The Lost and Languid World of Doug Barnes

The least of these sits at a coffee shop table in Homewood, Alabama.It is about a ten-minute waddle from his home in the Rosedale community to O’Henry’s Coffee House, where Doug Barnes hunches over a large cup of coffee every morning around 7 a.m. Perpetually dressed in a old Milwaukee Brewers cap, an oversized blue jacket with Alaska stitched on the left breast, camouflage pants, and New Balances, Doug is visually hard to miss.He is a squat fellow, a quiet man of 57, and for the most part isn’t bothering anybody. Yet there is a palpable mystique that surrounds him: What is he doing? Why does he come to the coffee shop and just sit? Is he homeless? (He dresses like he’s homeless, whatever that means.)Doug’s experienced face is oriented with jaundiced eyes, a stubby nose, and a bulging, caricature-like bottom lip. A cactus of stubble on his chin echoes the tufts of curly hair that fling out from his ball cap. He speaks in a low, almost undistinguishable voice. Along the black discs of his pupils is a thin ribbon of blue, the only hint of hope in his remote eyes.Rarely does anyone sit with Doug at the coffee shop, but several have executed the courtesy of buying him coffee or a blueberry scone. He is not conversation-averse, but he does not go out of his way to solicit small talk, either. Many speak to him; perhaps few have taken the time to listen to his life story. And every morning, Doug Barnes’s routine leads him here, to Homewood, the cynosure of Southern culture.From time to time, you can see Doug meandering the streets, often late at night. He’ll find a city patio table and rest for a while. His universe encompasses about a two-mile radius, the outer ring at All Saints Episcopal Church, where he volunteers from time to time, washing dishes.So why does he come to O’Henry’s?“No particular reason,” Doug says shyly. “I guess I like the people.”Doug is a reader. He often pairs a warm beverage with several newspapers, disbursed on the tabletop after he wolfs them down, page by page.“I like reading,” he says.Doug’s life can be described as labyrinthine until the age of 18, and consistently the same ever since. He grew up in Rosedale in a two-parent home and memories from this time in his life are foggy.“I don’t think I went to kindergarten,” he says.His favorite childhood memory?“I didn’t do a whole lot.”(At times, Doug doesn’t make liberal use of the English language.)Early on, Doug moved to Tuscaloosa to live with his grandmother, who took him in for five years. “My parents sent me down there,” he says, opening up now. “That way I could have someone stay there with me every day, because my parents were working. My grandmother was retired and was in her seventies. I came back up here when she passed.”A cloud hangs over the transition, as three schools rattle against the edges of his memory: Rosedale, Shades Cahaba, and Homewood. It is unclear when he finished one and started the other.Doug wasn’t involved in much during school. That is, except ROTC. He graduated from Homewood quietly, in 1977.After graduation, Doug thought he’d try his hand at trade school, so he moved back to Tuscaloosa, enrolled at C.A. Fredd State Technical School (eventually usurped by Shelton State), and stayed with his aunt. “I started out with stenography then furniture refinishing, but I dropped out,” he admits. “I really haven’t done a lot since then.”But of course, he had to do something. Right? “No, not really anything,” he says. “I stayed with my parents. I just didn’t do anything. I don’t really know. Stayed around, hung around.”Like, nothing?“Not really.”So what does your typical day look like?“I come [to the coffee shop], go to library for a while, go to the park. I go to Oak Hill sometimes. Have a beer,” he says ruefully.“…might as well be honest.” (shrugs.)Do you have any money?“Naw. I gotta start getting some.”Do people give you money?“Sometimes, people give me money.”But you don’t ask for it…“Sometimes, sometimes.”Have you thought about working?“I thought about getting a job at O’Henry’s. Washing dishes. But I’d have to learn how to use the dishwasher. Not sure if it’s the same as the one at All Saints.”Do you believe in yourself?“Yep.”What if you got a job with city, cleaning up the streets or something, would you do that?“Yeah, I’d probably do that.”Do you feel like you’ve let your life go by?“Sometimes. I should have went on and learned how to do a trade. Do some kind of trade.”Are you willing to work?“Yep.”What if you could pick anything—what would you do?“I have no idea. I like music.”Where’d you get that Brewers cap?“At the house. It belonged to someone at my house. They never wear it.”Do you have clothes?“I’ve got a bunch of clothes. Got some scattered about.”But you wear the same thing every day…“Yeah.”Do you watch TV?“Aaaaah, yeah.”What do you watch?“Old shows. Hogan’s Heroes. Webster. Perry Mason. I don’t have much of a choice.”Why not?“I live with my uncle,” Doug says. “It’s his house.”So he doesn’t let you pick what you want to watch?“No.”By now, the morning birds are chirping in the oak trees that sprout out of the concrete jungle of downtown Homewood. A little sparrow skips by with head a-twitching.So tell me more about working at All Saints.“I just do volunteer work at the church, that’s about it. I wash dishes, empty the trash. I’m not the janitor. I volunteer.”How did you get hooked up with that job?“Wellll, this guy got me involved, I had been going there for a while. I had to learn how to use the dishwasher. I went there for a year before I started doing anything.”Have you always been involved in church?“I was raised in the church. Well, I went to Union. When I went to Tuscaloosa, Brown Memorial Presbyterian. I was at Union 40 years.”Do you remember when you were saved?“It was 1970. I was going to Union at that time, and I decided to join the church.”So you were saved in 1970?“No, I joined the church in 1970.”Did you ask Christ into your heart? In other words, ask him to be your Lord and Savior?”“No, I just said I’d be with Christ.”Okay but have you asked him to be your Lord and Savior?“No.”So do you worry about that?“A little.”Well, why don’t we do it right now?“Ok,” he agrees, as simply as if I would have asked him to pass the mustard.I scooch my chair up close to Doug and put my hand on his shoulder. I bow my head and close my eyes and thank God for this man. His imperfect life. And then Doug repeats an imperfect, Spirit-led Sinner’s Prayer, asking Jesus Christ to take over his life.Regardless of what Doug has done or hasn’t done in this life, no matter the mistakes or mishaps, he punched his ticket to bliss with one moment of pure humility. He allowed God in.Like the sparrow that stumbled past, Doug has stumbled through life. But God always had his eye on him. And today, a rich, beatific light descended on lost and languid world of Doug Barnes.I am ashamed that I have not ushered more people to this light that so graciously brightened my dull, lifeless existence so long ago. Yet for the last several days, there has been a pressing urge for me to simply be available to share the Gospel. And in an eternal twist of fate, Doug walked in. I sat down to write a biography, and he ended up finding the Lord.I wonder how many Dougs sit at the coffee tables and lunch counters in towns all across America. I wonder how often we pass by and exchange a casual hello, a brief, conciliatory encounter as we go about our business in our self-fixated life. I am the guiltiest of anyone of said offense, and Doug, at once, exposed all of those frailties.I wonder how desperate we are to share the Gospel with the least of these? The broken, battered, lifeless, dejected, meek, and drowned-out. I wonder how willing we are, for more than a moment, to show someone they are important.The least of these sits at a coffee shop table in Homewood, Alabama.Have you noticed? 78Follow us on Facebook www.facebook.com/78mag Photos by Al BlantonPostscript: Doug has a new hat. It's a white UAB Blazers hat. So if you see him, make sure you say hello (he may or may not be wearing the Brewers cap).