by KL Evans
I was still shaking my head. “I think we’re done for today. You can take me back to the paper.”
“Oooh!” she squealed. “You know that I’m right, don’t you?”
“Fuck off, Ava.”
God damn, Ava was annoying and she got to me. I spent the rest of the day fuming over the fact that she was annoying and I was right and you were definitely wrong. I fumed over it so long I turned my phone on so I could answer your inevitable call, but you didn’t call. And that pissed me off even more, to the point that at 6:30 PM I decided to go the psyche ward.
That day I found you in the cafeteria, which I entered with a chip on my shoulder and approached you. You were at a table by yourself and they’d given you crayons and paper, as if the place was some kind of warped daycare center and you were four years old. As I sat, you didn’t even look up and began talk to me as if I’d been there the whole time.
“Have you gone to check on Grey?”
“Charlie, what the hell do you mean by slapping me?”
“I need someone to check on him and you’re all I’ve got, so I need you to go by the house.”
I leaned close to your face and pointed at two staff members by the doors. “Those people asked if I wanted to press charges against you and I almost did. I could have you prosecuted for assault, but I—”
“I keep his litter under the kitchen sink. The box probably needs to be cleaned. His food is—”
“Jesus Christ. I am not cleaning your fucking cat’s fucking litter box and I’m not refilling his fucking food bowl and—”
“You shouldn’t neglect him. It’s cruel and you’ll hurt his feelings. I need you to take care of him.”
“Charlie, you slapped me. After I saved your life and spent all that fucking time with you, making sure you were okay. And you didn’t even—”
“Here,” you said, pushing a paper toward me. On it was a surprisingly artistic rendering of what looked like you holding the gray cat on your lap. “Take this to the house with you and put it next to his bowls. He’s lonely. I have this sense about it. This’ll help him feel better.”
“Do you even hear me? Are you even going to apologize for what you did?”
You turned your big eyes toward me and they flashed silver with a borderline-intimidating anger. “Are you going to apologize for what you did?”
“What the hell do I need to apologize for?”
“You stole from me,” you said and your voice was like a blue norther. “You stole something I’ll never be able to get back and you put me in a cage.”
“I didn’t steal shit from you.”
“You’re a thief, Seth McCollum,” you said on a breath like an echo in the desert and your face was completely expressionless other than your eyes, which suddenly looked capable of growing hands to strangle me. “And I’ll never forgive you.”
“Are you completely out of your fucking mind?”
“You put me in this place.”
“No, a judge put you in this place because you’re a fucking lunatic and you’re kind of scaring me right now.”
You leaned so close to my face I had to lean back. “You should be scared. You’re going to have to live with what you did to me when I’ve never done anything but try to be your friend. The least you could’ve done was be a friend to me.”
“I saved your fucking life. How much more of a friend can a person be than that?”
“You stole from me. You stole something that you don’t even have the ability to give back.”
“What the fuck did I steal from you, Charlie?”
Then you leaned toward me and hovered your lips right next to my in a way that—if it wasn’t utterly terrifying due to the fact you were a total psychopath right then—would’ve made me want to lay you on the table and finish what you started in your living room a few weeks prior. Ava’s little suggestion from that afternoon seemed to have grown roots in my mind. Ava was deranged, and I was clearly sick and twisted, and you were non compos mentis. The three of us suddenly seemed like we could’ve been our own demented brand of a mini-Brady Bunch, and maybe I should’ve introduced you two.
“My choice, Seth McCollum,” you whispered with a breath on my lips. “My freedom. My destiny.”
“Okay, whatever,” I said, pushing the chair away and standing up. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, Charlie.”
“Check on Grey. He’s your responsibility now.”
I started to walk away. “Grey can take care of himself now and so can you.”
“Seth McCollum!”
“What!”
You held the drawing above your head and waved it at me.
And—fuck me—I crossed the room toward you, took it, and later that night it was sitting tidily next to his full bowls and clean litter box. I was responsible for you both.
Hour Twenty-Two
Another week passed. Maybe it was a week and a half. I can’t really remember. I was tired then and I’m tired now and I’ve never been so sleep deprived and agitated. It was, perhaps, the sleep deprivation that was causing me to be so irritable, and that was your fault because your mere existence was the ultimate source of everything that was bothering me and I wished I could just shut everything off.
Ava started following me around like a lost little puppy and I let her. The article about her was finished, but she was a distraction from everything that was pissing me off, even though she never shut up about you and me and how we were in love and needed to hook up. Ava’s almost as insane as you are and I’m starting to think I’m just drawn to crazy, messed up people.
Christian was more evidence of that.
Ava had taken to driving me around the city and I didn’t decline because her home—the E-class Mercedes—was pretty comfortable, and homeless Ava has much more expendable income than I do and didn’t mind burning gas while I searched for new stories.
We’d ventured into the Oak Lawn area and happened upon a scene in progress. There was a vacant building at the corner of Kings Road and Maple Avenue, and on one side was a half-finished mural of neon spray paint. I had to admit, it was a psychedelic masterpiece and the artist—this lanky kid in his late teens wearing a bandana over his nose and mouth—probably thought himself Dallas’ own version of Banksy.
It was a scene indeed, complete with two cop cars and a middle-aged woman leaning against a battered green Chevy, arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head while she alternated talking to herself, the kid, and the officers.
“Pull in there,” I told Ava, pointing at a liquor store to the left of the vacant building. “And stay in the car.”
“Yeah right!” She snorted. “I gotta see this.”
“You can see it from the car. Stay here.”
Ava doesn’t fucking listen and she followed me as I approached the woman, who wore well-cared-for skin and a floral-print sundress that had seen better days, and who ignored us until she started talking to us as if we were all old friends or neighbors.
“This fucking kid!” she shouted at me. “I’m going to beat his ass. Not that that would do anything to straighten him out. Damn!”
“Is he your son?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s my damn son and he’s a damn fool.”
“Is this the first time he’s done this?”
“Yeah right, Seth!” Ava piped up. “Look at that! Does that look like someone’s first time to spray paint a wall? That’s amazing!”
“Ava, shut up,” I hissed. “You’re not helping. Go back to the car.”
“It ain’t his first time,” the mother told us. “He started doing this about a year ago. This is the fourth time he’s been arrested.”
The kid continued to paint, pausing only to flip off the officers with his free hand.
“Drop the can, kid,” one of the officers said. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
“Jesus, he ain’t armed!” the mother hollered, panicked and scared, before lowering her voice. “God damn, I’m gonna watch my kid
get shot one of these days.”
“They wouldn’t shoot him for spray painting,” I attempted to reassure her, but she cut her eyes toward me, scanning her gaze over my clean and pressed clothing, and huffed again.
“You are fucking clueless. This is exactly the kind of situation that gets a black man shot. God damn!”
“I mean, I know that can happen sometimes, but he’s just a kid.”
“That doesn’t matter! Ever heard of Trayvon Martin? You two,” she said, pointing aggressively at Ava and me, “in your fancy-ass clothes and your fancy-ass car have no fucking clue.”
She was right and I shut up.
“Drop the can and put your hands up, you little shit!” the other officer bellowed, reaching for his sidearm.
“Oh Jesus,” the mother wailed. “God damn it, Christian! Do what they tell you!”
Christian glanced at his mother and then spritzed the wall one last time before flipping the can onto the ground, then throwing his palms up as if to say, go ahead and make my day.
“Get on the ground!” the first officer shouted. “Hands on your head!”
Christian still said nothing while he complied, defiantly resting his chin on the concrete as he turned his face forward. Both officers pounced on him, one with his knee pressed against Christian’s back while he pulled out handcuffs, and the other whipping out his handgun and aiming it straight for Christian’s head.
“Oh Jesus,” the mother whimpered again. “Oh Lord Jesus. He isn’t armed! He’s just a kid!”
“Holy shit,” Ava said, pulling out her iPhone to film the scene. “They’re gonna shoot him.”
“Shut up, Ava!”
“Should I quit filming?”
“No!” the mother yelped. “If they shoot him for graffiti people need to see it!”
“You three need to back the hell up!” one of the officers yelled at us.
“I’m a reporter for the Dallas Morning News,” I said loudly, but too loudly.
“You still need to back up! I’ll talk to you after we get him in the car.”
“You’re a reporter?” the mother asked after we’d inched backward a few feet.
“Not really. He writes the Humans of Dallas column,” Ava answered for me.
“Jesus, Ava, will you get back in the car already?” I said and then turned to the mother to explain myself.
“Will you write about this?” the mother asked. “We need help and I think if we were in the paper someone might be able to help us.”
“Uhhhh…” I stammered. “It doesn’t really work like—”
“Sure he will!”
I turned a slow glance toward Ava with gritted teeth and pursed lips.
The mother grasped my hands and I turned back to see her eyes red and brimming with tears, and I was reminded of how I’m a huge asshole. “Thank you. Thank you so much. My name is Missy Washburn. My son is Christian. He just turned seventeen.”
I thought maybe I should stop being such an asshole and squeezed her hands. “Don’t even mention it, Missy. I’ll figure out how to help you guys.”
After they’d put Christian in one of the patrol cars, one of the officers approached Missy with a notepad, pen, and a calm, outstretched arm.
“Ma’am, he says you’re his mother,” he said.
“I am. I’m so sorry about this,” she said through hitched breathing. “He just likes to paint. He’s not dangerous, I promise.”
“Well, this is his fourth offense. I don’t think he’s going to get off with a slap on the wrist this time. He’ll probably have to do some time and I don’t know if the prosecutor will treat him as a juvenile because of his record. You need to be prepared for that.”
“Oh, I’m prepared. I’m prepared. I just need him to clean up his act.”
“He has to want to clean up his act, ma’am. And he sure ain’t acting like he wants to. Not with four offenses in less than a year.”
“I know,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do with him. I’ve tried everything. He’s a really good student. He makes straight A’s. He always has. I don’t know why he acts out like this. We’ve just been going through a really hard time and I think he’s just angry about it.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that, but we still have to take him in. You can meet us at the station.” He handed her a card. “This is the address and my name is on the back. They’ll let you know what to do when you get there.”
The officers climbed into their cars, leaving Missy with Ava and me, and Missy broke into sobs.
“Do you need a ride, Missy? We could drive you,” Ava offered, draping her arm over Missy’s shoulders.
Missy shook her head. “This is my car. I can get there.”
“Can I give you my number?” I asked. “You can call me when you have time and let me know what’s going on with Christian. I’ll meet you somewhere and we can talk for the article.”
“You mean you’ll write it?” Her eyes were slightly lit up behind the glisten of tears and there was a glimmer of hope in the desperation in her voice.
“Of course,” I said, not hesitating and not really thinking about whether the article would be good or not, because it would probably be good and it could potentially help them. And then maybe I would be less of an asshole.
My mind recalled the day I met with Esther Harrison and told her the reason I was writing about you was because I wanted to help you, even though that was a bold-faced lie because I didn’t give a fuck about you. Because I was a selfish asshole. Because I saved your life and you were mad at me about it. Maybe if I had actually been trying to help you, you wouldn’t have done what you did to land yourself in a psyche ward, and maybe I wouldn’t be talking to you like this right now. Maybe you’d be okay and I’d be okay and we’d be okay together.
I wrote my name and number on the card under the officer’s name. “I’m Seth McCollum. This is Ava.”
Missy took the card. “Thank you both. Thank you for caring.”
“You’re welcome!” Ava said, too cheerily for the nature of the situation.
“I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. McCollum,” Missy added.
“Just Seth is fine,” I said. “Give me a call whenever and I’ll come to you.”
She nodded before getting into her car and Ava and I went back to the homeless Mercedes.
“Where to now, boss?” Ava asked.
“Just anywhere.”
“Want to grab a drink? It’s five o’clock somewhere and somewhere is here.”
I was about to say fuck it and sure when my phone rang in my pocket and I pulled it out, thinking it was Missy calling to save my number, but I was wrong.
“Seth.” It was instantly both alarming and suspicious because you sounded hollow and strange and nothing like you, and it was the first time you ever dropped my last name. “I need you.”
After you explained why you needed me, I hung up and turned to Ava. “Take me back to my car. I’ve gotta go.”
Hour Twenty-Three
It was 5:47 PM and you crossed the large room toward me with distinctive intention. I guessed—just like the nurses at the ICU—you’d been telling the people at the psyche ward that I was something I wasn’t and we were something we weren’t because you were suddenly kissing and clinging to me. And I was clearly confused, too, and not to mention way too forgiving, because I was kissing you back.
What were you to me, Charlie? I mean, what are you? What are we? I still don’t know. I know I wasn’t what I was positive the staff in the psyche ward had been told I was, but I was—am—definitely something. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been there and I wouldn’t be here.
Maybe what I am is easily manipulated.
Anyway, the reason you needed me there so badly was for a family therapy session and, once again, I was all you had. I was responsible.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” you were saying with your arms around my neck and lips right next to my ear, which I found had a similar effect to th
e sensation of you yawning against my mouth the day I saved your life. “Thank you, Seth. I’m so sorry, Seth.”
Seth, Seth, Seth. That had an effect, too. What was that? What happened to my last name? It made me suspicious, but it made me a tangle of other emotional and psychological things. As if the omission of my last name solidified the things I couldn’t identify or figure out.
“I’m so sorry, Seth. I’m sorry I slapped you. I’m sorry I was mean to you. I’m so glad you’re here.”
What was I supposed to do? I was powerless and I held you while I used my fingertips to count your ribs and the ridges of your spine.
We sat in a circle of cheap folding chairs in a room that looked like it had been a school gymnasium in a previous life, and you slid your chair right next to mine, wrapping your arms around my elbow and resting your head on my shoulder. The group leader began speaking, but I could barely pay attention to her because you were intermittently murmuring, not necessarily to me and not necessarily to yourself. Just in a way that caused me to wonder what had happened to you since I’d last been there.
“I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here. I need to get out of this place. I need to get out. I need to get out. They’re going to destroy me. I need to get out.”
“Charlie.” I tilted my chin toward your face and lowered my voice because I was thinking like a reporter. I’d heard of things happening in nursing homes and daycares and institutions just like this one that were downright criminal, and I suddenly wondered. “Did something happen in here?”
You shrugged and pressed your forehead against my neck.
“Gratitude,” the group leader was saying, “is our focus today. I know a lot of you have some anger toward the friends and family you’ve invited here today. Some of you feel like their behavior is why you’re here in the first place, but, as we’ve covered in previous sessions, that’s not a positive or productive attitude. We each need to take ownership for our actions. Part of taking ownership is not shifting blame onto others. And fostering an attitude of gratitude will help with that. Maybe some of these people did contribute to things that happened to you that ultimately brought you here, but nothing was all their fault. Some of you are too focused on how they contributed in a negative way. Today I want you to focus on what they’ve done to help you and I want you to practice gratitude for that.”
