His name is Chaplin Bob Miller. I cold-called him, asking for help one day. When he returned my call, he was driving back from the airport with his wife; they had just arrived home from Cuba.
Bob was warm and inviting. He understood my situation. He had a lot on his plate at the time, but he took a couple of moments to meet with me and briefly listen to my quandary. Little did he know, I hadn’t told him
my true quandary– the real reason I had sought Chaplin Bob-out.
But Chaplin Bob gave me exactly the help I needed. I needed a place to sleep and shower and shave and get off of the road for an evening. I needed a job. I needed money to buy food and put gas in the Jeep
Bob forked-out $118.00 at the Red Roof Inn in Ocala Florida and insisted that I take the room- wouldn’t let me sleep in the Jeep that night.
“I’m giving you the last bit of cash I have.”
Chaplin Bob smiled as he handed me a ten dollar bill from his wallet.
He attempted to furnish me with a pair of work boots, but he couldn’t find a pair that fit me, even though I insisted that I would be able to afford a pair of Ariats in a week or so. He put his hand on my shoulder and, though he had only known me a few hours, he contacted me as if I were his best friend’s grandson. The last time any other human made any similar kind of contact with me was,… No body recalls!
Harold, he’s a friendly guy; he rambles on-and-on; he’ll talk the balls off a rhino-saurus!