Welcome to My World

by Curtis Bunn

  “You were so nervous. You thought you were going to jail.”

  “That didn’t happen, Rodney. I never met those people. We didn’t go to the shelter. We went to the park.”

  I needed to hear her say it all for me to believe it. I remembered what I remembered. It was perfectly clear to me. But I was certain Brenda was right. Somehow, some way, I conjured up what I thought happened over what really happened.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “I . . . I just don’t understand.”

  “Me, either.”

  We held the phones to our ears for several seconds in silence. Brenda finally said: “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. I was worried.” “I’m worried now. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “No . . . I don’t know . . . Well, there were a few times I said something to Chester about something and he didn’t know what I was talking about. He basically told me I was tripping. I ignored it because I thought his ass was probably drunk. Now, I don’t know.”

  “You know what I’m going to suggest, don’t you?”

  “What? Going to a doctor?”

  “You already know.”

  That bit of news hit me hard. How anyone could spend time with someone and not remember it? How often did this occur? Maybe I should have seen a doctor.

  “Maybe I will. Will you go with me?”

  The request came out of my mouth before I realized it. I didn’t ask anyone for anything. The fact that my instincts allowed me to ask her was stunning.

  “Oh, Rodney, of course, I will go with you. I’m honored that you asked me.”

  “I don’t know when it’s going to be. But I will let you know.”

  “So what are you doing today? How about we walk the Beltline? I’ve never done it and I’ve heard how nice it is.”

  And so a few hours later, we met near the Krog Street Market, not far from Martin Luther King Jr.’s birth home. I could see that Brenda had lost more weight. I could see the confidence in how she walked; it was not the sluggish gait it had been.

  Her posture was more upright. Her head was up, not hanging.

  “Look at you,” I said. “I see some changes in you. You look better all around. Your clothes. Your facial expressions. You don’t look down anymore. You look hopeful.”

  “I am proud to tell you how . . . how good . . . how I can see changes in you.”

  It was hard for me to pay anyone a compliment. I had turned off nice emotions. But Brenda turned them back on, slowly but surely.

  “You look good, Brenda.”

  “Why, thank you, Rodney. And so do you.”

  She stuck out her arm for me to interlock with mine. It was not what I expected. I hadn’t really touched anybody—except for during the many fights I got into over two years. Nobody wanted to get close enough for me to touch them and I didn’t feel anything that would make me want to do so.

  But Brenda forced me to break all my rules. It really was a friendship, something I had blocked out of my mind for so long that I literally had forgotten what it felt like to have a connection with someone.

  I slipped my arm into hers and we smiled at each other and walked. She noticed.

  “It feels good to smile, doesn’t it?”

  “I can’t lie. It does.”

  “You know what I did last night?” she asked. “I researched homelessness in the United States. It’s pretty remarkable that in this country, so rich and so big, that it’s such a problem.”

  “I never really thought about it.”

  “It’s not as bad here as it is in other places, like New York, San Francisco and L.A. First of all, there are more than a half-million people who are homeless in America. That’s way too many. Shouldn’t be any, actually.”

  “Well, that may be true, but what about cases like me? I chose to be homeless. There are other people who have been homeless so long, they don’t know any other way. And then there are some who make my bipolar look like the sniffles. You mentioned that mental illness piece before and it’s real. Trust me, I have seen it.”

  “This site broke it down. It said thirteen percent of homeless are ‘chronically homeless,’ meaning they have been homeless for more than a year or three times in four years. It said almost 50,000 of the homeless are veterans, which is just a shame. In fact, several weeks ago, I met a guy who said he was in Desert Storm. He was homeless.”

  “You met him? How?”

  “Just walking in downtown.”

  “OK, you have to be careful. I guess it’s crazy coming from me, but some of these guys are in bad shape mentally. Some of them have been in jail with me. And while I was in there for public disturbance or urinating outside, they were in there for assault and rape. So you have to be really careful.”

  “I understand. And trust me, there were some scary moments. But it turned out all right. What I learned was that more than 50,000 young people, under twenty-four years old, were homeless in 2016 for at least a week.

  “And this one really got to me: half of the homeless population is older than fifty years old. How does this happen? What’s going on in this country?”

  We got off the Beltline and took Glen Iris Drive through the Old Fourth Ward, to Ralph McGill up across Boulevard and toward the Peachtree-Pine shelter. I wanted Brenda to get a closer view of homelessness in Atlanta. And I wanted to scare her from being too comfortable engaging men on the street.

  As we got closer to the shelter, the harsh realities began to unfold. We turned right onto Courtland Street. Behind us, about a quarter of a mile away, was part of the beautiful Atlanta skyline. In front of us about five hundred yards were two blocks before the shelter that looked like something out of a war zone.

  Trash piled up on the sidewalk, in the streets, everywhere. Homeless people lay or hung out on the sidewalk as if it were some inviting park. A woman who looked to be a senior was wrapped in a sweater and jacket despite the eighty-degree temperature. She recognized me and turned her attention to Brenda.

  “I’m just hungry. Give me something to buy some food.”

  Before Brenda could react, I told her: “Don’t. Unfortunately, she is on drugs. Crack. And that’s where any money you give her will go.”

  “This is so heartbreaking,” she said.

  Just ahead of us, coming toward us, was a man in a motorized wheelchair. His eyes were gazed over and his body odor was prominent as he rode past. Brenda pretended to not notice.

  “Where is he going in a wheelchair?” she wanted to know.

  “No telling. Probably up the street to a friend who has something for him to drink. Drugs and alcohol are a big problem.”

  The closer we got to the shelter, the slower Brenda walked. I turned to look at her and there was complete discomfort on her face. She looked withdrawn.

  A man across the street, in front of the Civic Center, which was awaiting renovation, dressed in a vest, shorts and cowboy boots, yelled at no one in particular: “This is what I’m talking about. People think they can steal from you and you won’t do anything. I’ve seen the world. I ain’t no fool. Come back over here and steal from me and you’re going to get your arm cut off. I done it before and I’ll do it again. The devil is real. He’s out here. And he’s walking among us.

  “His name is John Wash, I’m told. He hallucinates really badly. One night at the shelter, it was winter and I was sleeping. It was around three in the morning. And suddenly, John starts screaming at the top of his lungs: ‘Raid! Raid! It’s a raid! They’re coming. They’re coming. The devils are coming.’

  “One of the staff guys came in and threw him to the ground. He was bleeding from his head. So it was sad all the way round.”

  Brenda shook her head when we got one block from Pine Street. Dozens of people milled about.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The air. It seems thicker, even though we’re outside.”

  “And it stinks—I know,” I told her. She didn’t want to
say it, so I said it for her. “It’s the combination of all these people out here who live on the streets, who haven’t taken a shower and who are sitting out in this sun sweating.”

  There were at least fifty men, women and a few children out there—hanging out and having conversations that were meaningful to them, but surely nonsensical to Brenda.

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?” she whispered to me. “They were talking about someone’s dog and how it was a better dog than another person’s because it ate whatever it was given. Why aren’t they talking about how they can get a place for themselves? Those two women, who had children with them, were talking about who could twerk better—and then they started a competition. I mean, this is unbelievable. They act like this is normal.”

  “Better start believing it because it’s real. And for them, it is normal. Their normal.”

  “But what about you? This is normal for you? You’re OK with this?”

  “OK with it? I don’t deal with it. That’s why I’m by myself ninety-nine percent of the time. That’s why I come in and take a shower and keep it moving.”

  We stood at the corner of Courtland Street and Pine Street—the heart of the Atlanta homeless community. I nodded or waved to a few guys I had met there. But everyone was focused on Brenda. She stood out.

  Immediately, the community could tell she was an outsider. So they stared at her too-clean clothes and in-place hair and aroma of sweet perfume. Her posture showed her fear—or, more accurately, her discomfort.

  Outsiders in the homeless’ designated areas were OK as long as they brought cigarettes and alcohol at worst, money or drugs at the best. But if an outsider stood there and stared, they would be told—and not so subtly—where to go. And it was not a nice place they wished to send them.

  “But these are your peers, I guess. Trust me, I’m not trying to pass judgment, but I don’t know. I’m so overwhelmed. All these people just out here on the street. And they seem so content. And the city does nothing? Did you see that man who was camped out on the ground sleeping in front of someone’s garage?”

  “Yeah. He kind of lives there.”

  “Outside? Right there in someone’s driveway? And what about that woman with those two kids? They can’t be more than six years old.”

  “I don’t know her, but I heard she had an abusive husband and ran away. They’re from South Georgia somewhere. She’s hiding. I think she’s at the Atlanta Day Shelter for Women and Children.”

  Brenda’s head spun. She surveyed the people and had questions about most.

  “How can this exist here in Atlanta, a half-mile from downtown? It’s two blocks of . . . of madness. Two blocks. It’s amazing. It’s sad.”

  “That’s why I don’t spend any time here. I’m already sad enough.”

  “But are they being helped? What programs are set up for them? I know people donate food and clothes. But what’s being done to get them off the streets? What counseling is offered? Job preparations? And, see, look at that man. He needs help.”

  Brenda motioned toward a fellow I had seen often who had the trio of troubles: bipolar, homeless and a drug addict. He would act out on occasion, singing old school R&B songs, entertaining drivers of cars by dancing as they drove past and generally showing that he was hurting.

  He would sleep on the streets—literally. He had a small mattress that he would drop on a sidewalk in the middle of the day and crash. For months on Linden Road, just across the parking lot next to Gladys Knight’s Chicken & Waffles, he would lie on that mattress on the sidewalk.

  “Want to meet him?” It was a joke. A bad joke. Between the smell and the trash and the hopelessness of the people, she was worn out.

  “I just want to go,” she said, as we walked away from Pine and Courtland Streets. “I feel so helpless. I want to help all these people. But I can’t. But I’m going to try. I’m writing the councilman in this area. Look at these streets. How can they let these two blocks to be so disgusting?

  “And can I ask you something that I hope doesn’t offend you?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why are they so nasty? I don’t mean attitude. I mean why do they throw so much trash on the street? They are hanging out there all day. Why wouldn’t they put the trash in a dumpster? Why make the streets look so horrible?”

  “Because they are hopeless. They want people to notice. Did you see the guy sitting in the chair with the sign? It read: ‘Stop, Look and Help.’ Believe it or not, I remember seeing homeless people before I became one. In D.C., right near the White House, among all the tourists. War veterans would be there with legs and arms amputated and living on the streets. I saw a guy one time in Chicago, on Michigan Avenue, who had the most hideous, deep gash on his leg.

  “It was an open wound, probably gangrene, and he had it exposed for people to see as they walked by. None of those cases made me feel good. But just like those folks back there—they want people to notice.”

  “I read where Mayor Reed wants to close the shelter. In fact, one year it almost closed because it couldn’t pay the water bill. But someone saved it by paying it. The mayor says it doesn’t work, which I tend to agree with him after seeing this. But there has to be a plan. You can’t just put a thousand people out on the street like that.”

  “It could close at any moment. The City Council voted for the city to buy the building and turn it into a first responders and police SWAT headquarters. I went to the meeting. It was ugly. Lots of people want that place to stay open. Black Lives Matter wants it to stay open.”

  “Should keeping it open be the focus or should the focus be finding a way to get those who need help counseling, doctor care, psychiatric care, job training? My focus would be on helping the people who need help, not kicking them out.”

  “It’s a debate that could go on for a long time. I just wanted you to see up close what it’s really like, so you will be aware of who you could come in contact with. I’m not saying those are bad people. But some of them are. Some of them are criminals and thugs who prey on people like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes. Nice and innocent people who want to save the world. For some of them, you’re a juicy piece of meat.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ANOTHER LEVEL

  BRENDA

  I thought about and decided to wait to tell Rodney about Norman. I was no psychologist, but I realized that maybe Rodney ran as a reaction to news he didn’t want to hear from me.

  Maybe he felt threatened or territorial or . . . I didn’t know. I just believed I triggered something by telling him that, and I couldn’t take upsetting him again.

  I did, since he asked me to go with him, begin looking for therapists. I had insurance with my new job and so it would pay for us to have some sessions. I didn’t have to tell them Rodney would be a part of the sessions. I was hoping to encourage him, through the sessions, to take medication that would lead to him getting off the streets.

  I found Dr. Jane Taylor. I wanted a woman, believing Rodney would be nicer and more open. Also, Dr. Taylor was black, had played sports in college and she was from Atlanta.

  It wasn’t easy to get Rodney to go, however. Although he brought up the idea of me going with him, the reality of it “annoyed” him, he said.

  I told him he was “just scared.”

  We had grown so close and comfortable that I did not have to cushion most things with him. I knew he appreciated my directness that I learned from him.

  “Scared of what?”

  “Getting better.”

  “No. No. It’s hard to talk about that night. You wouldn’t know.”

  “I’ve had traumatic things happen to me, too. We never talked about my sister dying, but that was devastating. And it happened at a time when you had disappeared on me, too.”

  “We didn’t know each other then, really. Me being around then wouldn’t have helped you.”

  “Maybe not, but my point is that it was a devastating time for me. I think abo
ut my sister every day. It hurts me that she’s not here. So, I can relate a little bit about missing someone you love.”

  “You know the difference, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know the difference.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Rodney, you don’t have to say it.”

  “Why not? If we go to the doctor, I’m going to have to say it.”

  “You know, I talked to this guy the other day, and he told me that most people or many people with bipolar disorder are very smart.”

  “Maybe. That doesn’t matter to me. If you don’t get . . . ”

  “Get what? Go ahead and say it.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Help,” I said. “That’s what you were going to say. ‘If you don’t get help, then it doesn’t matter how smart you are.’ And you’re right. I’m glad to hear you say that. I have read about people killing themselves, acting out and hurting other people.”

  “I told you months ago that I wish I wasn’t here,” Rodney said. “I just don’t have whatever it is to put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I guess I’m not crazy enough to do that.”

  “No, you’re smart enough to know that would be pointless.”

  “You have all the answers, don’t you? Well, answer this for me, Senorita Know-It-All. What is a doctor going to tell me that I don’t already know?”

  “I have never been to therapy—God knows I needed it after my husband left and after my sister died. But you know black folks. We try to pray it away. We think therapy is stuff weak white people do. But I have read up and learned. If you need to talk to someone, I don’t care what race you are, you should talk to someone. You learn things about yourself that help you.

  “Black folks still thinking not talking to a therapist makes us strong. What it actually does is make us stupid. There was this movie called Burnt, with Bradley Cooper. He was a renowned chef at a restaurant in London who wanted to reach the ultimate rating. But he believed he could do it himself. A therapist, played by Emma Thompson, told him, ‘There’s strength in needing others, not weakness.’