C’s two cats, MyLynx and Calico, jumped down from the loft above the front cab and welcomed their master back by rubbing against his legs, meowing loudly. The head of a black man appeared over the front seat. “What’s up, fellas?” he asked.
“Hey, Brian,” C replied. “I see you’re in for the night.”
“Yeah. It’s nasty out there!” Brian said.
C propped Andy up on the seat of the fold-down bed. “I’m going to make some tea,” he said, removing dirty pots and pans from the propane stovetop. “That will warm it up in here. Richard, that’s Brian up front. Brian, this is Richard.”
“Nice to meet you,” Brian waved. I nodded my head in return.
“Brian is renting the front seat for ten bucks a month,” said C, as he looked for a match. “He just got out of jail and needed a place to stay.” He found the match and struck it, turning the knob and lighting the stove. “Hey, Brian. What would you think if we had Andy stay with us for a while?”
“Maybe he could do the dishes,” Brian chuckled.
“How about ten dollars a month for rent, Andy?” C asked.
“Let’s see,” C mused, filling a teapot with water. “Ten dollars for first, ten for last, and ten for deposit. I’ll waive the last and the deposit, but we’ll have to check your credit report and your references.”
“I think the guys down at the liquor store will vouch for him,” Brian chimed in.
Andy was defenseless at this point. He just laid his head down on the bed.
“Let’s get these shoes off of him,” C said, pulling Andy’s legs up on the bed and starting the process of unlacing his boots.
“Andy’s had a rough life,” reflected C. “He told me some of it one day when we were both panhandling in front of the 7-Eleven. He’s from Texas—Houston, I think he said. His dad, who was a drunk and used to beat on him, kicked him out of the house when he was fifteen. Andy lived on the streets for a while. Houston was a tough town back in the seventies.” The boots finally gave way, and C tossed a blanket over Andy. MyLynx jumped up to investigate the newcomer. The knowing feline sniffed and kneaded, then curled up by Andy’s neck.
The battered teapot began to rattle on the burner. “You want a cup of tea, Brian?” asked C.
“No thanks,” came the reply. “I’m going to try to get some shuteye.” He disappeared back down the front seat—now a veritable condo!
C got up and picked the teapot off the burner, filled his cup with hot water, and sat back down. He methodically dipped his teabag in the cup. “Earl Grey. I love this tea,” he said. “Hey, I found some premium snipes in the ashtrays just outside the emergency room entrance at the hospital.” He reached for a tin can of cigarette butts on the counter. “Twenty or more—half smoked!” He was picking through the can, looking for the best one. Then he struck a match and lit up.
Andy began snoring. “I think that Andy’s at his best asleep,” observed C. “He told me once that when he dies, that’s just how he wants to go. Just lie down, fall asleep, and die.”
C sipped his steaming cup of tea, with an “Ah, that’s good” thrown in amidst his memories and reflections. Then he sighed. “Andy’s got a death wish. He’s going to drink himself to death. He’s getting worse. He shakes so badly when he can’t afford booze. He panhandles for booze money up in front of the Albertsons—until he gets enough to buy a quart. We have to get him off the street for a little bit.”
As Andy’s snoring got louder, C rolled his eyes, and we shared a good chuckle. “He seems to be going downhill fast,” I said. “He didn’t used to need a walker.”
“He’s a strong man, though,” C replied. “And fiercely independent. I couldn’t do what he has done. He slept on the benches down at the ferry terminal all last winter. No blanket. No pillow. They finally kicked him out of there. He’s slept in dumpsters. He’s tough.”
“How old is Andy?” I asked.
“Fifty-seven or so,” C replied. “He told me once he hasn’t had a birthday party in sixteen years. Yet more people in Bremerton recognize Andy than recognize the mayor! Bus drivers know Andy—and cab drivers, grocery store clerks, doctors, medics, and liquor store clerks. Everyone sort of loves Andy. He is harmless. He never hurt anybody—anytime, anywhere.
“He told me once that he started out working on an oil rig off the Texas gulf coast, near Corpus Christi, I think,” C continued. “They called him ‘Little Andy’—you know, part of that macho-man repertoire—that passive-aggressive mumbo-jumbo reserved for the smallest and the most gentle. They used to tease and taunt Andy because he liked to read books and write poetry.”
I tried to picture Andy wearing one of those round metal caps, a sleeveless white undershirt, jeans and steel-toed high-top work shoes, covered in grease, his muscles rippling as he plied a large wrench to an oil-rig bolt in the hot Texas sun. That was Andy then—the same Andy who now panhandles up and down 6th Street on his broken-wheeled walker.
At age twenty, Andy left Texas and made his way up to the Northwest in stages. First he hitchhiked to San Diego, and then to Mexico, where he sampled the charms of the señoritas in Tijuana—until he was out of money and needed medical care. (“For excessive itching and burning between his legs,” C said, “if you know what I mean.”) Andy worked his way north doing odd jobs—as a short-order cook, as a farm hand picking grapes—until he landed a logging job near the Washington coast.
“Andy was one of those guys who climbed up those big trees and cut off the tops of those giants near the Olympic National Forest,” C explained. He’d done that for several years and was making pretty good money for a while. But then one year he worked for a logging company that promised to pay him at the end of the job. He was living in a company cabin and eating company food with the other loggers. But after six months, the company went bankrupt and nobody got paid. He lost the few possessions he had and landed on the street.
“That’s probably when Andy started seriously drinking, and he just never stopped,” C surmised. “Just looking for a little comfort, you know? A little diversion from the pain. The liquor bottle became his best friend, his lover—and finally the only thing he could count on to slow the shaking.”
“Well, do you think he just gave up?” I asked.
“No,” C said. “Look at him. He’s still here, thorns and all. A man like that doesn’t just give up. He survives. He told me once that the cops kept rousting him out of the woods and finally got tired of it. As they were walking out of the woods, one cop gave him a baton to the back of the legs and a baton to the stomach. As Andy was lying there, the cop said, ‘We want you to get out of town and never come back, Andy. Do you get the message?’”
“Did he leave town?” I asked.
“No. Not Andy. He has been beaten up several times.” C described how some teenagers caught Andy one night in the alley behind the 7-Eleven, where we had found him tonight. They’d beaten him up just for the Friday-night fun of it.
Andy needed an “extreme makeover”—on the inside. Many of his internal parts appeared to be failing. As he inched his way down the sidewalks of Bremerton, eventually nature would call. If he ventured too far from the Salvation Army or the Ferry Terminal, he was in no-toilet land. Nine banks, six mortgage companies, eight insurance companies, ten attorney’s offices, three jewelers, four art galleries, six antique stores, two tattoo parlors, eight bars, and two restaurants make up the business core of the town, and none of them wanted the likes of Andy using their bathrooms. He had tried them all before, in his quest to relieve himself, and they all said no and gave him that look that homeless people know so well. It’s the look that says: “Get out of here and don’t come back.” So if Andy couldn’t find a back alley really fast, he’d pee his pants.
C was shaking his head. “He told me he tried some things—tried to stop drinking, tried different jobs, even tried having a girlfriend. But each time things fell through. He would always lose the job, or the girlfriend would kick him out, and he would hit the bott
le harder each time. His life sounds like one of those country songs—‘my girlfriend left, my dog died, my trailer caught fire, and my truck got repossessed,’” C sang in his best twang.
I laughed. “Let me tell you unequivocally that you have absolutely no future in country music!”
C smiled and brought us back to the subject. “Do you believe in karma, Richard?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I replied. “No, not really, I guess. I have seen too many bad things happen to good people and too many good things happen to bad people to believe in that.”
“Well,” said C, “whether it was karma or just plain old bad luck, things have just never worked out for Andy. People tried to help now and again, and he’d stay with someone for a day or a week. But he always got kicked out. Now maybe nobody can really help Andy.
“There was probably a time in those years when just the right person or place would have worked for Andy. Just one break—a person who loved him enough to overlook his flaws—a place where he could blossom and turn into a beautiful rose. We are not born drunks, you know. But none of those good things ever happened for Andy.”
The rain was now pounding on the roof of the Armadillo and we sat in silence, listening to the music nature was giving us.
I could see C’s mind still working.
“I think I’m going to try to help him,” he finally said. “Everybody can be helped and can help others. Yes, I’m going to do it.” His voice was taking on more and more resolve.
I was a little mystified. “You’re some kind of a saint,” I said. He just gazed into space, the way he often did.
I finished up my tea and glanced down at my Timex. “Wow! It’s four thirty in the morning; I’ve got to get some sleep.” I stood up, stretched, and yawned.
“Well, thanks, Richard, for helping get Andy,” said C.
“You bet.” Willow had fallen asleep on the camper floor. I carefully picked her up, put her inside my coat, and headed out the door into the driving rain.
I tried to sort out my jumbled feelings as I drove back up to the church parking lot. What was all this about? I didn’t feel sorry for Andy—Andy was just Andy. And Andy didn’t need judgment or pity—mine or anyone else’s. Andy was somehow able to take the good and let the bad pass by. Most of us live a lifetime without learning how crucial that can be, or how to perform that simple magic. Doubtless there was a lesson for me here. If so, it was a hard one for me to embrace.
But more than Andy, it was C whom I couldn’t quite understand—his way of pulling strays in out of the rain. What made a man do that? Hell, even my family wouldn’t do that for me, even clean and sober! It was “inconvenient” for them.
But that was the place I didn’t want to go. Dwelling on that piece of grief would only get me in trouble.
Chapter 12
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
She was new at Sally’s.
When I arrived at eight a.m., she sat motionless at the round table farthest from the door, her face buried in her hands, her strawberryblonde hair a mess. Four plastic bags packed to the brim were at her feet, and two small notebooks were lying on the table.
This was no professional bag lady. Her purse was Gucci, her clothes were fashionable, albeit wrinkled, and her Reeboks were a gleaming white.
I got a bowl of Cream of Wheat, two jelly donuts, and a cup of coffee and found a seat. It was Friday. I saw a newspaper in a trashcan in the corner. It was Wednesday’s New York Times. “Good enough,” I thought.
For some reason I couldn’t help looking her way. I could see (well, almost see) the anguish of this lady. In the months of starting each day at Sally’s between eight and eight thirty, I had seen many things—the drug-crazed, the schizos, the bipolars, and the drunks. But this was dark—really dark.
I could see, and feel, the big black cloud of depression hovering in her sky, blocking out every ray of sunlight. I knew that feeling. At times like that, it felt as if I was drowning. Just below the surface. I knew something was up there; it was life, but I didn’t care.
And I knew she didn’t care. She knew her future. She would live out the lyrics of the Phil Collins song “Another Day in Paradise,” calling for help but never being heard.
One of the black guys, Alan, came strolling in and walked her way. He touched her gently on the shoulder and she slowly raised her head.
“You’ve got to eat, Karen,” he coaxed. “You’ll feel better.” The woman shook her head. She closed her eyes and laid her head back down on the table.
Alan, a slim man with a small goatee, placed his hand on his chin and rubbed his whiskers in a moment of contemplation. He tried again, politely tapping her on the shoulder. When she raised her head this time, he bent at the waist, cocked his head, and smiled.
“Please eat with me; I don’t like to eat alone. I’ll get something for you,” he said.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Alan lied. AP—that’s what his friends called him—seldom ate. He usually drank his meals. He liked vodka best, but he’d settle for Night Train Express (fortified wine) for lunch and dinner. He was a happy drunk. He was also a super-salesman. It was hard to say no to AP.
AP called the four-block radius around the Salvation Army building home. He roamed the area each day, panhanding in his special way. He’d stop a person along the street and tell him a joke or compliment him on his coat, hat, or tie. And then he would always ask him for eighty-seven cents.
“I need eighty-seven cents, just eighty-seven cents,” he would say.
Hell, his jokes were worth eighty-seven cents!
“I learned it in Los Angeles,” he said of his trick. “They always give you a dollar. No one is going to count out eighty-seven cents,” he added, laughing.
AP talked with his hands, waving and pointing to emphasize each word, and after years of refining his routine, he had it down. It usually ended with a palm extended and a smile on his etched face. When he got enough money for a fifth of vodka, he would stop for some “lunch.”
AP was fifty-four years old and lived with two other gentlemen behind Sally’s. They would roll out their sleeping bags at night and pass out under a stairwell that led to the basement of the building. They caused no harm, committed no fouls, and were on a first-name basis with the police who cruised the alleys at night. After years of experience, the cops were happy the men were there. They would report it if the really bad guys showed up.
AP never ventured more than four blocks in any direction from Sally’s, especially north toward the Manette Bridge. Four years ago, just past 11th Street, he told four young men a joke and then asked them for eighty-seven cents. They beat him nearly to death. He was helicoptered to University Medical Center in Seattle and spent a month in bed. While he was there, the doctors ran some tests and discovered he had colon cancer. They gave him two years to live. AP walked out of the hospital and hasn’t seen a doctor since that day.
Late one Friday night, the boys were up drinking and smoking in the alley and listening to some tunes on an old radio they had found in a dumpster, when Karen showed up. It was one in the morning. She was hungry and tired from her several-mile walk. She had been evicted from her home in Poulsbo. AP gave her the half of the bologna-and-cheese sandwich he had left from Wednesday’s sack lunch at Sally’s. He tried to cheer her up with a few of his jokes and even shared his Night Train Express. Like the gentleman he was, he even gave her his sleeping bag to get her through the night.
This man who was supposed to be dead by now, this man who had given up dreaming, hoping, planning for the future—AP was worried about this woman. He instinctively knew that she had two roads to choose between: One was long and could take her to a new life in the sun, the other was very short and very dark. He got her a bowl of hot cereal, some orange juice, and a cup of coffee and returned to the table. “Here, this is for you. I’ll be right back. You want some cream? I’ll tell you a joke after I get mine,” he said. Then he quickly grabbed two jelly donuts and some
cereal for himself and hurried back to the table.
“Ronald Reagan, George Bush, and Bill Clinton went to see the Wizard of Oz,” AP began. “‘What do you want of the great and powerful Wizard?’ the Wizard bellowed. ‘Well, Mr. Wizard, I’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately, and, well, I thought, if possible, well, could I get a new brain?’ Reagan asked.
“‘And what do you want?’ the Wizard roared, looking at George Bush. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Wizard, when that lying Bill Clinton beat me in the election, it broke my heart. I need a new heart!’
“‘And you, Bill Clinton, what do you want?’ the Wizard thundered. Bill replied, ‘Where’s Dorothy?’”
AP belly-laughed and slapped his hand to his leg. Karen smiled wanly.
James, one of AP’s “roommates,” came in, poured himself a cup of java, grabbed a donut, took a bite, and headed for my table. “The Mariners lost again, man; four-one,” he said of Oakland’s win over Seattle. “They’re a game and a half back now. They’re going to do just like last year. Lead all year long, and then fizzle out at the end.”
“It doesn’t look promising,” I said. “Their pitching looks tired, and nobody seems to be able to get a hit with runners on base.” My eyes glanced over to AP and Karen.
James noticed. He leaned toward me. “That lady is having a bad time. A real bad time, man,” he whispered. “Got put out on the street by the sheriff yesterday. An eviction. They put her stuff on the curb, man. On the curb! In Poulsbo! No one helped her, man. No one! What’s all that about?”
She was now in her first day, her first hours of being homeless.
“What’s that like, man, to, you know, lose everything?” James asked. “Somebody told me you were rich—boats and stuff—and lost it all. I never had anything to lose.”
“She’s in shock right now,” I said. “I don’t know her story, but she’s wondering why the angels didn’t come and save her; why God deserted her; why nobody cared. Her nerve endings tingle. Everything seems fuzzy. It’s like a bad dream that will go away as soon as she wakes up. She wonders where her friends are and why they aren’t helping. She wonders why all the people who said they loved her are not here trying to help. She feels hopeless. Totally hopeless.” I took a drink of my coffee. “She has no bed. No pillows. No pots and pans. No television. No refrigerator. No closet to hang her pretty clothes in. No clean socks. No cherished mementos or pictures of loved ones sitting on the tables or hung on the walls, no table or chairs, no candles or incense, no flowers. No place of her own, no true privacy. All the things that made her Karen are gone. I don’t know her story, but I have been right where she is, and it’s going to be tough, very tough for her to make it.”
Breakfast at Sally's Page 13
