Breakfast at Sally's

by Richard LeMieux

  My mind flashed back to my own eviction. But I fought to stop that memory. Please, let’s not go back there, I whispered urgently to myself, and buried my head in my hands. But I could not win this battle with my mind, not at this moment in this place.

  I remembered being in the courtroom before Judge McCluskey. Sitting on his throne in his black robe, he had evicted three other families before me that day. I thought, “This poor man has a miserable job—putting people on the street. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I were him.” The notice was on my door by four p.m. that day.

  I remembered curling up in the corner of my living room the night before my eviction, covered by a blanket and holding Willow in my arms, hoping the world would change overnight and people would be kinder to each other.

  I remembered my son-in-law’s father, who came to see me be evicted that day. He said, “I don’t feel sorry for you!” I wondered, “How could anyone not feel sorry for a person being evicted, tossed out in the street? I would feel sorry for anyone experiencing that.”

  And then I remembered pulling out of the driveway of my home with my dog in the van—and no place to go.

  If the lady across the room had any of the feelings I had had, she wasn’t going to make it past this day. No one where she came from cared. Only AP cared at this point, and he was a total stranger to her and her world.

  Karen now had her hands spread out before her on the table, and I could see the chipped red nail polish and the gold band on her finger. “She probably paints her toes, too,” I thought to myself. “I bet she looks pretty nice when she’s all gussied up.”

  “Look, man,” James said. “She’s still wearing a wedding ring.” I continued to look at her, at her hands and her ring and her face.

  Karen’s eyes met mine as she looked across the room. I feared she knew we were talking about her. I wanted to rush to her, to try to save her. But I could not. I had no magic wand.

  She looked away from me for a moment and then looked back again. Her gaze lingered. She was talking to me with her eyes. You know, don’t you? they asked. You’ve been here, here like me, haven’t you? But you can’t help me, can you? Then she looked away.

  I saw something in her eyes I didn’t have: courage, resolve. I knew what she was going to do. She had already decided.

  She was accustomed to having things—nice clean clothes, perfume, cream for her face, and feather pillows. She had grown to enjoy, no, to expect, instant gratification. Now all she owned were the clothes on her back and the few things she could carry in plastic bags. The bankers, the masters of credit had taken everything else from her, just for a few more dollars in their accounts. The rich had to be protected, you know, so they could buy another house, or another boat, or another cruise. It’s the American way, to throw people out on the street.

  “I wish the Major were here,” I said anxiously. “He might be able to help her. But someone said he is out collecting food today.”

  “What we need, man, is a SWAT team,” said James. “Yeah, a ‘SWAT team for goodness’—good guys jumping off the roof with ropes and busting in the door to help her. That’s what we need right now, mister.”

  I kept scanning the room for C. Maybe he could help her, with a poem or something. But he wasn’t in sight either.

  “I’m going out for a smoke,” James said, pushing away from the table.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  We cleared our trays like schoolboys and headed outside into the drizzle that had just begun to fall.

  “Let’s see, who do the M’s play now?” I asked. “They have Oakland again tonight and then come home for two against Anaheim, I think. They need to start winning, man, or it’s over.”

  While we were talking baseball, Karen came out the door. AP was right behind her. “Where you goin’, Karen?” AP asked. “Why don’t you just hang out here awhile? Heck, it’s raining, and you don’t have a coat.”

  Karen kept walking, empty-handed, in the rain, through the pay parking lot that adjoined Sally’s.

  “I’ll be back,” AP said to James, as he rushed to catch up with her. She was now a half a block away.

  By the time they had reached 8th Street, AP was pleading.

  “C’mon girl! Please don’t cry. Let’s go back before we get soaked in this rain. I’m going back!” he said, stomping his foot on the pavement.

  Karen kept walking.

  AP rushed again to her side. “Look, baby, we can get some money—James and me can! You can get a room at the motel. We can make things better for you! Let’s go back.”

  But there was no going back for Karen.

  At 10th Street, AP stopped. He had gone his four blocks, the end of his safety zone. “Where you goin’?” he yelled as she crossed the street the turned right toward the Manette Bridge. “What you gonna do?”

  AP raced back to Sally’s to get help.

  There were just three blocks remaining before Karen would reach the bridge.

  By the time AP got back to Sally’s and we drove to the bridge, we knew she was gone. Cars were already stopped on the bridge with people peering over the worn rail. We could hear the sirens from police cars in the distance.

  They retrieved her body two hours later.

  At dusk I found AP sitting on the crumbling cement steps by the walled-off back entrance to Sally’s, with a fresh bottle of Night Train Express. He was wiping tears away with his shirtsleeve. James and Lionel were there, too, but no one was talking. AP wasn’t telling any jokes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing no words could soothe the pain. And then I turned and walked away.

  “Hey, Richard!” AP called out. I turned and walked back, and he handed me a small paper sack. “I don’t know what to do with these. I just can’t throw them in the dumpster. Maybe you know what to do with them?”

  I opened the bag and took out a small plastic makeup case with a cracked lid, a lipstick holder, and two small notebooks.

  “She left them on the table,” AP said.

  One notebook had a Monet flower design on the cover. I opened it. The first page had been torn out.

  On the second page she had written:

  WATCH, PENLIGHT, CAT, BRACELET TO LITTLE JOE

  On the third page began a poem:

  The winter here is cold and bitter,

  it’s chill ass to the bone and I

  haven’t seen the sun for weeks too long

  too far from home.

  I feel like I’m sinking and I

  I feel like I’m sinking and I

  claw for solid ground.

  I’m pulled down by the undertow

  I never thought I could feel this low.

  Oh Death Darkness, I feel like letting go.

  All of the strength and all the courage comes

  to lift me from this place.

  Three pages later she wrote:

  Today I choose to love, not hate.

  Forgive, not accuse.

  Lay down my life for them who don’t believe anyone

  cares.

  Not return evil with evil.

  Put Satan to rest by not allowing them to be the opposite

  Of what they really are.

  Not let their walls block my view of their Soul.

  Be a friend to all.

  The other notebook was handmade from a notepad from the Navy Federal Credit Union with the words WORTH NOTING in gray letters at the top of each page. The pages were stained by something spilled on them.

  On the second page she began:

  She took her life within her hands

  She took within her two hands

  No one can tell her now

  I believed in you

  Underneath this canopy of snow

  Where 57 winters took their toll

  I believed in you

  Where did you go?

  I believed in you

  Where did you go?

  Gone to meet her

  Back from where she came />
  Maker gone to save her soul

  Come to me

  She took her life in her own two hands

  Angel, fly over me my Angel

  Come

  It’s late and past your bedtime

  I will keep you safe forever

  I will keep you safe

  Angel my Angel.

  After a minute or so, I looked at AP, James, and Lionel and asked if they wanted to say a prayer for the lady. They all nodded.

  We joined hands in the gravel parking lot and I said, “Dear God, please help Karen find peace in your gracious and loving home. Amen.”

  Then I asked AP, “Could you spare a glass of that Night Train Express?”

  “I don’t have no glass, but you can have a swig or two,” he replied and handed me the bottle.

  I found a seat on one of the old blue plastic milk crates and shared the bottle with AP, and he started telling me a joke. “Colin Powell, Norman Schwartzkopf, and George Bush were captured by the Iraqis,” he began. “They took Powell before the firing squad...”

  As AP was telling his joke, my mind returned to the night I had attempted to end my life like Karen had.

  I wondered how it must have felt—falling through the air, knowing death was just seconds away. I wondered how she felt in that final moment when all she ever knew—thinking, breathing, talking, walking, living—was leaving her body.

  I wondered if she was now in Hell in the hands of the Devil, like all the preachers warn. Was the Evil One chuckling, “I’ve got you now. You are going to get what you deserve, you homeless, worthless scum”?

  Or perhaps she was in heaven, where Jesus himself would be toweling her off and consoling her as she cried, “I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s terrible down there.”

  And He would reply, “I know, Karen. I know.”

  Chapter 13

  I GET SAVED

  A week had gone by since I had seen Dr. Z and he had started me on drugs. They had not kicked in yet. I was expecting them to, though, any day now ... with a great rush of jubilation!

  I had a nine o’clock appointment today, which I knew would be brief. I had read most of the textbooks on depression at the library while I was trying to escape the rain and the cold, and this was a textbook follow-up. “The patient, who has failed in a suicide episode, may feel ‘up’ and stronger and could again attempt to take his or her life in the first month of taking the antidepressant drug,” read one of my sources.

  I was pretty sure Dr. Z just wanted to see if I could make it back alive.

  The waiting room was full again when I walked in the door. I think I recognized three of the elderly ladies from my last visit. I was hoping Nurse Jane would be there with her kind words of understanding, but a different voice called out to me as I was sitting and looking out the window. “Richard?”

  “Yes. That’s me,” I said, looking up at the nurse standing by the door that led to the examining rooms. She was a short woman with a round face, dark skin, and a plump body. Her plumpness pushed the limits of the buttons on the smock she wore. She had a pleasant enough smile, but it seemed misplaced. But hell, what did I know? I was on drugs!

  “I’m Tina,” she said. “Please follow me.” She led me back to a room. “Hop up there on the examining table. We have to do the routine.” I complied, and she pointed a thermometer toward my mouth. “Open up.”

  While the thermometer was doing its job, Nurse Tina wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around my arm and pumped the ball quickly. She was a strong woman, and it only took seconds for her to complete the task. She ripped the tester off and whipped the thermometer from my mouth. She looked at it and pronounced, “You’re good!” She took just a moment to make the appropriate notations in my chart.

  “The doctor will be here in a minute,” she said. Opening the door, she put my chart in the slot just outside the examining room. Then she turned back into the room, paused, and looked at me intently. “You know, Nurse Jane told me about you and that you need a place to stay.”

  “Yeah. I’m still living in my van,” I replied.

  “Well, I have a place you can stay free for a few months,” she said, reaching out and putting her hand on my shoulder. “You can stay there until you get back on your feet. How does that sound?”

  I was stunned. At first, I was speechless, so I just stared at her. Finally the words began to form. “I hardly know what to say.” I paused, and then said, “Sure. I can’t turn down an offer like that.”

  She smiled and reached for a notepad on the shelf. Taking a pencil from her pocket, she said, “I’m writing down the directions to my place in Gig Harbor, and my cell phone number. I won’t get off here until six tonight, and then I am going to church before going home. Until then, I have a friend—the pastor from church—who can help you, and you can meet me at the church tonight. Would that be okay?”

  I was still pretty numb. “Sure,” I mumbled.

  Nurse Tina took another piece of paper from the pad and began writing. “I’m giving you the pastor’s address and directions to get there. His name is Bob; he owns a car dealership. I’ll call him and tell him you will be on the way.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as she handed me the instructions.

  “The only thing I ask is that you don’t tell the doctor. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I replied. “This is very nice of you. I can’t thank you enough. I—”

  Just then the door opened and Dr. Z interrupted me in mid-sentence. He had my folder in his hand as he walked into the room. Nurse Tina said, “No temp, and blood pressure is okay.” She made her exit.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Z asked, looking at me over the top of the chart. “Any better?”

  “About the same,” I said.

  “Next week you will feel better,” he assured me. “I’m going to make an appointment for the same time, same day. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you then. Take your pills,” he added as he walked out the door.

  I left in a bit of a daze.

  Once I was back in the van with Willow, I followed the directions Tina had written out. It took about fifteen minutes to get to Pastor Bob’s dealership. He was talking with a couple about a minivan when I arrived. He acknowledged my presence by pointing at me and saying, “You must be Richard. Tina called me. I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  Bob excused himself from the couple and disappeared, but returned instantly with the keys to the van and a handful of paperwork, which he handed to the happy car buyers. He shook their hands, smiled, and wished them well, and they were off.

  He was walking toward me when the ringing of the cell phone on his hip claimed his attention. He reached for it with one hand while extending the other to me. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Pastor Bob. Hold on a second.” Then he put the cell phone to his ear. “This is Bob ... Hey, Ernie! Where have you been?” He turned and paced a few feet away as he listened. “Well, let’s pick it up tomorrow, then—about noon. I’ll meet you here.” He continued to pace back and forth as he listened. “Yeah, the guy is another deadbeat. I warned him we would come and get it if he didn’t pay.” He listened again and then said his goodbyes and clicked the phone cover shut just as the beeper on the other side of his belt vibrated. Bob slipped it off his belt to check the number and then looked at me. “Hey, let’s go for a ride.” He grabbed his leather coat off the wooden stand near the door, and I followed along.

  Pastor Bob sold used cars Monday through Saturday during the day. He was a repo man at night, on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Then on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings he held services at a small, ascetic Jewish church, where he would cajole, shame, and whip a small flock into a frenzy—a frenzy for Jesus.

  As we walked toward his car, I asked, “Okay if I bring my dog, Willow?” Bob hesitated. “She goes everywhere I go.”

  “Okay, sure, bring her along,” Bob replied, opening the door of his huge Chevy SUV. We all climbed in, and Bob w
hipped out of the parking lot and onto the main thoroughfare. “Tina said you’re homeless, and she is going to put you up in her camper for awhile.”

  “Yeah. It’s really nice of her,” I said.

  “She is a very nice person.” Pastor Bob pressed the volume button on the radio, increasing the intensity of the Rush Limbaugh Show. Limbaugh was explaining to his “dittoheads” that he had to change his opening theme song because the artist didn’t agree with his views and didn’t want him using her song.

  “Can you imagine that?” Pastor Bob exclaimed. “Some nut doesn’t want Rush to play her music on his show!”

  A copy of the local newspaper was lying on the front seat, so I picked it up and pulled out the sports section. “The SuperSonics lost again,” I said, trying to make conversation.

  “I don’t like basketball,” Bob said. “Or baseball, or football. It’s a waste of man’s time. I’m too busy for that stuff.”

  I flipped the newspaper over to the horoscopes and read mine in silence. I’m a Taurus with a Capricorn rising sign. The forecast looked good, so I decided to share it with Pastor Bob. “It looks like a good day for me,” I offered.

  “Why’s that?” Bob asked.

  “My horoscope says, ‘Words of Wisdom come out of the blue to guide you in important decisions; an unexpected stroke of luck will—’”