by Curtis Bunn
I had picked up a new—well, not new, but new to me—pair of shoes at the shelter. I needed them because I had worn down the previous pair.
“I’m leaving. I just have to get my shoes out of my bag.”
I had taken them off because someone, probably some silly teenager, once had taken off my shoes as I slept and ran with them. They were not expensive, so they had to do it as a prank. They were laughing as they ran off. I was not going to let that happen again.
As I gathered myself and walked past the officer, he stopped me. “Hey, man, look: Between you and me, I understand your issues. I do. But all of us aren’t like that. I’m not like that. So, while you don’t want us to judge you based on other people, we don’t want you judging us on other officers. That’s fair, right?”
“Fair enough,” I said. And I turned and walked away.
I found a covered parking lot on Juniper Street and slept there. When I woke up, that depressed state had completely subsided. But I felt melancholy. Nothing fazed me. It was like I was high on acid or something. I had never taken acid, so I wasn’t sure about what it felt like to be on it.
But I felt so mellow. I had more energy than when I was younger. On that day, I made my way to Caribou Coffee on Tenth and Piedmont. Wasn’t a coffee drinker, but I wanted something that would take the sluggishness off me.
Against the objection of her husband, a woman had given me five dollars the day before. They got into an argument about it before she shut him down. “This is my money, not yours. I can do what I please with it.”
And Brenda slipped a twenty in my backpack when I wasn’t looking. I would not have known if she hadn’t texted me about it.
The coffee worked . . . to a degree. I had not eaten the previous day, so my stomach was empty and all that caffeine went straight to my head. Suddenly, I felt jittery.
Other than being bipolar, I seldom had been sick or even felt badly. But I quickly surmised I needed to put something on my stomach, so I went back into the coffee shop and ordered a breakfast sandwich and a bagel.
After not exactly looking like a homeless person for quite a while, that morning was a relapse in appearance. I was frumpy and smelly. My hair had not been combed. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I hadn’t wiped my face.
I felt so out of sorts that I had not thought about those things until I noticed how women backed up when I walked into the coffee shop. And the person at the counter rolled her eyes when I came back in.
“I will make this quick: a breakfast sandwich and bagel,” I said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your business like this.”
The woman’s position softened. “I’m fine. We’re fine,” she said. “I just want you to be fine.”
“I will one day. I promise. And I will come back here to see you.”
“Please do,” the young lady said with a smile.
The food helped. The uneasiness subsided. I got myself together and made my way back to the park bench. We had another meeting with Dr. Taylor. It was then that I hoped to get the biggest thing that could help me: medication.
I slept on that bench all day—until Brenda came to get me. I sent her a text message to let her know where I was and how I felt. She told me to “stay put.”
Within an hour, she was there. I sat up on the bench and she looked down at me.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Episode, I guess.”
“Oh, no. What happened? Are you OK?”
“I’m, you know . . . I’m gonna be OK.”
“You’re right. But you don’t look OK.”
She reached in her bag and handed me a bottled water. “Drink this.”
I did.
“We have a session in an hour. Do you want to cancel it?”
“No. I’m ready for Dr. Taylor to get me some meds. I can’t keep up like this. Forgetting what happened. Dreaming bad dreams. Feeling depressed. Feeling out of control. I need something to change.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. The office is up the street, but you need to clean up.”
“I have some more clothes in my bag. I’ll change in the bathroom at the pool.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” Brenda said. “You gonna be OK?”
“Yeah. I feel better. Yesterday was rough. I was just depressed about everything. It was so strong. It’s part of the disorder. It’s happened before. Plenty of times.”
When I returned from changing and cleaning myself up—I brushed my teeth and washed my face—Brenda was on the bench, looking the other way. And for the first time, I noticed something about her: She was beautiful.
Maybe it was the way she sat and the way the sunlight hit her face. I was not sure. But she was almost a different person from the one I insulted many months before.
I could see then that she had an attractive face. But she was overweight and so lacking in self-esteem that her shoulders slumped. She was a shell of who she was or who she could be. I could see that in her posture.
“You look really good today,” I told her. “Looking like a movie star.”
“Ha. That’s what losing weight can do.”
“No, that’s what gaining your sense of self can do. That’s what it did.”
Brenda nodded her head. “You look a lot better. I don’t see you for three days and you fall apart. We have to do something about that.”
“Yeah, I agree. We need Dr. Taylor’s help.”
At the session, Dr. Taylor noticed I did not look as comfortable as I had the previous meeting.
“Rodney, you don’t seem as upbeat today.”
“I need medication, Dr. Taylor.”
“OK. What makes you feel that way?”
“I’m not myself. Actually, I don’t know who I am often enough. And often enough should be every day.”
“And only medication will get him there, right?” Brenda asked.
Dr. Taylor looked over her notes for several seconds before looking up at Rodney. “You said you have taken olanzapine and fluoxetine, which is an antidepressant. Correct?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“From my observation, it feels like that combination is the right combination to keep you consistently where you’d like to be. But, Rodney, you have to take the medicine. Every day.
“At some point, you’re going to feel so good that you don’t need the dosage or need it as much. You cannot give in to that. You already told me you had stopped taking the meds in the past. I cannot stress enough how important it is to stay consistent. OK?”
“I got it.”
“But I have an important question,” Brenda said. “This medication has to cost a lot of money when you don’t have insurance. How we gonna pay for it?”
I was more moved by Brenda’s use of “we” more than I was of her concerns about payment.
Dr. Taylor flipped to an empty page on her notepad and started writing. “You can try NeedyMeds, which helps those who can’t afford medicine or healthcare costs. There is also The Medicine Program, which has free services or medicine and many other healthcare needs. The Medicine Program’s benefits are subsidized by running Google ads on its site.
“Those are the two best places to start. I know doctors and administrators at both, so if you hit any roadblocks, I probably can help.”
“This is exciting,” Brenda said.
“There remains the issue of where you’re going to live,” Dr. Taylor said. “Quite frankly, the medication is going to help you a lot, and you’re going to likely see being homeless as something unacceptable.”
“I’m already beginning to see it that way,” I told her. “But for a while, I feel like that and then I feel differently. Really, I told Brenda, I’m scared.”
“That’s natural. It’s akin to being incarcerated for a time and then attempting to reenter society.”
“That’s exactly what I told Brenda. I even used a prison analogy.”
“That’s good. That means you’re aware of how you feel, which is a gift because you’d be
surprised how many people have an emotion but have no real understanding of it. They are unable to articulate what they feel.”
“Dr. Taylor, I just want to make sure something I suggested to Rodney that I thought would help is OK. My idea to help him get comfortable with advancing his life was to do some of the things he did before, like cigars, listening to music, reading books, going to the movies. I thought that could be a way to transition into the life he wants.”
“Should I show you my notes for today?” Dr. Taylor said. “That’s an excellent idea. It literally was something I had planned to suggest. And the reason why this is such a strong idea is that regenerating a way of life can be traumatic. As a doctor, I wouldn’t recommend smoking anything, including cigars. But the life you have lived for two years is drastically opposite of your previous life. In that time, the life you have lived becomes ‘normal’ to you, and so leaving it, even though you want to, can be a challenge.
“Doing little things that you used to do creates a feeling of familiarity and creates a desire for more. There is a buildup over time that prepares you. Someone coming out of prison does not have a chance for such a transition. It’s You’re in this world today. Tomorrow enter a new world. That’s extremely difficult and a major reason we have so much recidivism among former inmates. They just are not prepared for the onslaught of change.
“The other thing I would strongly suggest is that we continue to meet and talk after you make your transition and are taking the meds. It’s healthy to talk about what you’re feeling. And while the medication will definitely help, PPD and bipolar are best tackled in multiple ways.”
She added that it would take up to two weeks before we could get the medication through the options she had given.
We finished the session with me talking about what it felt like to listen to music and smoke a cigar and talk to the young cigar lounge owners.
“I’m excited for you, Rodney. I believe you’re on a solid path to a comfortable transition,” she said.
“I hope so,” I said. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: WAIT. WHAT???
BRENDA
The idea of Rodney getting his life together made me feel better about my life. There was no denying it: Our lives were connected.
After the session with Dr. Taylor, he walked me to my car.
“One thing that really makes me want to get myself together is seeing how you have done it,” Rodney said. “It makes me feel good to see where you are from where you were.”
“That’s because we will forever be linked,” I told him. “We’re taking these journeys together.”
We hugged and he walked off. And for all the wonderful feelings I had about building our friendship, it always pained me to leave him in the evening to God knew what while I went home to my comfortable apartment. It was beyond awkward. It was not right.
I wanted to offer him the couch in my apartment, but I knew he would not accept it. It was important to me to not insult Rodney as I tried to help him. He was a proud man and he was intent on doing what he had to do his way. I respected that.
Before leaving, though, I gave Rodney a container of roasted chicken, broccoli and sliced tomatoes. “If you don’t take this, you’re insulting me,” I said. “A friend should be able to cook for a friend.”
He reluctantly accepted it. “But this is the last time, Brenda,” he said. “I appreciate you. You know that. But I don’t want you doing more than you need. I will be fine.”
I went home that evening and changed into more comfortable clothes and ate a salad with a piece of baked salmon I had bought from Whole Foods.
Nothing was that compelling on television, so I decided to scan Facebook for entertainment before going to bed. I was surprised and glad to get a notification that I had a direct message from Rick, the guy in D.C.
“I apologize for just getting back to you. It’s been hectic with work. But I was glad to learn that guy was not your man. I’d like to talk to you and get to know you better. I know this is a strange way to meet someone. And you could be a serial killer, for all I know now. But you’d be the prettiest serial killer I have ever seen.”
I wrote back: “This is awkward. You saw my photo on this site and now you want to get to know me? I’m skeptical. Why should I engage you?”
“You shouldn’t,” he wrote back. “And if you end this back-and-forth now, I would understand.”
“Why would you want to get to know me? Don’t think I’m some fool you can run game on.”
“I could be wrong about you. But what I got from your FB posts and photos is that you’re kind, confident and caring. You posted about your sister that she was your beacon of hope. Anyway, through observing your FB page has made me want to see you. If you don’t think we should meet for a cup of coffee, I will understand.”
He played it the right way. I was willing to take a chance, but only in a public place. Rick had said he was coming to Atlanta the next day. I arranged for us to meet at Live Edge, a new restaurant I read about that opened in Southwest Atlanta.
This time, though, I told Rodney what was about to happen before it happened.
“I’m glad you’re smart enough to meet the man in a public place where lots of people will be,” he said.
“I don’t expect anything to really come of it.”
“You may not expect anything, but you hope something comes of it. If not, why bother?”
“Well, I guess that’s true. I want to call you after I see him to tell you about it. So please keep your phone on.”
My fitness and eating habit changes were put to the test for this meeting of this attractive but mysterious man. One of my favorite dresses was a pale-blue number that gripped my body like Saran Wrap, with a deep V-cut in the front. I could not get into the dress the previous two years.
On that night, I slipped into it with ease, confirmation that I had lost all the weight I had gained. The scale told one story about my weight; how my clothes fit me told the most accurate story. Wearing that dress with ease again made me smile.
So I showed up at Live Edge intentionally about ten minutes late, so I could make an entrance and he could see all of me. If I didn’t do that, then I would have been wasting the dress.
I could tell it had the desired impact. Rick stood up as I approached the bar and greeted me with a smile. I smiled back and extended my hand to shake. He ignored it and hugged me.
I smelled his cologne and was lost in it for a second. I knew then with that man, I had to be careful. I was a sucker for pretty white teeth and a good-smelling man.
“You look great. Beautiful dress,” he said. “Would you like to get a table?”
“You look nice, too. Very nice. I like sitting at the bar, but tonight, I think we should get a table. It’s easier to talk and fewer distractions at a table. And I can look into your eyes to see if you’re lying.”
He laughed. “You know that goes both ways, don’t you?”
I smiled as we walked to the hostess, who seated us. At the table, the conversation flowed without effort.
“So you picked a public place because you don’t trust me?” he asked.
“I picked this place because it’s black-owned, first and foremost. And, yes, I wasn’t gonna meet you in a private place where there would be no one to verify you attacked me before I shot you.”
He laughed.
“So what’s your full name, Rick? You go by ‘Rick The Ruler’ on Facebook. And ruler of what?”
“Myself. We have to own who we are and control who we are before we can do anything else. My name is Rick Morris, though.”
I nodded my head. The server came over and Rick suggested a bottle of wine. I liked wine but was hardly a connoisseur, so I went with his choice.
“You live in Washington, D.C. You’re a handsome man. You seem to be successful. So why are you down here with me? You want me to believe you don’t have someone up there calling you her man?”
“You’re funny. First
, I appreciate the compliments. But I ended a three-year relationship about six weeks ago. So, no one has claims on me.”
“Why did you end it?”
“It wasn’t going anywhere. Good woman, no doubt. But we, as it turned out, did not have the same ideals about life or how to live it. She was more centered on herself and career. But to be honest—and I still can’t believe it—she said she was going to vote for Trump in the upcoming election.”
“Oh, my God. Good for you to let her go. How could she justify it?”
“The same way any of his surrogates do—with crazy talk about changing America and we need a businessman to run the country. I’ll be honest. It pains me to think about it. I never saw this coming.
“I told her: ‘If you wanted to vote for Bush or Daddy Bush or Reagan, I wouldn’t understand, but it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker. But this guy? It’s a deal-breaker. I love you, but I’m sorry. I cannot be involved with someone who supports this . . . this . . . ingrate. I will never be able to look at you the same. He has done nothing but discriminate and preach hate about black people. If you can trust him, I can’t trust you.
“We were at her home in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. I was tired. It was almost three in the morning. I got up, put on my clothes and left.”
“Wow. I understand. But do you think you really loved her? You seemed to walk away so easily. There are many couples that have one side Democrat, the other side Republican. They may disagree, but they stay together.”
“This is not about political parties. It’s about that guy. He’s a shit-for-brains narcissist who loves money and hearing himself talk more than anything. I don’t even think he wants to be president. But to not see him for what he is—a con man, a white privileged stain—I can’t get past that.”
Rick impressed me with his position. I felt the same way. Trump was a unique case that shifted the paradigm.
“I could go on and on about that, but I’d rather know more about you. Why don’t you have a man?”
“Well, actually, I’m married.”
Rick froze. He looked around.
“Well, we shouldn’t be here. You told me you didn’t have a man. I asked you.”
