#37: Just Say No.
A walk around the block on a drizzly Wednesday in Spring.
I gotta admit this one is a little depressing on the surface. Well, maybe below the surface, too. I try to tell my friends’ stories with as little drama or judgment as possible. (Although I am occasionally tempted to indulge in a little noir existentialism.)
I’ll also admit that “Sympathy for the Devil” came on as I was finishing this piece. Still, even in that noir classic, there’s a subtle call to rise above the darkness…
Raymond didn’t look so good. Three weeks before I’d helped him get a phone. The week after that, I’d given him a ride to the DMV so he could pick up a new ID. A few days later, he made a good connection for a place to work. Outdoor work. Skilled work. He was good at it. Even had references. Just needed to be clean. And he’d finally made it to the Clinic.
Raymond has the most honest face on the street. And usually, all-too-believable stories about his cycles of addiction, to back it up.
But I was surprised to see him. I knew he had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon. Now that he was on methadone he also wanted to go back on antidepressants.1 I may not have medical initials after my name, but I have a bit of lived experience. And he needed meds. Bad. I saw it in his eyes.
So why was he coming up to me asking if there was any way I could give him $5? Turned out, he’d been caught shoplifting some clothes. Which he admitted was just stupid since there are plenty of places to get used clothes for free. Said he spent a night in jail. And now he was out, the Clinic was closed, and he was starting to get dope sick. I could see that in his eyes, too. $5? That’s half a bag, Ray. Won’t get you anywhere. Well, he said, how ‘bout $2?
I just said no.
Bruce gave me his shy wry smile and asked if I could lend him $20 until he got his paycheck on Friday. I’ve done that a few times. Between a little part-time work and disability, he can usually get by, but is predictably a little short. He’s always paid me back. (Or at least offered me the cash, even if I don’t always take it.) Best of all, he’d just gotten a rent subsidized apartment. But the last few times he’d avoided me or told me he was sorry he didn’t have the money to pay me back. I told him not to worry about it. We went our separate ways but when I ran into him an hour or two later he still needed that $20 ‘til Friday—as if it were a minor detail we’d both overlooked.
I just said no.
I knew Jake was lying to me—has been for years. But I figured, what the heck, I might as well make sure. So, I walked into a local business to show the owner a check—allegedly from his business—Jake had given me as “collateral.” I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t legit by any chance. It wasn’t.
I ran into him an hour or so later and calmly explained that he’d outdone himself this time and, if I had the bandwidth. I’d file a complaint for fraud. He told me I better not and proceeded to rattle off a series of rumors about me that were so salacious and scurrilous, they would have made me blush—except I’d heard them all before. I was even able to add some details he’d neglected to mention—as well as who’d been spreading the rumors. Primarily him. (And Kenny for some reason. Probably for his own amusement. Since Kenny is the guy who told me you can tell Jake is lying when he opens his mouth.)
Believe it or not, I’m still kind of fond of Jake. His talents are wasted on street lies and gossip. He should be in Hollywood. The day before, he had spun a sob story that was elegant even for him. Fortunately…
I just said no.
Wild Rose crossed the street diagonally in front of me. She always crosses the street diagonally. It’s like she’s staking out her territory.
In these essays, I haven’t yet taken on the issue of people on the street with severe mental illness. I need to do so and do it right—to present their stories with an integrity that lets them emerge as individuals from their conventional stereotype.
Rose’s arms and legs seemed to be going in all directions; blotchy face shifting from plaintively deranged to sweet smile in moments; looking at you while seeming to look away; looking away while seeming to look right at you. The day before, I’d given her a little money. We had talked in oblong sentences about where she needed to go to get the particular help she needed at that particular moment. Kenny and I made sure she was pointed the right direction. The odds weren’t good. But, Kenny explained to me, she’s a survivor. He said she’ll be exactly the same whether she lives another day or decades. If there really are roads in heaven, she’ll cross them diagonally. As she got close to me this time, she flung her head in a wordless gesture. Sorry honey, I sighed, in an equally wordless response.
I just said no.
When I circled back around through the parking lot, Billy was in a prime location—right next to one of those meters where you get dashboard tickets. Credit cards and apps have done a real number on business there. Not much spare change on the ground. Still, it’s hard to avoid interactions with people holding cardboard signs. So, parkers either act like the person doesn’t exist, or say hi and dig deep down for loose coins or singles. Maybe at least shrug, smile, and offer some encouraging word while aiming their cell phones at the meter. I asked Billy what he was doing…Like where are we going here? How long you going to keep this up? Where are you sleeping? You ever get that infected foot looked at? You get those papers from your brother to get an ID? I mean, c’mon man, what’s next? His shrug was imperceptible. His words staggered out of his mouth: I guess I’ll go back stay at my brother’s for a while…got to go to court over there for a hearing in a couple of weeks. What for? Bench warrant. For what? Not showing up for hearing on the last bench warrant.2 Hey, could you…
I just said no.
But then I stopped, patted him on the back and said, maybe catch you tomorrow.
He nodded.
It’s a more-than-a-little dicey to balance methadone and antidepressants. Hell, it’s hard enough to get an antidepressant that works in the first place. But I knew the doctor’s office Ray was going to and figured it was worth a shot.
This “bench warrant” thing is another merry-go-round. You get caught doing something stupid. Get arrested. Have a court date. Forget all about it. Have a bench warrant issued and get picked up next time you’re in town. Given another court date. Etc. Have I mentioned that Melvin probably won’t be coming back to town anytime soon? Well now you know.