople who called me Mr. Barton. That was something I insisted on.

“Jim is fine,” I said. I felt like I would get a sales pitch from this homeless man and his mangy dog, Cujo.

“Well, sir, have a seat. I’ve been trying to schedule a meeting with you for a few months, but your staff won’t let me get anywhere close to you.”

“So you filled your bucket enough to get my attention?”

“Something like that,” he winked, pulling out a brown paper bag with what I assumed was a bottle of liquor. What kind? I had no idea. But he took a drink of it. Then handed me the bag. I pulled the paper off it. It was a bottle of Glenlivet, a single malt scotch whiskey aged for eighteen years. Not one to resist a good liquor, something he must’ve learned, I wiped off the top and took a big drink. It was smooth and clean. He had good taste, that was for sure. How was he able to afford it? That was one of many questions I had.

“Mr. Burton. It has come to my attention that you want to build a homeless shelter where the IKEA building is on Hawthorne Street. Is that correct?” I hadn’t talked to anyone about that project except one of my financial advisors, who never spoke to anyone. I trusted him, and he was an introvert, something I highly valued, especially considering most successful people are extroverts and braggarts. Tony wasn’t. So, I was curious how a homeless man would know about the potential investment opportunity.

“How do you know about that?” I stood up, my head spinning a bit from the whiskey. “I haven’t told anyone about that deal.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t considering it, correct?” He wasn’t wrong. The investment would be an opportunity to invest in my community and give back to the people who made me wealthy. I figured it would be a loss, but the human equity would net me more business over time than I could handle. I was almost there as it was, but I wanted more. “An investment of that magnitude would have the city in your debt for years.” He wasn’t wrong. But I wanted to know how he knew what my plans were. “I propose you buy the land from IKEA, raise the building, and rebuild on the property.”

“Why would I do that when the building will work just fine?”

“But will it?” the old man asked me, taking another drink. “It’s occupied that space for the last twenty-three years, and, as far as the structure’s integrity, it’s due for a remodel. But I know you can’t afford to rebuild it without taking on an additional partner or partners. So, I’d like to offer my services. I am very good with numbers and investing in real estate. I haven’t been in the game in a few years, but once you throw my name around to a few of your backers? Then you will see that you’ll want me as a partner.”

Who was this man? This homeless man with a mangy mutt, a too-expensive-for-him bottle of liquor, and all his things tucked into a grocery cart? Was I really going to trust a homeless man for my financial security?

“What’s your name?”

“Gerald Moloski, former CEO of RDF Plastics.”

“You are Mr. Moloski?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Moloski was a legend not only in acquiring property but also in refurbishing it without breaking the bank. And that wasn’t his primary occupation! He once handled the plastics market, turning a recycling business into a multibillion-dollar industry until lobbyists and politicians got in the way. At least, that’s what I heard through the grapevine. “If you are him, you lost everything! Poor decisions and choices.”

“Not true. Then again,” Gerald took another drink, “nothing is as it appears.” Gerald petted his dog, scratching its ears. “It’s okay. It’s been a few years since I’ve worn a suit and tie. It has been a long time since I’ve been part of the corporate world, so your assistants never took the meeting. I couldn’t be who I said I was, could I? I tell you what. This man will vouch for me if I’m telling you the truth. Talk to him and ask if I gave him how much I gave him on his last day? It was two hundred dollars, by the way. That was my last day working for RDF Plastics. He’ll tell you about a breakfast buffet, the water, and the fact that he was scared for me and the company. James.” He closed his eyes, then opened them, snapping. James Penrose! I haven’t seen the kid in a few years, but he’s doing everything he watched me do, but only better. Ask him about me. Then come back, and let’s get started. I’ll be right here.” He waved the paper bag with the whiskey at him.

“James Penrose.” I shook my head. Could the old man be serious? He didn’t look anything like Gerald Moloski.

“What do you have to lose? One conversation and either I’m telling the truth or lying. In a few short seconds, he’ll confirm or deny my story. Then you come back. And we go into business. Easy as that. Or you never come back, and I get a good story to tell the guys after that IKEA building is refurbished because you know it will need it.”

“Fair enough.”

“You can find him downtown at the Harrow Club having lunch. He’ll be there for at least the next hour.”

“Gerald Moloski. Living on the downtown streets of Portland.” I shook my head.

“Stranger things have happened! Good luck to you.”

I left him right there, next to the Burnside Bridge, with his mangy dog, Cujo. Finding James Penrose would be a lot easier than locating Gerald Moloski. I wondered if he really was having lunch at the club today.

“Harrow Club. How can I help you?” I recognized the voice.

“Hi, Jasper. It’s Jim Barton.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Barton. How can I assist you today?”

“Tell me, is James Penrose a member?”

“Oh, Mr. Barton, I’d love to help you. But, sir, you do know our policy.”

“Yes, Jasper, I do. I helped write them.”

“Ah. Yes, sir. Well.”

“Just say yes or no, Jasper. Yes, he’s there. No, he’s no.”

“Excellent, sir. In that case, yes.”

“Expect me in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. Dining alone?”

“Yes. Thank you, Jasper.”

“My pleasure, sir.”