The owner must’ve given up on renovations because of the kind of neighborhood it stands in. There could be numerous reasons. Repair costs, death, or maybe the loved one the owner bequeathed the home to considered renovating the place senseless, taking into account the chances of garnering interest from someone who would want to also purchase themself into harassments, robberies, and murders – unless Mr. Louis himself is the owner and can’t afford to restore it back to decent condition. I’m not qualified to speak for each person because I’m not them. But as for me, I once was looking for a home. I understand firsthand how crucial safeness is in the process. It’s everything. The process resembles the search you go through when you’re looking for a life partner. You familiarize yourself with all there is to know regarding the benefits and ill effects of the investment and make a determination based on a deep feeling letting you know if you will or will not be able to exist together harmoniously.
Without speaking a word he leads the way down the front walk through the bare opening that once held hinges of a front door to its frame directly to a cramped bedroom that has flashlights aimed up at the ceiling from each of its corners, providing adequate enough lighting to help me make out its filthiness. Two hand-me-down sleeping bags lie crumpled on the floor, near the right edge of the bedroom two to three yards from one another. An opening in the wall – between and above the heads of the warmth-lined padded sleeping bags – with shattered beads of charred glass flaked along its sill gives immediate access to the chirping crickets and the inert air of the cool but not cold night. A rotten Styrofoam plate with discolored steak and vegetables pollutes the left side of the bedroom, not far from an overfilled trashcan of contaminated tissues, clothing articles, tampons, syringes, prescription containers, along with other miscellaneous items that are so far outdated that they cannot be made out.
“The blue one yours,” he says, removing his shoes on his way to climb inside the sleeping bag farthest from the door, the red one. “Make yaself at home.” He arranges himself into a position on his side, back turned with the right jaw of his face settled comfortably into an uncased standard pillow with soiled markings ingraining its stale support.
Relieving the minor weight of the duffle bag from pressing on my shoulder, I step near the sleeping bag grateful for the informal bed on which I can lay my head. Mr. Louis didn’t have to rescue me from the curb of a sidewalk that was going to become my mattress.
This small abandoned brick home is not the place I thought I would be when all was said and done, when the automobile let down alongside the street, but I am thankful to have had someone as gracious as Mr. Louis to welcome me in. It’s unbelievable how someone who has little to nothing to his name can charitably open his mind to share the little he has when people who have much hunt for excuses not to lend a hand to someone who’s in need of a place to live or just a simple prayer. Before my circumstances spiraled here, I never thought of myself as better than anyone due to how much I was grossing. A man who doesn’t feel the need to help his brethren during their time of need is beneath every man, according to the morals taught to me throughout the years from the Bible. Unless there’s grave reason, if a homeless gentleman like Mr. Louis can humble himself to not only be a genuine giver but a cheerful giver despite his circumstances and welcome me in, considering the little he has, there shouldn’t be excuses from anyone – myself included – when it comes to giving from the soul in the same manner.
I let the base of the duffle bag down on the floor near the sleeping bag, me crouching to arrange a cleaner, fresher-looking cased pillow that sprawls slightly above the hood. The individual it was acquired for initially must have been plump because of how noticeable of an expanse remains just north of its baffle compartments.
A remembrance of mine and Jen’s reminding me at heart, I slip in through the face of the sleeping bag, arranging my shoes – which I chose not to remove – down into the vaulted toebox.
I recall the time I flew myself and her both to Tahiti to tour an extremely pleasant beach, to snorkel alongside the island’s excellent coral reefs, to spend an evening standing barefooted in fine warm debris of rocks consisting of small, loose grains, watching the sun splash across the sky, me close behind her slender frame, hugging the backside of her pure white spring dress into the abdomen and waist of my pure white shirt and shorts. Her natural let-down hair was hardly damp from a shower she took before we decided to walk on the beach. She was scented of a fragrance that had me wanting to overtake her into the sand and cap the evening with intense gestures of lovemaking. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I could just stand there with a broad smile at heart, embracing her for the unbelievable person she is. Not many words were said. We just existed there in a deep silent connection most people wouldn’t be able to comprehend, even if a lifetime was spent going into detail about it. It’s a rooted intimacy only she and I are able to understand.
Night passes, and first thing in the morning I step from the front-doorless opening of the charred brick home to find Mr. Louis standing with his back turned to the distant end of the front walk, pondering, his attention fixed on someplace far down towards the right of the residential street.
“My main man,” he says with a smile inside of his voice as he turns at the sound of me approaching him from behind. “Hongry, wanna go get somethin’ to eat?” He seems to have someplace particular in mind. Someplace legal.
I readjust the strap of my duffle bag to a more comfortable drape across my shoulder. “Appreciate the offer. Think I’m just gonna head on over to the hospital.”
“That’s right. Guess I’ll catch up with you later then,” he says. “Something that slipped my mind last night. Know we just met and all, but, stay as long as you need. I ’on’t have much but the little I do have, I ask you to respect it, and me, and not take advantage of, rob, betray, or judge me. I eat out of trashcans. I drink pond and river water. I ’on’t do drugs. Them syringes you seen in there, in that trashcan, the ones I steal from hospitals and clinics if ain’t got none, or steal money from people I ’on’t know to get me some, I used ’em to shoot insulin. I’m diabetic. Just simply a person in a bad situation. Just puttin’ it all out there because I ’on’t want there to be no questions about me. Now that that’s outta the way, if ’on’t see you nomo, or till I catch up with you later on today, be careful out here in these streets. Don’t forget what I told you last night about trust.” He steps away towards the right alongside the two-lane street, leaving me here pondering the personal information he shared about himself.
For a long moment, I remain in place, thinking seriously about everything he entrusted me with as his hardly above average height shrinks in my peripheral vision the farther he distances himself down the street. I turn. I head in the leftwards direction of the street, noting a lanky bright-skinned male child in his teens practicing dunks and jump shots on a portable basketball hoop in the driveway of the worn-out home across the street.
And I am jogged by the thought of Mrs. Donahue, the main floor lobby receptionist of the distinguished skyscraper I entered for the corporation I use to oversee, and the conversation we shared about her son and his progression in education and athletics, and instead of halting for a while to check out this child’s ball-handling and shooting skills, I hold an engrossed focus toward the main obligation of my heart, my light Jennifer Haden.
I return back the exact way Mr. Louis had led me from – detouring at a stop sign here and there – before I begin to distance the stretch of sidewalk alongside the two-lane street on which the automobile let down on me. The street and across-the-street fuel station accommodates busier traffic than the few automobiles and customers I saw last night. Uniformed men and women travel on foot to a sidewalk bench to have a seat in order to anticipate boarding public transportation to go to work. Homeless men and women, an addict, an alcoholic, and a seducer wander on this and that side of the street seeking benefits. People stand at the fuel pumps of the fuel st
ation, filling the tanks of their automobiles for sufficient fuel to get them to and from their destinations.
After distancing myself from past the area I am most familiar with within these parts of the city, I continue traveling on foot for three to four miles, through the automated double-door entrance of the hospital, up in the elevator, down the hall, and into the room of the woman I love, where I lean to deliver a gentle kiss to her forehead and have a seat in the pulled-up armchair near the bed.
Instead of the medical receptionist adhering to the regulations for guests in the early hours of morning, just through the double-door entrance from her seat behind an assistance counter, the kindhearted brunette woman made an exception that kept me from having to present proof of identification and having to spend time signing the sign-in sheet and completing a background information form in its entirety. She recognized me, smiled, greeted me with a “good morning”, and pressed the automated button behind the counter to let me into the restricted white hall that leads to the elevator needed to make contact with the top level of the hospital.
The slim tee on my back suffered a perspiration drenching along the walk here. A hike in the morning temperatures provoked slight sweat from my glands – my underarms, my chest, and the underwear underneath my jeans all were moist from strenuously exerting myself to come be with her.
Instead of being seated near the side of the bed farthest from the door, I have the armchair situated at the side nearest the entrance I eased shut behind myself. I want my attention to be on her, not being diverted by medical practitioners or nurses or guests who walk by the vertical window built into the door. Having set the duffle bag in the floor, a smile warms me to the soul. I can think of no other place I would rather be than here spending the beginning of my day here with her. I take pride in making sure she feels loved and appreciated and admired, even though her state of prolonged unconsciousness bars her from seeing or hearing the support system she has in me and has had in me since our beginning. No matter how I have to be, no matter when I have to be there, no matter where I am, I live to be her strength when encumbrances make it impossible for her to be the strength she exemplifies.
I don’t have all the answers. I know I’m human, and there’re imperfections about me as a man that she questions, such as occasional stubbornness. But there’s one imperfection in particular she will never be able to speak about me, that I abandon her when the going gets rough. Whether she’s upset with me or distressed about a matter that has nothing to do with me, I love her. I love her when she smiles. I love her when she frowns. Whether she’s ill or in perfect health, she can bet from the bottom of her heart on me being there. Do not be mistaken. Acting entirely and wholeheartedly selfless for the better of a relationship is easier said than done. But it’s well worth the adaption. It takes faith. It takes communication. It takes compromise. It takes fortitude. It takes two persons together as one wanting to make love right. The reason our relationship transcends commonness is because she and I both not just speak but communicate those beliefs through action.
I spend a sentimental morning conversing, reminiscing, smiling, and laughing about memories that brought me and her both memorable laughs. I grab the duffle bag to return its strap flat on my shoulder. I lift myself from the armchair to honor her with a softhearted kiss between her immaculate eyebrows. I smile, tell her how much she means to me, and return out of the hospital in the exact direction I came – only to be offset by a downpour of rain, which held back during the walk here, falling like knives from the dark gray sky, when I make it through the automated exit for the sheltered cement deck, a deck with ambulance parking spaces, a deck that offers a bench about fifteen feet to the right of the automated double doors.
I return back through the automated entrance for the assistance desk to get the attention of the receptionist seated behind the assistance counter.
“Afternoon, Mr. Clevenger. There something I can assist you with?” she says, smiling. Her shoulder-length brunette hair is arranged in a long lock drawn tightly against the back of her head, cinched to hang loosely. She has a brief look through the glass double-door entrance at the pouring rain and then at my hands. “Let me guess. Umbrella?”
I flash a pleased face. “Close. Ziploc bag. Wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?” I ask, digging out the small suede jewelry box from my jeans’ hip pocket, the box secured and preserving the new condition of the engagement ring I purchased the day our lives were struck by the seizure that plunged Jen into deep unconsciousness.
“Not sure, but I can check.” She searches the counter, the drawers, and then comes across and pulls a Ziploc bag from the middle drawer, returns the drawer shut as she reaches out to hand over the standard-sized zipper storage bag.
I’ve yet to officially ask for her name. Ever since Jennifer became a patient here, at this enormous medical center, she, this receptionist, has been nothing but kind and respectful. She lets me have visitation rights during the wee hours of mornings, nights, when she’s here, excluding the sign-in sheet and proof of identification form all guests are required to complete. She has prayed over me, my girlfriend Jennifer, requested the pastor of the church she attends to do the same. I couldn’t thank her enough. I’m not blaspheming or belittling anyone, but the pastor of the church we’re members of has yet to so much as pay us a telephone call or a visit to see if we’re making it well. I know me and Jennifer no longer have cell phones, a home phone, or access to computers and email addresses, but he’s familiar enough with our circumstances – in particular, her whereabouts – to at minimum pick up a telephone or make an appearance through her hospital room door. I can speak nonstop about the lack of praying hands that’ve been laid upon her by him, but that’s not for me to go to battle with. That’s something he himself will have to answer for. Not me.
“Thank you.” I appreciate her kindness.
“There something else I can help you with?” she says, giving another warm and friendly smile that exposes a small natural indentation in each of her cosmetized cheeks.
I give a headshake.
“Great. Hope you enjoy the rest of the day.”
“Same to you.” I turn to near the automated entrance, carefully securing the jewelry box inside the zipper storage bag the receptionist handed me. And then I secure the zipper storage bag inside the duffle one I brought along to the hospital – because I honestly cannot say the trust is there between me and Mr. Louis for me to go letting my things remain behind. I advance out into the pricking rain to begin the return home.
Not concerned about my slim tee, my jeans, or my waterproof duffle bag. Not concerned about the sounds of pouring rain colliding down onto my buzzed scalp. Caring just about having spent the beginning of my day with the light of my life. Caring just about having made an appearance, allowed her to experience me there by her side. Just to share memories. Just to express how much she means to me. Just to have a seat and be reminded of how beautiful of a person she is, in each place, wishing to be seen by her warm eyes and heard through the ear she is when I’m in need of someone to hear me. Just because today is Thursday, and I love her.
*
Along my way walking the sidewalk near the exact place of the street the automobile let down on me, I just so happen to take a gander in the direction of the convenience store and am floored to see Mr. Louis crashing from the entrance, hauling a loaf of bread and a package of deli meat, to race in the direction I am heading: home. A plump cashier shouts after him from a stand behind the counter as Mr. Louis steals out of the entrance with a clearing sky above the street and sidewalks that remain wet from the rain that let up a while ago.
Instead of dwelling on what he told me this morning about stealing, I continue walking, witnessing him cross the street, take on the sidewalk to continue without once looking back or around to see if lawmen are in sight – thankfully not; however, if so, I am not certain how they would react, judging based on their reluctance to respond to killings and stabbings
and kidnappings and burglaries and rapes that occur on a daily basis throughout this section of Chicago. I read once in an online article that it takes law enforcement and emergency medical technicians half an hour more to respond here than when they respond to middle and upper-class neighborhoods, even though this section of the city is far closer than either of the two others.
Arriving home, I walk the distance of the front walk, up the stairs, and onto the porch. I enter through the bare front opening, noting the ramshackle, scorched furniture of the diminutive living room for the first time; there wasn’t adequate enough lighting this morning or last night, for me to make out anything other than the exiting path.
“Mr. Louis, you in here?”
“Mmmhuh,” he answers as if he’s with a full mouth. “Back here in the room.”
I take to the lone hall of the home and enter the lone bedroom to find him sitting on the floor against the wall near his sleeping bag. He’s chomping a sandwich.
“Hongry?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Have you sumthing to eat.”
“No offense. I’m not eating what you stole from the store back there.”
“Suit yaself.” He turns to chomp another bite of the wholegrain sandwich. The twisted-shut loaf of bread and sealed package of turkey meat sits on a thick paper napkin on the floor, near a fresh roll of disposable towels made of absorbent paper, as a growl ripples from my stomach to the parchedness in my mouth.
“Either that, or go hongry the rest of the day. Up to you,” he says as if he cannot wait to prepare a second sandwich after his current one.
I have a look at the food on the floor, a look at the fulfilled expression on his face, another at the food, another at his face. “To hell with that store.”
My Bridge To Forever Page 8
