Dreams and My Father

Grey trees: the garden a cool of still branches, hushed leaves, a dark path. I must be thirteen. My father leads through a darkened door, guiding through a ransackled hall, one hand 'pon my shoulder just for reassurance, quite like American Life Illustrated. Ahead toward a grey shadowed din of loud whisper babble. Pause at the stairs and gaze out below: grey men. They move through their own maze, though with no direction. I wonder why he's brought me here, what purpose guides his heart in this. He smiles as I look up, looks out upon this room of odd strangers I know must be entered. Why else are we here? We stand in the doorway. Descend the stairs counting silently three, unsure if he's by me; a lack of all color. The grey! Only grey. Disheveled, labor rough clothes, wild hair, unshaven, moving about among one another. One then stops 'fore me. Am I not alone? The approach is deadpan, eyes wide dark orbs, my head in his hands, his mouth upon mine. I'm helpless. Surrender. The dark never dissapates. Fade into grey.

A Chrisrian Failure?

Kroger's Short North: I was leaving the self-scan area when I was startled.
"Hey Bill." I turned to a face I didn't recognize. While checking my groceries, I'd sort of noticed an Asian male doing the same. Nothing.
"How are you?" His inquiry startled me a second time.
"I'm great," I replied. There was something odd here. Familiar, soft angelic features, but something was off? His color!

"You look better," he said, bagging what he'd bought. I tried to be nonchalant, but he was seriously jaundiced. I'd not witnessed this before. Little question his reference was to one of my periods of excess; too much alcohol fouled up the memory. I couldn't place the face in this context. Perhaps the Engagement Center during a dry-out?
"I feel better," I said. "Things are good." Perhaps we shared time drinking. "How are you?"
"Hanging on ," he replied.
"Yea," struggling for right words as I gazed into yellow clouds that once were eyes. "Sometimes it's tough." I was looking deep into a possibility, horrified.
"When the going gets tough," his tired response pulled me back from clumsy, memory sorting. "The tough get going."

Was this what I had to look forward to? Full rage Hep C screaming its name for the world?
"See ya 'round," I threw back over my shoulder as I headed for the door, wondering the name of this younger fellow, friendly enough to call me by mine. I hated my memory failure, my confusion when confronted unexpectedly, my inability to express spontaneous emotion. I should have extended my hand. Something. I should have held him. I walked the parking lot toward Pearl Alley, my heart breaking.

Winkin' & Blinkin' Waiting for Nod

To What length might I go to obtain the familiar comfort of twilight sleep? Whatever necessary when the call comes. The trek up Livingston from Alumcreek had exacted its measure from my limited physical resources. I was tired to begin with, but I had to get away from the Engagement Center with its drunk-tank mentality, even at five am. Blistered feet, legs tight from the two plus mile hike. The early stillness broken only by the calling of the early rising robins, and occasional cars whizzing past hurriedly, headed somewhere downtown. There had been bus fare home, but I was faced with the choice of beer at 6.00 am when the carryout began selling, or waiting at the stop for the first bus going home, where there was money, and relative comfort. I was chilled, wearing green velour pajama bottoms & a thin plaid short sleeved shirt. Not dressed for dawn on the far east-side. The beer was gone some time ago. How had it come to this? Bryden Road in the early light was familiar. Perhaps the glowing blue ER sign would offer some reprieve, a short rest at least. I'd done this before.

"I've an intense pain in my groin," I offered the triage nurse at the first stop inside the thankfully empty ER waiting area. Friday night must have been slow. All's quiet in the hood, early spring. Groin pain seemed like a sure enough ruse, how could they disprove a pain. A small familiar room with the usual examining bed, TV, medical equipment. A phone to call no one.

"I have to update your history." Her face was emotionless, polite and exact. "Allergies?" The usual battery of inquiries. "Ever molested?" Easily expanded upon, but I was getting fidgety. The booze was wearing off.

"I need something for the withdraw," I announced, telling the truth. I'd left the Engagement Center at Maryhaven mainly because I knew I'd be wanting something to drink & they didn't give out bus passes to leave with on Saturdays. If I had to, I'd wait until there was traffic enough to panhandle a drink.

"We're almost finished." Her demeanor was sympathetic. "Just hold on a few minutes. We'll get your IV in. I've got your Adivan." The comforting thought of liquid Adivan was enough. I could hold on as the vein was located and accessed. "Ever molested?" The repetition is a bit annoying. A second chance to come clean, but why go into all that with someone hardly known.

"Never." The lie is always easier.

When she pushed the clear liquid into the IV port everything became calm, at least in respect to the sweat that had been. The palpitations slowed. The pulsing in my brain diminished. The overhead light became less harsh. The anxiety in my chest was replaced by a welcomed resting. I closed my eyes and drifted. In the dark, shapes flowed into one another. My body rolled with a wave.

Opening my eyes to a dimness of time I was alone again. Beneath the drape separating my sanctuary from the world, I could see feet scurrying back and forth. Names were called blankly across the address system. How long might this last? Didn't much matter as I closed and drifted on.

"Sir?" Someone calling, disrupting my rest. The brightness was bothersome. "Sir? Wake up now, we have to go for a scan of your abdomen." Annoying tugs at my person. "We need you to wake up."

"OK, already," turning from the light. "I'm awake."

"We just need for you to scoot over onto the gurney." Someone behind me, prompting movement. "We've done this before. Can you just scoot over onto the gurney? Exactly." The scan was disturbing. At some point I'd developed an aversion to close places, bright lights. And the echoing thud, a distant memory. At times I was haunted by thoughts of my mothers's grave. Not sleeping then was torment, especially when I was working. Great jobs: antique appraiser & buyer, shop manager, college counselor, program director. Small wonder marijuana was high on the list of self prescribed medications. So which came first? The pot or the insomnia? Nodding through junior high attests to a childhood onset of nightly sleeplessness. Worry over why and what. Stomach ailments. The pounding ceased and I was again wheeled somewhere, fading.

The half life of Adivan leaves a bit to be desired. Even in the dim stillness, I wanted more and pressed the call button. "How may we help you?" scratchy, distant through the wire.
"I need more Adivan." I sounded pathetic. I greatly dislike asking others for assistance, but this was the ER, after all. "And some ice water."
"I'll let your nurse know." scratched away. Waiting, always waiting. Waiting for a rebirth of wonder? Who was that? What happens to memory? If they were lying here. Feet beneath the drawn petition, all going somewhere else. City Light's Bookstore, San Francisco? Ferlinghetti! Lester? Loren? Where the hell? Lawrence Ferlinghetti: Coney Island of the Mind Waiting for a rebirth of wonder where the hell's the freaking nurse?

"What is it you need?" a shortish chub of young male in white scrubs. Lawrence Nightingale?
"The Adivan's wearing off. I'm in pain." I whimpered, embarrassed, and annoyed that I envied the young. "And I need ice water."

"I'll tell the Doctor," he responded, weaving a blood pressure cuff through IV tubes and leads, wrapping it swiftly around my bicep. "Though I'm afraid ice water is out of the question."

"Why?" Wasn't I needy enough? Overplayed? Too down & out?

"The scan of your abdomen showed an abnormality. " The pressure on my arm became uncomfortable, constricting.
"You may need surgery."

"What?" My stomach tightened. "Surgery?" Who was kidding what?
"It may be your appendix." Unwrapping the cuff from my arm. "Your blood pressure's up. I'll get the Adivan and something for the pain."

How could it be my appendix? What abnormality? Where was the Adivan? Something for pain? Was this a dream? I closed my eyes to focus on the phantasmagorical swirl deep within. Less friendly this go round. I remember a painter from the old neighborhood whose doctor told him he'd have to have an operation to maintain the disability payments he received: nearly died.
Perspiration beaded down my forehead. My pillow was soaked. How long could I let this play out? Just how far would I go?

The curtain parted and blue scrubs came through with young white. The young held three syringes and approached the bed. "This is Dr. Weldon. He's admitted you. This first syringe is the Adivan and the second is morphine." Old tapes played away all resistance. "The third's just a flush." With a push, calm came into the world.

"So it seems you have an abnormality that we need to take care of." The good doctor needn't try very hard, I was more than compliant as whirls of relief came to the forefront of my consciousness. "We need to get you into a room where you can be monitored more closely." I watched as Lawrence Nightingale inserted the second needle into the port. Consciously I held my eyes open as the wave of sweet warm filled my body. The lights trembled overhead with the surge of blood. My mind closed to the old familiar.

"Don't worry," the good doctor said. "We'll take good care of you."
Home again.

Charity's Inspiration

"Why don't you write something positive?" she asked. "Sometimes you say things that are not so positive." her bright, experienced eyes scanned my face for some indication of where I might be headed. She was serious and truly concerned that my efforts be rewarded.

"Millie," I said. "What happens on the street is rarely positive." My response was true to form, as was her observation. My outlook, my focus, is usually on the suffereing that involves the human condition in its death-work. Death-work is the turning away from light's life force, and embracing instead the physical sensations brought on by hedonistic substance abuse. At least that's the form my death-work takes. The street is often like that: values are inverted, we pick up only on what feels good. That's where we turn. Certain clear, warm nights on the street are like magic. People come together and needs are met, wants fulfilled. What made me happiest, aside from the alcohol and drugs that seemed to just come my way from nowhere, was the amount of cash I might panhandle from strangers or acquaintances. The stone sofa at Fourth and High was my turf. That's where I did business most often, playing on my disability to win sympathy. Most often coins were dropped into my outstretched hand. Occasionally, paper money was given: usually ones, maybe a five. The first time I was given more, a twenty, I thought the gods were surely smiling. The run to my man at Wall and West Fifth was in a dream. I was floating. That night I was to learn that the dope boys aren't always exactly honest. Quality and quantity don't always go hand in hand.

"What do you want the money for?" It was early on a Friday evening. He was young, well dressed, and attractive. His eyes were clear. I admired that.

"Well I'd like to get a burger." I was hungry, but I wanted more than food. He held out a clenched fist.

"Here's a fifty," he said, smiling. "Get yourself a burger." I stared with disbelief at the wadded bill he dropped into my hand. "Here's a twenty," he added. "Get desert." Another wad of green dropped into my hand. This was unbelievable.

"God bless you." I thanked him, honestly. He smiled slightly, turned and headed south, his head held high. Unfolding the bills, I smiled at the dead presidents, still not believing my luck. Somewhere, deities were giggling at my joy. I headed across High to the Goody Boy and ordered my cheeseburger. That night there would be Cisco and Marlboros. No need to go with generic this evening.

Another evening's demonstration of the magic: Still on the sofa, drinking imported beer with a couple of girls headed for Skully's (their treat). Calvary Apostolic was letting out. I noticed a young suited fella sort hangin' close. I'd recently spoken with him a couple of times, once accepting a flier for a revival and another time just saying hi. As the girls left he came and sat down.

"So how are you this evening?" His inquiry was genuine and his evangelizing hadn't been invasive or judgemental.
"Fairly well." I pulled my legs up to a sort of half lotus, comfortable.
"I didn't see you at the revival." His face was pleasant, attractive. "Have you thought about our invitation?"
"I thought about it," answering honestly. "But it looked as thought there was a good sized crowd. Crowds make me nervous." I didn't think it necessary to mention that I was a Methodist. I know he'd seen me drinking and panhandling and didn't want to be judged a poor example. I'd let him play his hand.

"If you're hungry we could go to While Castle." I appreciated his offer, accepted. Walking down High, we talked religion, mostly I listened. I was interested. Often, I could hear spirited drumming and voices vigorously singing out their hymns coming from his church. I thought I'd most likely enjoy the music, but feared the fundamental nature of their message.

At White Castle, I continued listening, interjecting only what I felt necessary, careful to not commit self to any agenda. I downed the two double cheeseburgers and fries, even though I wasn't especially hungry. Walking back, I opened up a bit, explaining that I'd been searching for something for quite a while, especially since I was laid off from my last job. Back at the sofa, we claimed our spot watching the parade. Fall was magic. The night was special, clear, clean almost. As we talked, Theo walked up quickly, as was his nature; everything in a rush. He extended a closed fist as he passed, depositing a sizeable rock into my open hand, more than enough to well fix my head for the night.

"Is that what I think it is?" the young Christian asked, thoroughly startled.
"Absolutely," I answered, nearly as surprised as he.
"Is that crack?" he asked.
"Absolutely," I answered.
"In the name of Jesus Christ, you have to throw that down!" he pulled back.
"Not tonight, pastor." I rose and stepped away, leaving him wide eyed, slack jawed. "Not tonight." Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it don't.

COTA Moments: Early Spring

I can't say exactly why it happened: what caused me to behave in such a heathenistic manner, perhaps the welcomed joy of the warm March air brought out the mischief. I'm usually very tolerant and respectful of other religious beliefs. Saturday afternoon, mid March downtown, Grant& Spring; warming rays of liquid pleasure radiate back from the brick wall I lean against, smoke curling slowly skyward from my Camel. This is perfect, I've just finished my last training session and I'm now certified to tutor basic literacy. I look forward to the interaction. Something else is needed in my life; I hope this fills the void. The bus nears up Spring, to take me further downtown, connect with a #2 North High. The Camell butt arches gracefully into the street (Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon). The doors open into the not yet crowded tube. I slide my bus pass through the toll box & take the seat immediately to my left, not even considering anything further back. And there they were: two cheap black suits, worn leather shoes, one cell phone, one plastic nameplate that read "ELDER" with some name. They were wide open and I had to do it.

"Are you guys Mormons?" I asked with what I hoped was perceived as naive curiosity.
"Yes, we are." The crumpled suit wearing the elder tag answered seriously.
"Do you know anything about Mormons?" It was an odd juxtaposition, the serious demeanor of the elder somehow played off his cell phone busy comrade. The younger seemed less visible than his name-plated friend, more at home in his surroundings. The elder's shoes were rough, rurul.

"Not a 'hole lot." I threw a bit of a southern Ohio twang into the mix, for the simple fun of it. "Just something 'bout seagulls & grasshoppers, or were they locusts?" Had to be careful, not overplay the issue. "I know y'all's a bit serious."

"God's message to His people is serious." He seemed to rock as if in a tall rustic oak chair, but I knew it was the bus. I only had a few minutes before we made the turn onto High Street.

"So y'all really wear special underwear?" Jackpot! Straight faced!

"N...no." He crossed his legs as if not to betray the secret. "No, we don't wear special underwear."
"No holy garments?" I had a couple of blocks left.

"They're not special." His blush caught him off guard. "They're sacred garments." The bus rocked up Spring Street, the younger never once looking up from his wireless conversation. "Whz'up wit dat?"

"As they're sacred we don't like to talk about them." His eyes were dark, of no specific color. "
they're a statement of our faith."

"But if you don't talk about them, how can they be a statement?" The front of the bus had grown strangely quiet.

"A statement of our faith," the elder offered. "Between us and God."

"A covenant of sorts?" I knew I was giving myself away.

"Exactly," he nodded thoughtfully. We cleared the corner at High Street; I pulled the cord, requesting my stop.

"I'm a Methodist," I suggested, rising to exit. "We get our underwear at Sears." Outside, the fellow who exited with me laughed out loud. The sun played bright among the sycamores along North High. This was perfect.

A Day Like Any Other

How might a day begin out here, the street? The stone bench/sofa at 4th and High is a fine spot to rest with the sun early out, black hoodie drawn high. The limestone pulls the bright light in, gives up the heat it holds for just that reason? Change left from last night buys a Steel Reserve tucked in the sweatshirt pouch, turned up in time as the traffic slows past, eyes darting up-down High Street across the sparse lot. Legs crossed in a lotus almost. Fits nicely. The back pain gives way as the faint cheap beer nausea promises relief. Edwina 'cross the opposite side, I've taken her spot, staggers slightly, hand up almost waves. Big Momma, with a good night last night in out of cars, she's got beer now and smokes, few dollars in hand. Lest, of course, she's seen the dope boy. Traffic parts as she steps from the curb, a silver grey Bentley fastback (Continental?). Her face is bruised, black olive blue telling the tale 'for she speaks her tongue. She's off her meds.

"Girl, where you been?" me lighting her Newport. "Who been thrashing you around?"

"Aint' nobody laid a hand on me! You knowing that." Sits down beside, faint night smell. Powder blue sweatshirt, forest green, perhaps ski pants stretched beyond measure.
"Oh Big Mamma!" odd clothes the charity of last week before that run. She pulls the tab open, turns up her 2-11, cheek moist red it's center.
"I'd a seizure. Fell in the concrete. Seen Tony? this time?" She checks the traffic, old habit. "Don't be telling Pastor you seen me."

"Aint nobody telling nothing, Darling." I'm thinking 'bout vodka, the sweet burn of good stuff. "We gotta call a squad."

"Won't go! Ain't going no hospital, no time." She drinks thirstily, sweat beads off her body in the early cool.

"Just let 'em come and dress that scrape." At times she listens, guess cause I take the time, call her Darlin' or Edwina, her real name. "We'll go across, to the carryout."

"He'll know I'm drunk," afraid he might cut her off, refuse to sell to her, then she'd have to walk the extra block up Fifth. "Sides, I got a beer already," boldly holds the tall silver can out for the world.

"Drink your beer," I know better than come between. "I'll get someone with a cell phone to call. Drink your beer". I slowly pull arthritic joints to the task, stand, stretch embracing clear bright light. "You gotta let 'em take care of you." No use talking salvation now. "There'll be more beer."