The story of a silent "shadow' - and his Brownstown sun

By Tom Murse
New Era Staff Writer

   Paul is waving his arms in the kitchen of The Brownstown Restaurant. He is trying to speak but cannot. His lips are moving - they are always moving - but only a whisper escapes.

The lanky 73-year-old points emphatically to a nearby closet. He is wearing baggy denim overalls and a stained white oxford shirt beneath his apron. He has wild, snow-white hair and stares at his boss through thick-rimmed, thick-lensed eyeglasses.

He is clean-shaven and patient - a changed man since he first mysteriously showed up at the restaurant four years ago holding only a hand-written note that read: "I need a job. I need food. I need help."

He continues whispering and pointing at the closet.

Chris Lascarides, a former Long Islander who owns the restaurant, finally understands and nods. "Sausage," he tells me, laughing. "He thinks I don't have enough sausage for the weekend."

The silent, early-morning exchange is part of an unusual relationship that has developed between the 42-year-old restaurateur and the old man who dodders about the kitchen.

Paul is destitute and lives in a one-room apartment across from the South State Street restaurant in Brownstown, where the advertised specials last week were oyster pie and ham potpie. But he is earning his keep here by chopping onions, counting cans of food and doing other odd jobs.

"He's an extra set of hands," Chris says.

Paul does not get paid for his work, but in return he eats all the food he wants; his favorites are the mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onions. Chris also buys the old man's clothing, from his shirts to his shoes.

Paul doesn't drive, and Chris doesn't know much about his background, except for the old man's brief mention of living in Maine once and having a brother with whom he doesn't have much contact.

He has lived in Lancaster County for some time, Chris says, but moved to Brownstown only about three years ago. Paul is reluctant to be the focus of media attention, Chris says.

He cannot speak because of a tracheotomy performed in the 1970s. The old man had developed cancer near the system of tubes that carry air to and from the lungs.

And he is nearly deaf, but will not wear the two hearing aids Chris helped him get. "He's afraid he's going to lose them," Chris says. "He only wears them to church on Sundays."

So communication can be difficult. Paul will often scribble a note on a paper placemat. When times are slow and Paul is without a chore, he will write to Chris: "I have to work or I become a bumboozler."

So the boss will give him something to do: "I tell him to go to Turkey Hill and get two gallons of milk," Chris says. At first, Paul washed dishes. But Chris won't allow him to do that anymore because Paul often got angry about all the food that was being thrown away.

"He was breaking things," Chris says.

In the past, a few customers have complained about Paul's appearance and his attitude. But Chris is determined to let the man work and eat a decent breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"I throw away 10 times more food than he eats. You think I can throw someone out like that?" Chris asks.

Paul is in and out of The Brownstown Restaurant almost every day of the week. If he misses a day, it's no big deal. "I let him come and go as he wants," Chris says.

Occasionally, Paul will disappear from the restaurant without notice. Chris' friends have told him that they've seen the old man as far northeast as Reading, or as far south as Lancaster City. He's even been seen at Jennie's Diner on Lincoln Highway East at 1 in the morning.

"He's everywhere. He's like a shadow," Chris says. "He walks. He just walks."

Most of the time, though, Chris and Paul are inseparable.

"If I'm in here standing, he's right here by my side. I'm the only one he knows. It's almost like I'm raising a teen-ager," Chris says. "This is all he has." -    The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears every Monday.