Week 7 - "Pistol" Pete

During the day, there is a man who wanders the streets. Behind him he pulls a Red Rider Wagon full of Windex and window scrubbers, hawking his services to every business owner who will listen. After dusk, he checks the doors of every shop on Main Street, making certain they are not open wide for any enterprising burglars. Over the years he has built for himself a bit of a legend. Pistol Pete is what he is called by locals, but his real name is Peter McEldowney. He is somewhat of a local institution to those who know him; and believe me, they are numerous. Yet however notable Peter is, he has become so due to the many uproarious, and sometimes downright dangerous situations he has created, often unwittingly. Yet despite the setbacks, he rolls that wagon out every day, determined, and puts his nose to the grindstone. Or perhaps to store front window glass.

Pistol Pete lives just off Main Street behind a Mexican restaurant. I believe he has someone who is there to help him with the goings on of day to day life, but Pete is fiercely independent. All of this is because Peter has a mental disability. I would not say he is a severely handicapped, but he does get himself into trouble. Peter is a tall man. Probably around six five. He wears a graying beard and always has a colorful pair of suspenders that he likes to snap against his chest. When he is feeling particularly assertive, he enjoys flexing his arm or ballooning his stomach and then asks you to touch it. I have never been one to do so. He is loved by many, but every so often, a situation arises and you can't help but chuckle thinking, “there goes Pete.”

I used to work on Main as a barista at a coffee shop. While there one day, I was startled by water suddenly being sprayed at the windows. It was Pete giving what I thought was a complimentary hosing. A little obnoxious, sure. But I though, “well it's Peter. What are you going to do?” A lot it turns out. Once finished, Pete trotted in and asked for payment of his services that he had not been commissioned to undertake to begin with. Once he was told that he would not be paid, he demanded a free lunch in stead. My superiors, not wanting to start another World War, consented to his threatening demands and he ordered a bowl of soup and a juice, both hand delivered by me. Moreover, I can personally attest to a tremendous level of satisfaction on Peter's face as he sipped that last drop of lentil of the rim of the bowl. To top it all off, the windows were still dirty.

Amazingly, a similar thing happened that winter after a blizzard hit and dropped more than a foot of snow on our heads. I came in early in the morning to shovel only to find that the walkway was already clear; mostly. It came to my attention that Pete had come during the night and shoveled the walkway; over and over and over again. He said he should be paid three times over because he had come three times to shovel the snow. This time my boss refused. Pete had not been asked to do it and furthermore, instead of waiting until the snow stopped, he decided an easy way to stack the cash was to shovel four inches three times instead of twelve once. Admittedly a brilliant plan, but fruitless nonetheless. Needless to say, Pistol Pete never came back to shovel.

Perhaps the best story of all is the one that cemented the “Pistol” in front of the “Pete.” Legend has it that late one night, at the Citgo station that once stood midway up the street, Pete approached a Brinks truck that had stopped for an exchange. At that time, Peter carried a hand radio tuned to the police frequency (something the police knew about), and a plastic gun that happened to look very real, (I think you know where this is going). Peter, probably thinking that the two Brinks men might be burglars merely dressed as money transporters, pulled his gun on the duo. Predictably, they reciprocated and pulled their guns, both very not plastic. Peter then demanded that they drop their weapons in a brave attempt to thwart a non-existent robbery. Again, they did the same. The entire incident may have gone terribly awry if it had not been for a local resident who knew Peter and stopped what would have made a very tragic story, and not a staggeringly hilarious story. Thus, “Pistol” Pete was born.

Now that I have left Main Street for greener pastures, I only occasionally bump into Peter. And when I do, he snaps his suspenders and asks me to touch his muscles. I still have not.