Eight
I should have minded Dr. Jamison the time marital frustration caused her to act out of character against me. I should have minded the narrow hint of doubt I dismissed long ago.
Nine calendars have gone and still no indication of a breakthrough. Nine calendar years of morning walks to remain true to a solemn promise I made while looking my girlfriend Jennifer in her sound face.
I am disappointed in myself because I have been turning a blind eye to forewarnings that struck in front of me. I am so frustrated with life right now that I could raise up and crack my forehead into the top step of the steps on which I sit for allowing myself to be naïve enough to not be able to distinguish between truth and imagination. I should have known better than to allow myself to make-believe to love her so much through her comatose circumstance. I forgot to have a minute and think past the sacrifices that’ve been made, past the famished nights that’ve been spent, past the long morning walks to and from spending the beginning of days with her. If she never wakes to ever see me again, what will I have to look forward to when the pronouncement is set in stone? I hope not the homeless life I am living.
I cannot find work because employers are disinterested in hiring me. I have completed half a thousand job applications; I have offered gardening services at an uncommonly low rate, oftentimes in exchange for an evening meal or barbering service. However, a single return has yet to come from all attempts. To think I was forthcoming about everything – in particular, the stumbles that led me into homelessness, and each time the same grody gesture and lame explanation were given at the stench and sight of me, which, as of this morning, consists of a mildewed tee, jeans, scummy socks peeking out from the toe cap of my tennis shoes, medium-length hair, and overgrown beard damp from the light drizzle that eased a short while ago, leaving a warm blue cloudless sky.
In place of walking the distance this morning as normal, I elected to get additional hours of sleep and go complete an application in response to a help-wanted sign I remembered seeing on the way walking from spending the beginning of my day with her yesterday. I think now is the time to force myself to begin picturing a future without her. I can’t continue living based on the anticipation of a dream that may never be. I can’t continue on breathing as if the future cannot be a future without her. The bank continues releasing to the billing department each month, but as for me spending the complete morning of days to come there, I think it’s about time I wake up, balance, begin thinking from a sensible frame of mind.
I’m still in love; I just need to actualize a balance. I need to have work in place. I need to have a groomed appearance. I need to have someplace legal to lie and sleep. I need to be established in a normal life before the pronouncement is set in stone. That way if she never returns or wakes to see me again, I won’t be in the predicament I’m in now. Instead of being homeless, famished, parched, unable to bathe, unable to change into clean clothes, unable to sleep in a normal bed like normal folk, I’ll at least be in a position to rebuild toward the life known to me before we were struck by misfortune. I understand the chances of me accomplishing the life I had is slim to none. At least, I’d like to be in position to give a best shot.
I refuse to spend the rest of my life worried about whether an ant, gnat, cockroach, bed bug, or flea can slip inside my mouth or nose during the wee hours of the night, because I sometimes sleep with an open mouth. Sleep feels better when you’re able to be in peace. I want to be able to wake in the middle of the night to make trips to an actual bathroom or an actual refrigerator. I want to be able to lie in bed for an extended period of time, relaxing, smiling, reflecting back over how I accomplished things for a particular workday like before, anticipating what I plan to accomplish in the coming day. I want to be able to pick back up where I left off making contributions to grade school programs.
“Gabe, you alright?”
I glance down in front of me, at the concrete walk which leads from the steps to a perpendicular intersection with the sidewalk, at the grass, zoned out, tunnel vision having disabled me from realizing Mr. Louis returned home and that he lowered his backside to a seat beside me on the top step. I hardly recognize him – his clothes still grimier than the bottom of a dumpster – past his crisp haircut and trimmed beard.
“Haven’t heard a word from you in ’bout a week. Errthing alright at the hospital?”
“Can’t do it anymore,” I tell Mr. Louis.
“Can’t do what nomo?” he says, glancing in my direction.
I heave a sigh; I lift the gaze. “Living for something that might not happen.”
“So that’s what this whole thing’s about. Should’ve known it’d have something to do with that, much as you talk about her, much as you love her. You do still love her, right?”
I give a nod.
“But.”
Raising an eyebrow, I look in his direction.
“Been on this earth fifty-sumthing years, you ain’t fooling me. Listened enough to know when there’s a ‘but’ roaming somewhere. But ’fore you tell me anything, if it involve you abandoning her up there to fight for her life by herself, you being selfish or gii-ing up, might as well quit thinking while you behind because ain’t no way I’ma sit here and let you do that to her, yourself, the future you been talkin’ ’bout from the moment I met you. A blind man can see you love that woman more than anything.” He puts his attention back in the direction of the front walk. “Hold on.” He rises to head inside the front opening of the home, me not having a clue about what’s going on, and he returns moments later extending his worn Bible to me. “Thought I’d never have to say this to you. Guess I was wrong. Don’t come back in here till you done got rid of that doubt. Till you understand the true meaning. Till you read First Corinthians, thirteen, four through seven.”
The instant I accept the Bible he returns back inside without speaking another word. Well-acquainted with the selection Mr. Louis gave, I face front with my mind recollecting the selection that has remained dear to me since I was a boy, from when my mother read to me. I fix the shut Bible in my lap. I give myself a minute to come to one, and I begin from heart.
“Love is kind and patient. Never jealous, boastful, proud, or rude. It isn’t selfish or quick-tempered. It doesn’t keep a record of wrongs. It rejoices in truth; not in evil. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
Doubt and fear almost thrust me into welshing on the solemn promise I gave her – the person I adore most. I find it extraordinary how whenever I need encouragement He commands someone near me to speak the exact words I need to hear. It has happened more times than I can remember. It happened after I lost my mother, after I was diagnosed with a rare heart condition, and in time to rescue me from flooring an automobile over a cliff. Just as a moment ago, He has a unique method of speaking what needs to be heard. He knew I was in need, about to surrender, and therefore He moved through Mr. Louis to get to me; and I’m grateful. If not for Mr. Louis’s obedience, I’d still be entangled, not honoring her, not honoring me, not honoring my love, trust, respect, loyalty, commitment, and dedication for us.
Why do I want to be able to wake during the night to make a trip to an actual bathroom or refrigerator, when I have the necessities to see me through this kind of life? Why do I want to be able to lie in an actual bed for extended periods of time, relaxing, smiling, reflecting, anticipating, when her peace, smile, reflection, and accomplishments are mine? Why attempt to rebuild toward a life I once knew when the prime reason I cherished that life before was because of someone who is still a part of my life now?
I have all I need to withstand this trial.
I have a Bible.
I have her.
I have me.
I have us; and we have Love.
*
Having returned the Bible, I scoot from the bare opening to set out for the medical institution doubt and fear discouraged me from visiting. I heave through the automated entr
ance, gesturing for the medical receptionist to let me through the restricted double doors.
“Sir, that’s a restricted area. No one’s allowed beyond there.” The receptionist springs up from the seat behind the assistance counter onto her feet, her eyes glued on me.
“I need to see her.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not authorized to open those doors for anyone without proof of identification and completed paperwork.”
Constricting my brows, I reroute to step at the counter. The petite brunette who stands firmly on that side must be a fresh face to the position. I seem to not recall her ever being there. “I’ve been coming here for nine years now. Not once have I ever had to fill out paperwork or prove who I am to anyone. You can ask ’em. All of ’em know me. Valerie, Caitlyn, Summer, Madison, Skye, Pauline—they all know who I am.”
“Forgot one.”
“Who?”
“Me!” She tosses a clipboard on the countertop, an information form that needs to be completed clamped down into its plastic structure. “Fill that out, provide proof of identification, or you can leave or be escorted out, your choice.” She lowers a palm to the handset of the landline behind the counter and looks at me, me lowering my face, me remembering Satan snatched my wallet the night I came across them thrashing Mr. Louis. She grabs the telephone from the hook to align the speaker and microphone to the side of her face.
My eyebrows hike at the thought of trouble as she pokes three digits on the keypad and turns the back of her thin frame to me to wait for a pickup. She speaks gibberish into the telephone, her hushed words incapable of being heard. A sly smile emerges on her face from nowhere, and she returns the telephone to its hook to retire to her seat behind the counter.
I’ve no clue what was said into the telephone. But based on the expression on her face, something tells me it’s not pleasant. I know I’ve been receiving courteous allowances – in not having to prove who I am and complete paperwork, against policies – but it’s not because those women don’t perform precisely. It’s because I’ve been in and out of here so much that they know me like the dorsum of their hands. They have a feeling for what time I arrive each morning; they know how long I spend here, and each of them could recognize my face, my smile, my laugh, or my gait from a mile’s distance. I needn’t expect the same from her. She’s fresh.
“Listen. I don’t want trouble. I just want to visit the person I came to see, please.”
Regardless of what she thinks of me, my appearance, the stench invading her nose from my tee and jeans, I hope she’s able to see past hygiene, acknowledge me as a human being and not just for some bum or lowlife off the street. I understand I don’t look my best. It’s not because I want to look this way. It’s because I choose not to rob, murder, or harm innocent people over needs. If I were to commit something of that degree, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t be able to sleep without guilt or remorse burning me alive. It’s not me. It’s not what I’m about. It’s not something I would even consider because I understand how hard most people work to make ends meet. I may have been more fortunate at one point in time, but I used to be one of them. I used to be one to work hard to make ends meet. I used to be one to take care of a loved one and, therefore, understand the value of an item or cause someone labors for.
Not even one week into being without a home, I witnessed a homeless sneak snatch a young lady’s purse the minute she sat on a bench at the bus stop to mind her business to ride public transportation someplace to a morning shift, I suppose, and there he was attempting to make life miserable for her. It escalated into a battering I had to rescue her from because she’d torn from the bench to fight back. He pinned her to the cement sidewalk, punching, stomping, and socking her face and her stomach. The bloodied helplessness on her face as she sprawled there with her temporal lobe against the cement, stunned, battered, and in shock from excessive blood loss, provoked a rage from me that I couldn’t control. All I remember doing is snatching up the sneak by the back of his shirt, threatening his life, punching, stomping, socking, choking him as he did her. I was so enraged over the mental recap of him battering her that I thrashed the sneak so grimly, the uniformed maid in her thirties floundered to her feet, imploring me to stop.
I couldn’t picture myself doing something like that to accommodate a need of mine. I hope she, this receptionist, who, according to her name badge, goes by the name of Kaydence, allows me the right to visit the person I’ve come to see, minus trouble. I’ve as much a right to be here as she does, despite appearance, despite hygiene, despite me not having bathed in what feels like almost a decade, despite me brushing my teeth once a week with the brush and toothpaste I packed into a duffle bag long ago.
“If you don’t believe me, page Dr. Jamison.”
“Too late.”
A massive hand snatches hold of my left forearm.
“Get off me!” I turn, attempting to snatch loose as a second officer of uniformed security officers gorilla-grips hold of my other forearm, my jaw falling at the toweringly-muscled size of the men. I swing my attention to look at Kaydence, and before I can part my lips to speak, she interrupts with a boast of the same sly smile as before.
“Don’t know what homeless shelter—”
What!
“—or addict house you mistake this for. This hospital maintains a stringent policy against solicitations, homeless people staggering in here, searching for places to beg.”
“What’re you talking about? Soliciting, staggering? Like I’m intoxicated or strung out on cocaine or something, when I don’t and have never drunk or done drugs in my life. Am I homeless? Yes. But I’m not here looking for places to beg or someone to rob or a hotdog or hamburger to steal from the cafeteria. I’m here to visit someone, here because I’ve a reason to be, not because of what you think from how I look. If you don’t believe me, pick up the phone, page Dr. Jamison. She’ll confirm everything I’ve said.” My heart hammers against my chest – as though it wants out of me. “Regardless of what you think of me, my intentions, I didn’t come here to cause trouble. Came to visit someone who’s fighting for her life, behind the restricted doors you’re refusing to let me through. My girlfriend’s in a hospital room on the top floor, and I need to see her. I know I don’t have a driver’s license or a valid ID, but I need to see her, would like to see her. But that means nothing if you won’t let me.” I inhale deep, exhale smooth, and go to God in my heart, hoping whatever frustration clouds her judgment is removed for the sake of a promise I traveled a long way to honor. “Will you?”
“Will she what?” Dr. Jamison steps up to stand next to me at the counter, with ageless caramel skin and lush hair, gesturing for the men in uniform to release me, return to the duties they were handling before Kaydence instructed them to come here. I haven’t a clue where she came from, but I’m glad, and relieved, she came when she did. I’d have been removed – or better yet, thrown from the entrance of the hospital, and if at all possible, told never to come back.
Dr. Jamison strikes Kaydence with a slow-piercing glare, as if pining to be informed about the issue, as if having confronted her in the past about sassing, and disrespecting, visitors. I don’t know much about Kaydence, but based on her appearance, posture, and body language, her sitting there with a dropped face, she’s either ashamed or reminiscing about an ultimatum Dr. Jamison unleashed on her in the immediate past. I sense a strong impression of dislike. I sense them having been acquainted before Kaydence accepted the position. I sense them having run into each other someplace outside work that involves someone being betrayed or crossed or caught in the act of something Dr. Jamison still bears hard feelings in her heart over.
“I’m listening.” Dr. Jamison refuses to unglue her eyes from Kaydence. “Better yet, disregard that. I know the problem. She won’t let you through.”
“How’d you know?” I ask Dr. Jamison.
“Let’s just say. Kaydence here has quite a way with people. Im
moral ways. With taken men, married men especially. Can be quite the homewrecker. Isn’t that right, Kaydence? It’s alright, though. He’s all yours to run behind – that’s if you know what that means. But as for the gentleman standing beside me, he, unlike the sorry excuse for a man you now have on your arm, one of never-ending men you’ve stolen from marriages, is committed to the woman he’s been in and out of this place for, for the past nine, almost ten years. He’s not to be given attitude, treated like an addict because of his appearance. He’s human just like you and me. Therefore, I suggest you stop profiling, or I’ll have you terminated and sent home to that cheat you smile, brag, and laugh about having taken from me.” Dr. Jamison gives a headshake about Kaydence, Kaydence lifting her face to dart her eyes away as a means to escape the riled woman standing in front of her.
I just stand here, gratified yet amazed. Just when I was beginning to lose hope, Dr. Jamison showed up to vouch for me. If not for her emerging from wherever she came from to behave with overprotective urgency in my defense, Kaydence would’ve had me thrown out. I saw the plan in her expression. I don’t know what caused her to act like that against me, but whatever the issue may have been, I hope she finds an escape to treat her bottled anger; smarting at me was unnecessary. I did nothing to deserve her profiling me, speaking to me like I am a coarse, unsophisticated, boorish, uneducated solicitor who may as well not exist. Profiling someone is wrong, considering she knows nothing about me.
My Bridge To Forever Page 13
