Jeff died recently. He wasn’t an average guy. For 15 years, he sat on a bench at the corner of Rosecrans Street and Avenida de Portugal in Point Loma. He was there for the millennium change. He sat there every Christmas morning. He rang in every New Year on the bench. As you might imagine, he was different. When darkness filled the night, Jeff would take the bag holding all his earthly possessions and disappear into the shadows, where he would spread his sleeping bag on the ground hidden away from any and all curious eyes. Shortly after first light, Jeff was back on his bench for another day of silent vigilance. I first saw Jeff on one of my daily walks years ago and wondered why he was always sitting in the same place. I asked neighbors who’d lived in the area long before we arrived. As often as not, I was told they’d seen him there for years, but knew nothing about him other than he was “just some crazy guy.” When people wandered by, Jeff would avoid eye contact, look the other way and do his best to become invisible. It was clear he simply wanted to be left alone. He never bothered anyone. I began waving as I passed. After weeks without a response, his hand flicked slightly upward with a furtive greeting one morning. Strange as it may seem, a bond of friendship was formed. From then on, we would exchange waves. After a while I would catch him actually initiating the act. He wasn’t very demonstrative, but he shared a small act of human kindness each day. To others, he remained invisible. We nicknamed him “The Mayor” and began referring to his corner as his office. A year passed without a word being exchanged. One morning, I bought a sweet roll. On the return trip home I asked him if he’d like it. “Yea. That sounds good,” he said. “Thanks.” From that point on, I’d buy him a treat once or twice a week. I tried to get him things that weren’t too difficult to chew. He only had one tooth. The Mayor never failed to express his gratitude. Over the many years we knew him, he never asked for anything. When I got to know him better, I would engage in conversations of unparalleled intrigue. Many related to health. Although he had but one tooth in his mouth, he was in the process of growing all of them back. We never understood the details of the process, but it was apparently quite slow because he still had only one the day he died. He would talk about economics. Did you know that some banks only let you open an account if you have a one million dollar bill? He even showed me a picture of one he had clipped from a magazine. Other times he would tell me of the government spies that were coming in to watch us. I promised him I would be vigilant. He always wore long pants, a heavy, hooded coat and sun glasses. The sun glasses were in place even after the sun had long fled the sky. The coat was always on, even when the dog days of summer brought temperatures into the 80s. Most people thought he was crazy. I’m not so sure. The “Mayor of Point Loma,” Jeffrey Q. Pastorino, died at the age of 52 on Aug. 25, 2009. He is survived by his twin brother, Chris of Warminster, Pa. Few people knew The Mayor. Many feared him. Others suffered his presence silently. I was delighted he invited me into his world. Like you and me, he was a singular point in the fabric of life we call humanity. He was our friend. And we’re going to miss him. — Special contribution from Point Loma resident Howard Jones (aka Allen Sherpa).
