We did end up at Denny’s. It was funny how fast a dream could turn into a nightmare and then be forgotten altogether. The one constant on this journey seemed to be the need for sustenance, and the rule was never to turn down an opportunity for a meal, since you had no idea when or where the next one would come along.
We went into the almost-deserted restaurant and found ourselves a booth. With very little thought, we ordered ourselves coffee and an early breakfast.
C breathed in deeply, then out again. “You know who the most famous homeless man in history was, don’t you?” I didn’t.
“‘Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head,’ Jesus said.”
I lowered my head and shook it back and forth. “I should have known that.”
“You, Richard, are in good company,” C said.
“People were afraid of Jesus,” I replied.
“Yes, and people are afraid of the homeless today. And they are disgusted when they see a person digging through a garbage can or a dumpster. They’re frightened when someone unclean talks to them—afraid they might ask for money, afraid they will steal their car or rob their house or stab them. But it isn’t the homeless they should fear. It’s the people who have jobs and money—like that truck painter, Gary Ridgeway, aka the Green River Killer. Did you know he admitted to killing forty-eight women in Washington State? He’s the deadliest killer in the United States to date,” C said.
“Yes. I did read that,” I responded
“Can you imagine that one Christmas Eve, Ridgeway got off work early, cashed his Christmas bonus check, went to the mall, bought some presents on his MasterCard, had dinner at home with the wife, and then went out and killed a young woman and dumped her body along the road? She was one of those disgusting, homeless prostitutes people fear,” C said. His raised voice attracted the attention of the three other customers several tables away. “Hell, maybe the son of a bitch did her a favor! She would probably have had to sell her body over and over again for ten, maybe fifteen years just to pay for a three-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment, electric and water, and a run-down car!”
The waitress arrived with our Grand Slam breakfasts and refilled our coffee cups.
“They arrested Ridgeway at his job on November 20, 2001,” C said, resuming his tirade as soon as she left our table. “He painted a picture of death—mostly of teenaged runaways. If I remember right, the first girl he killed was sixteen years old. I don’t know what it is about Washington State, but, you know, three of the most notorious serial killers come from here. Ridgeway killed forty-eight women, Ted Bundy, who used to work for the Republican Party, killed thirty, and Robert Yates killed thirteen.”
We ate in silence for a few moments.
“The people should really be afraid of guys like that Tacoma police chief who shot his wife to death in the parking lot at the mall,” C continued. “Or the son of the director of the Department of Corrections for Washington State who raped a two-year-old. He pleaded guilty and got a whole six months! If a homeless guy had done that, he’d get life in prison!”
C told me a story about how he’d once picked up a hitchhiker outside of St. Louis. Her name was Keisha. She told C she was twenty-two, but he figured she was really about seventeen. She was homeless and heading west. She had worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken for three years at fivefifty an hour. Her boss kept putting the moves on her every day until he got her in the car one night and demanded she put out. So she did. But it was nothing new to her. Her father molested her as a child and had sex with her until she was thirteen. She ran away when her father gave her to their next-door neighbor one night for letting him borrow his chainsaw. A couple of guys took her in and got her a couple of tattoos on her ankle, and she learned to make money selling her body.”
In the two weeks she rode with him, she offered him her body every day as payment for the ride. She couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t accept. She thought he must be gay. C admitted he’d been tempted—she was a pretty little lady. But he taught her how to play chess instead, and they played a game every night. He also taught her the differences between Zinfandel, Chardonnay, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon. He dropped her off in San Diego, and she gave him a hug.
“You know, the big thing that sets the homeless apart is that they usually only commit crimes out of desperation,” C continued. “Those with homes and jobs commit crimes out of boredom or hatred or greed.”
I just sat there in a sort of trance.
“Elliot Liebow wrote a book about the lives of homeless women called Tell Them Who I Am. I think it came out in ninety-three or ninety-four. He said something like this: ‘You are not needed anywhere, not wanted anywhere. Nobody cares what you do.’ And you know, unless people have been there—lost, alone, rejected, feeling worthless and unwanted—they just can’t know that numb feeling that drags you down. All the dreams are gone, gone forever. You’re just hoping for some force to end the nightmare peacefully.”
I nodded, remembering my night on the bridge all too well.
“Whatever happened to Emma Lazarus’s sonnet on the Statue of Liberty that welcomed millions of people to America? ‘Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”
C raised his fork like he was Lady Liberty herself.
“Homelessness in this great country of the United States is an abomination!” C exclaimed. The other customers got up and made their way to the cash register.
“But the great masses—who are only one paycheck or one stroke of luck better off themselves—even they repeat the same great lies about the homeless: ‘They are lazy. They don’t want to work. They are drunks, bums, drug-using, worthless scum.’ If you tell the same lie over and over again about the homeless, it eventually becomes the truth. You tell your wife the lie, then you tell your children the lie. Rush Limbaugh and Mike Savage then broadcast the lie, and politicians who want your vote politicize the lie. The lie just grows and grows.”
The waitress finally delivered change to the other customers, who quickly escaped out the door.
C looked sadly into my eyes. “The homeless are human beings,” he said. “Okay, so they are people with problems—some greater than others. But there is no problem that can’t be overcome with love, patience, and kindness. Given help and a sense of direction, most will help themselves and even help others.”
We finally left Denny’s, and I dropped C back at the Armadillo. We were quiet with each other; there seemed little left to be said.
As I drove away I realized I would probably never know what happened to Adrian, and I had to accept that reality. His fate would be like that of so many others—disappearing off the face of the earth without a trace—no funeral, no seven-gun salute, no flowers, no friends wearing all black, their faces streaming with tears.
If I disappeared, no one from my past life would know or care. Only C and the regulars at Sally’s would note my absence and say a prayer for me.
Chapter 20
THE LUCKY ROCKS
I’m in more trouble than I thought, I said to myself as I walked out of the mental institution, heading for the van. I had spent the morning at my now regular appointments in mental-health land. These mornings were always psychically challenging and often emotionally draining, but today’s discussions left me in an even greater state of confusion than usual.
After an hour with my psychiatrist, Bob, he admitted to me that even he had a problem. He is a very good swimmer; however, his son is afraid of water, and he has to give him a bath each day. So I wondered, if Bob couldn’t get his son over a water phobia, what are the chances he’ll be able to fix me?
Then, after a two-hour session, Rodney, my psychologist, speculated that I just needed some good luck (for a change), and he showed me two rocks he carries in his pocket. He said he rubs them together in
times of stress or misfortune. Were lucky rocks now a standard part of the treatment for clinical depression? I wondered. And will sacrificing two chickens under the light of the full moon be next?
I had been hoping these mental health gurus would have all the answers—some magic wand they could wave over me, some roadmap to Camelot. Instead they had given me the happy pills: Zoloft, the miracle mind-candy for depression in the twenty-first century. I was one of the nearly thirty million Americans taking sertraline hydrochloride, the most prescribed antidepressant in the United States. Clinical depression as well as obsessive compulsive, panic, and social anxiety disorders in both adults and children—all taken care of with Zoloft! Well, the pills did seem to help, at least a little. And now I was off looking for two lucky rocks.
But the thought of suicide was still bouncing around in my mind.
I got in the van and turned the key. Willow hopped into my lap and pressed her nose against the glass. It was her way of requesting that I open her window. I complied. She stuck her head out as far as it would go, and with her ears flying in the wind, we headed for lunch at the Salvation Army.
More than once I had thought of driving over the center line into a big truck to end my journey on this planet. It would be quick and easy and effective. But how do you do that when you are traveling with a wonderful furry white dog who loves you and whom you love back? (Not to mention the trauma to the other driver.)
Then the heaviness that I had come to know so well began its journey through my body again as I headed downtown. A tingling in my arms began and slowly spread to my legs. The recurring thought was back. I had first experienced it the day after I failed to jump from the bridge, and it had haunted me every day since:
Maybe I did succeed in my fatal jump—maybe this existence was just an illusion experienced by the dead. Or maybe I was sent back! Maybe neither God nor the Devil wanted my soul in its present state. Maybe I wasn’t driving down this road at all, but—
As usual, my thoughts halted abruptly when I saw C. He was pushing a bright pink baby carriage across the Manette Bridge, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a pair of hiking boots, and his unruly hair was sticking out from under his baseball cap.
I pulled off on the other side of the bridge, laughing, and waited for him to catch up. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but every time I did I got an adrenalin rush, knowing that something was about to happen. I felt like Jim going down the river with Huck Finn whenever C was around.
Coming off the bridge, he was smiling and headed my way. “Richard! It’s good to see you,” he said, pushing his carriage up beside the van. I got out and looked inside his latest acquisition. It was full of shirts, pants, and socks, topped off with three novels and a twelve-pack of Coors. Four were already empty. “I’ve been to the laundromat,” he said.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Where did you get the carriage?” I asked.
“Where else?” he replied. “I found it in a dumpster!”
“I was heading for Sally’s,” I said. “Do you want a ride?”
“Sure,” he said, and began tossing his laundry into the back of the van, spilling a half-empty beer on his clean socks and shirts. We wrestled with the baby carriage, the bright pink fringe getting caught in the metal bars as we opened the hatch and put it in on its side, spilling more beer.
With everything finally stowed, we pulled back out on the street and headed for Sally’s, hoping there were no beer-sniffing patrol dogs on duty at eleven in the morning.
“Man, have I got some great news!” C exclaimed. “Andy finally got his social security money after all these years!”
“Great!” I replied. I had rarely seen C this animated.
“Sixty-seven thousand dollars!”
“Sixty-seven thousand? How?”
“Well, he filed sixteen years ago, but he would get drunk and disappear for months and not get his paperwork. Then he would come around and file the papers again—and, sure as shootin’, he would get lost again. It’s hard to get mail when you’re living on the street all the time. But now he’s got it!”
C told me about Andy’s new apartment, with a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a TV. Andy spent most of his time in the living room. He put a mattress in front of the TV so he can drink all he wants and watch TV or read.
“That’s wonderful,” I said.
“If you’re not doing anything, can we run over there later?”
“Okay!”
The plan was set as we pulled into the alley behind Sally’s. James and Lionel were there, having an animated discussion by the brick wall at the back of the building. James was pointing to the ground. We started to get out of the van, and when James saw C he started toward us, waving his right hand toward his belly, beckoning us to come over. “C! C! Come over here,” he said. “We need your opinion. You too, Richard!”
James and Lionel had been pitching pennies against the wall, and two pennies appeared to be leaning against the red brick. “That’s mine,” James said, pointing to a bright copper penny. “And that’s his,” he said, pointing to the other coin. “As you can see, both coins are leaning against the wall, but my coin is obviously leaning at a steeper angle, which means the total circumference of my penny is closer to the brick!”
C just laughed.
“You got books, C,” said James. “You got a book on that?” he asked.
“There’s Hoyle’s,” C said. “But I don’t have it with me. And I’m not sure it covers this particular circumstance.”
Lionel needed to state his case, too. “I say it’s the edge of the penny that counts. And his penny is at such a steep angle that some of his edge isn’t even touching the wall. See? See? Take a close look!” he added, bending over and pointing closely at James’ penny.
There was a moment of contemplation as we all bent in to get a closer perspective on the positioning of James’ coin.
“What’s the matter with you, man?” James snarled, cocking his head and staring at Lionel.
“Nothin’ is the matter with me,” Lionel countered. “It’s easy to see that this nigger—you,” he continued, pointing at James, “is trying to cheat this nigger—me!” he said, pointing at himself.
It was obvious to C and me that there was no immediate solution to this conundrum. “How about a tie?” C offered.
“Nope,” said James, resolutely.
“A playoff?” C persisted, looking at Lionel, who shook his head emphatically.
“This is for big money, C,” said James. “Big, big money!”
C cupped his chin and rubbed his beard. “Then you have a stalemate, boys,” he said.
“What’s that?” James asked.
“It means that I will try to look it up in Hoyle’s and get back to you tomorrow. Anyway, it’s time for lunch.”
“You look it up in the book, C,” James said. “Look it up.”
We turned and retraced our steps toward the building. C was chuckling to himself. Then he turned and took a few steps back to James and Lionel. “Hey, by the way, you two gentlemen know that the n-word has been banned, don’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, baby,” Lionel came back, vehemently. “That’s against free speech! Against the Constitution! That’s just for you white boys!”
“Why’s that?” asked C, his face totally deadpan.
“Because, you know, C, you might be disrespecting us,” Lionel answered. “I can call him that ’cause he’s my bro, man. He knows I love him.”
“Well, I love you, too,” C pressed on.
James’ face lit up, and he looked to the sky. “C loves us!” he yelled, rocking back and forth on his feet. Then he looked at his companion. “Did you hear that, Lionel? C loves us!”
“He’s right,” Lionel said. “He can call me ‘nigger’ anytime he wants. C is every color. He’s like the rainbow. He’s the Rainbow Man!”
“I consider it a compliment,” C said, nodding to the men. He was smiling broadly as he
headed for lunch.
The usual crowd, plus a few new faces, had gathered in the dining room. Earl and his family were sitting at the first table by the door. Katie looked at me and asked, “Where’s Willow?”
“She’s in the car, guarding it,” I answered.
Chef Pat had prepared one of my favorites, tuna-noodle casserole with lots of peas and cheese. I was hungry.
As we were waiting in line, I felt a tug on my shirtsleeve. It was Katie. She extended her hand and showed me two small stones. “These are for Willow and you,” she said. “They are lucky ... ah ... lucky rocks.”
I was stunned and didn’t know quite what to say. Katie quickly retreated to her seat beside her mother, just a few feet away.
“Thank you, Katie,” I said, and then winked at her.
She tried to wink back, but closed both eyes instead.
Now I had my lucky rocks. I rubbed them together and put them gently in my pocket, my mind having tuned out the chatter in the room.
Wow! What about this moment? What did it mean? Happenstance? Coincidence? I really didn’t care. I didn’t want to analyze—just enjoy the bliss. My body went through the motions of getting food and finding a table and eating, but my mind was transfixed by the gift I’d been given from this little girl.
“I’ve got an announcement!” The Major’s voice brought me back to attention. He was standing before the group with a cup of coffee in his hand, dressed in his dark blue trousers and his crisp white Salvation Army shirt and black tie. “We are going to show the movie Mr. Holland’s Opus in the chapel at one thirty, if anyone would like to see it. It’s free, and it’s a very good movie!”
I took a sip of my coffee. “Do you want to stay for the movie?” I asked C.
“No,” he replied. “The Major will show it again, I’m sure. I’ll catch it next time. I’m going to visit the kids.”
Breakfast at Sally's Page 22
