I have always called him "Tricky Dick" because of the time I caught him stealing my dry erase marker and he claimed that it, in fact, did belong to him, but that he would give it to me as a gift. Everyone else simply called him "The Old Man". Once in a while, I would call him "My Old Man"; his usual streetname with a posessive paternal spin. I love him.
I saw him in my office. We talked about his favorite Biblical passages and his favorite sacreligious interpretations of them. We called his siblings who lived in far away cities and looked up pictures of their hometowns on Google Images so he could imagine where they were. We talked about how the police always picked on him because he was missing a few toes from the war and consequently always walked like he was drunk, and then the irony of the fact that he really was always drunk.
I saw him outside of my office. He liked to use this old broomstick to hit on fenceposts and to pretend to cut down trees. He was really going at it on a sapling in front of the bank, so I sat him down and gave him some iced tea and told him to give the trees a rest for the sake of preserving the earth for my future offspring.
Someone left a message for him on our universal message line that his brother had died. I was nominated to take the old man into my office and tell him, because we realized he had no one else here to tell him. We talked about his brother, we called his sister, and called his sister again. We looked up pictures of where his brother used to live, so he could imagine where his brother's body would rest.
And then Tricky Dick didn't come back for a long time. I thought about him, and about him thinking about his brother. I thought of him pretending to cut down trees somewhere as an attempt to ease his broken heart. I we were weeding out old mail one day, mail we would have to return to sender because it had not been claimed, and I found a letter sent to him by his sister. I kept it in my desk, in my top drawer, for months and months hoping that he would come back and that I could give it to him and that it would give him some hope. Yesterday, he did.
As usual, there were a million things going on, and I was in the midst of placing mental bookmarks next to two other requests while I focused on a third... but when I saw him, the rest of the world blurred. I stared at his old and tattered and weathered and wrinkled face and shook my head.
"There's my old man. I have something for you."
I gave him the letter that had become the inner decor of my top drawer like it was some kind of certificate of merit. I held my hand on his shoulder for a minute, and felt like I was about to cry for relief or joy and grief for my old man's life, what I know of it and what will come of it.
He thanked me, and the moment passed, and the other demands flooded back in as Tricky Dick stumbled and tipped his way back out into the street.
Showing posts with label alcoholism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcoholism. Show all posts
31 March 2010
07 January 2010
All Together Now / Things Fall Apart
I have witnessed two marriages in this neighborhood in the past year.
For one wedding, I was the photographer, but there was hardly any room for me to get around to get a good angle--the place was packed. It was a different kind of wedding; the matron of honor was texting during the ceremony, and the best man was taking pictures of himself by holding a disposable 35mm out in front of himself with his left arm. After a near-deafening chorus of Amazing Grace, they exchanged LiveStrong bracelets, and went on their honeymoon in their friend's apartment down the street.
We saw Sabrina and Cash almost every day after that, or at least one of them.
We heard:
"That b**** don't understand what it mean to belong to a man."
(Met with many an expletive from my wonderfully blunt feminist co-worker)
"He's making me sell myself again... and give him the money."
(But Sabrina, he always did.)
--cursing--
--sobbing--
And then they moved to Saginaw, and we didn't hear from them as often.
This week, Cash came back for the holidays, with a picture. Their daughter. They are still together.
--
The first time I met Julia, she asked me if I had a space heater that she could bring to her storage unit where she kept nothing but boxes of books so that she could read them all night and not be cold.
The first time I met George Anthony, he was wearing a long black trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase and 'representing' a client in my office.
They had their pre-marital counseling in our waiting room--their marriage was in a courthouse.
I saw them a month later, together, hauling a executive desk up Fulton hill to their apartment.
I saw them both two months after that, apart.
George Anthony says she was more loyal to her psychotropic medication than she was to him.
Julia says he was committed to the bottle (and that he started studying Hitler).
Today, she told me they are getting a divorce.
He's Nazi-ing it.
She's not seeing it.
--
"I have heard that the easiest way to get out of here is to get married to someone and share their stuff and make sure no one gets played or killed or stole from, and you have your attitude higher because there's someone else that helps get it higher, and they say nice things to you that make you want to get up and do something good, but I want to know, married to who? Who the f*** are the people in this story married to?"
For one wedding, I was the photographer, but there was hardly any room for me to get around to get a good angle--the place was packed. It was a different kind of wedding; the matron of honor was texting during the ceremony, and the best man was taking pictures of himself by holding a disposable 35mm out in front of himself with his left arm. After a near-deafening chorus of Amazing Grace, they exchanged LiveStrong bracelets, and went on their honeymoon in their friend's apartment down the street.
We saw Sabrina and Cash almost every day after that, or at least one of them.
We heard:
"That b**** don't understand what it mean to belong to a man."
(Met with many an expletive from my wonderfully blunt feminist co-worker)
"He's making me sell myself again... and give him the money."
(But Sabrina, he always did.)
--cursing--
--sobbing--
This week, Cash came back for the holidays, with a picture. Their daughter. They are still together.
--
The first time I met Julia, she asked me if I had a space heater that she could bring to her storage unit where she kept nothing but boxes of books so that she could read them all night and not be cold.
The first time I met George Anthony, he was wearing a long black trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase and 'representing' a client in my office.
They had their pre-marital counseling in our waiting room--their marriage was in a courthouse.
I saw them a month later, together, hauling a executive desk up Fulton hill to their apartment.
I saw them both two months after that, apart.
George Anthony says she was more loyal to her psychotropic medication than she was to him.
Julia says he was committed to the bottle (and that he started studying Hitler).
Today, she told me they are getting a divorce.
He's Nazi-ing it.
She's not seeing it.
--
"I have heard that the easiest way to get out of here is to get married to someone and share their stuff and make sure no one gets played or killed or stole from, and you have your attitude higher because there's someone else that helps get it higher, and they say nice things to you that make you want to get up and do something good, but I want to know, married to who? Who the f*** are the people in this story married to?"
21 December 2009
Anyone Can
My co-worker and I once watched Gerald walk down the street, bracing himself against the brick wall in between stumbles, hardly able to hold onto his bag-covered bottle... it took him five minutes to travel each shop-length... and we said "If Gerald can make it out of here alive, anyone can."
He asked me to help him fill out a medical examination with him once, since he couldn't see through his greasy, chin-length blonde bangs, and since he couldn't see anyway, or maneuver a writing utensil. We came to the question "How much alcohol do you drink each day?" and in between hysterical fits of laughter, he finally manages to tell me that seriously, it was usually more than 2 gallons, depending on how much he could pan-handle.
Even his drinking buddies tried to refuse him a drink sometimes: "Gerry, even though we have to watch you die, we're not going to help you."
-----
We hadn't seen Gerald in a while, and we assumed the worst, but there was rumors going around that he went to rehab (which were usually met by sarcasm: "Like he could walk that far.") We still talked about him, thought about him, wondered about him, hoping the rumors were true.
Last week, a man walked through the door: clean shaven, hair cut, clean clothes, walking straight, and in clear, un-slurred speech said to us: "Merry Christmas. I love you." He gave us each a hug, gave us each a wrapped Christmas present with the strict instructions not to open it until Christmas morning, and left.
We looked at each other in disbelief and said, "Anyone can."
He asked me to help him fill out a medical examination with him once, since he couldn't see through his greasy, chin-length blonde bangs, and since he couldn't see anyway, or maneuver a writing utensil. We came to the question "How much alcohol do you drink each day?" and in between hysterical fits of laughter, he finally manages to tell me that seriously, it was usually more than 2 gallons, depending on how much he could pan-handle.
Even his drinking buddies tried to refuse him a drink sometimes: "Gerry, even though we have to watch you die, we're not going to help you."
-----
We hadn't seen Gerald in a while, and we assumed the worst, but there was rumors going around that he went to rehab (which were usually met by sarcasm: "Like he could walk that far.") We still talked about him, thought about him, wondered about him, hoping the rumors were true.
Last week, a man walked through the door: clean shaven, hair cut, clean clothes, walking straight, and in clear, un-slurred speech said to us: "Merry Christmas. I love you." He gave us each a hug, gave us each a wrapped Christmas present with the strict instructions not to open it until Christmas morning, and left.
We looked at each other in disbelief and said, "Anyone can."
11 September 2009
What Allison's Doing
Allison and Nathaniel have been together for a while now. She's told me a lot of funny stories about them getting caught making out in public--only one charge with indecent exposure, but you know when you're drinking, those are pretty good stats. All in good fun, all in good fun.
But Nathaniel drank so much last week, that when he tried to stand up, he stumbled onto some rocks and fell straight into the Grand River. Yes, kind of funny, would have been funny, but he had to go to the Emergency Room, and they ended up putting a plate in his ankle. They told him that if he tries to stand or walk on his ankle with this plate in it, he will sever vital nerves and muscle tissue, and his leg will have to be amputated. But when you have straight Medicaid and that's it, they don't give you much choice but to walk--they also sometimes forget to serve your meals or ask you if you're in pain. They pretend like you're not going through alcohol withdrawls, and when the DT's get really bad, they don't come around very much.
Allison goes to be with him everyday, and though it bothers her to see him going through the withdrawls, but she understands, because she's 2 1/3 days sober, too. Allison found out she was pregnant two and 1/3 days ago at the pregnancy resource center. She'd 45, but she's going to make sure this baby is okay, even if she doesn't know where it will live when it's born. Nathaniel says he'll marry her, that he'd do anything for her, but there's a lot that he can't do. She has the list--where you start calling when you're homeless expecting a child. It's a thick and tangled system, but after a good cry in the office, she feels more ready for it (If she drinks in the company of her old friends, she know they'll just offer her a drink, and she'll take it. She doesn't want to drink.)
And then, everything was okay, even though Nathaniel was still in the hospital and Allison was coming to terms with her pregnancy, but then someone stole her backpack (translation: someone stole her ID, all the clothing she owned, her shoes, the few letters and scripture passages she had collected).
That was too much.
But that was something I could change.
This morning, Allison took a shower, and armed with a new backpack, pair of shoes, pair of socks, t-shirts and personal hygiene products, walked back to Nathaniel's room to tell him that she was okay.
But Nathaniel drank so much last week, that when he tried to stand up, he stumbled onto some rocks and fell straight into the Grand River. Yes, kind of funny, would have been funny, but he had to go to the Emergency Room, and they ended up putting a plate in his ankle. They told him that if he tries to stand or walk on his ankle with this plate in it, he will sever vital nerves and muscle tissue, and his leg will have to be amputated. But when you have straight Medicaid and that's it, they don't give you much choice but to walk--they also sometimes forget to serve your meals or ask you if you're in pain. They pretend like you're not going through alcohol withdrawls, and when the DT's get really bad, they don't come around very much.
Allison goes to be with him everyday, and though it bothers her to see him going through the withdrawls, but she understands, because she's 2 1/3 days sober, too. Allison found out she was pregnant two and 1/3 days ago at the pregnancy resource center. She'd 45, but she's going to make sure this baby is okay, even if she doesn't know where it will live when it's born. Nathaniel says he'll marry her, that he'd do anything for her, but there's a lot that he can't do. She has the list--where you start calling when you're homeless expecting a child. It's a thick and tangled system, but after a good cry in the office, she feels more ready for it (If she drinks in the company of her old friends, she know they'll just offer her a drink, and she'll take it. She doesn't want to drink.)
And then, everything was okay, even though Nathaniel was still in the hospital and Allison was coming to terms with her pregnancy, but then someone stole her backpack (translation: someone stole her ID, all the clothing she owned, her shoes, the few letters and scripture passages she had collected).
That was too much.
But that was something I could change.
This morning, Allison took a shower, and armed with a new backpack, pair of shoes, pair of socks, t-shirts and personal hygiene products, walked back to Nathaniel's room to tell him that she was okay.
20 July 2009
Alcoholics Don't Litter Half-Full Beers
They all call Sam "Old Man", including me, because he looks like he's about 98. He's really more likely to be in his 60's, but he's an alcoholic, and it ages you faster than having five kids under the age of five.
Despite his kind-old-decrepid-man appearance, Sam goes to jail weekly (his open-mouthed mugshot is usually good cover-fodder for BUSTED!!! magazine.) They get him for trespassing (watch how far you stumble off the sidewalk, and try to steer yourself street-side), for public intoxication, and most recently, for littering.
Sam was sitting by the statue on Division and Fulton, drinking his favorite beer (any beer). He set the can down on the statue to give his forearm muscles a break, and was arrested for littering. This was how the conversation went:
"Sir, you are under an arrest."
"I'm not done with my beer yet!"
"You seemed like you were done when you left your litter on the statue."
"Litter! Hah! Lady, I'm an alcoholic. Alcoholics don't throw away half-full cans of beer."
"Come with me."
"At least let me finish my beer and then arrest me for public intoxication!"
Sam says the police women wanted the rest of the beer, and though I told him I doubted it, I did wonder what exactly it was she wanted.
16 July 2009
8 Crab Ragoons and a Whole Basball Hat of Lo Mein Noodles
Eric has reported that there are strange cults meeting in the graveyard out where he works. He wouldn't know, except the only employment that he could find is too far away from the homeless shelters for him to stay there are night, so he camps in the woods by the graveyard.
"What did they do when they saw you?"
"I didn't let them see me! I covered myself with leaves! Hell, I was scared!"
Because of his new leaf-covered bedroom, Eric has been able to keep his job, and just got paid. Eric hasn't had $400 in his pocket for a long time.
"It's messing with my head. I can't stand it. Anna, I can't carry this much money. I'll drink $100 of it, and by that time, I'll either lose the rest, or someone will steal it. Anna, you have to keep it for me."
We can't keep people's money here--we've talked about it frequently, because it is something that many people request when they recieve large sums of money. They trust us more than they trust themselves... or the banks.
"I can't keep it Eric."
"Then I'm screwed. What have I been working for these last two weeks?"
Eric has a locker here at Degage where he keeps his clothes and hygiene items. I made a deal with Eric. If he would trust me, I would hide his money in his locker, somewhere he couldn't find it, and get it for him when he asked me for it. There's another part of the deal: he has to be sober when he asks.
Eric consented.
It was really hard to find a place to hide a large sum of money in someone's relatively organized rectangular locker. But I found a really good place. I'm not telling you where.
The next three times I saw Eric, he was completely wasted.
"No."
"Anna, only $20. Please."
"No."
Eric tore apart his locker for three days looking for his money, and couldn't find it (victorious!) He never cursed me, except to say "Damn, Anna, you sure know how to hide!"
He came back two days later, and passed my self-sacrificial breathalizer test. His breath was bad, but non-alcoholic. He was on his way out to dinner, and was taking a friend. He wanted $20. He waited in the bathroom while I got it from him.
After his dinner, Eric came in with a flower--a flower that looked like it was pulled up from the roots. It even had some dirt on it still.
"Thank you, Anna. I'm so glad I can trust you. I had 8 crab ragoons, and a whole baseball hat full of Lo Mein noodles. I would have never been able to have that without you."
Thanks?
And to whomever's garden was ransacked for the sake of Eric's thank you, I apologize. But I really appreciate that flower.
"What did they do when they saw you?"
"I didn't let them see me! I covered myself with leaves! Hell, I was scared!"
Because of his new leaf-covered bedroom, Eric has been able to keep his job, and just got paid. Eric hasn't had $400 in his pocket for a long time.
"It's messing with my head. I can't stand it. Anna, I can't carry this much money. I'll drink $100 of it, and by that time, I'll either lose the rest, or someone will steal it. Anna, you have to keep it for me."
We can't keep people's money here--we've talked about it frequently, because it is something that many people request when they recieve large sums of money. They trust us more than they trust themselves... or the banks.
"I can't keep it Eric."
"Then I'm screwed. What have I been working for these last two weeks?"
Eric has a locker here at Degage where he keeps his clothes and hygiene items. I made a deal with Eric. If he would trust me, I would hide his money in his locker, somewhere he couldn't find it, and get it for him when he asked me for it. There's another part of the deal: he has to be sober when he asks.
Eric consented.
It was really hard to find a place to hide a large sum of money in someone's relatively organized rectangular locker. But I found a really good place. I'm not telling you where.
The next three times I saw Eric, he was completely wasted.
"No."
"Anna, only $20. Please."
"No."
Eric tore apart his locker for three days looking for his money, and couldn't find it (victorious!) He never cursed me, except to say "Damn, Anna, you sure know how to hide!"
He came back two days later, and passed my self-sacrificial breathalizer test. His breath was bad, but non-alcoholic. He was on his way out to dinner, and was taking a friend. He wanted $20. He waited in the bathroom while I got it from him.
After his dinner, Eric came in with a flower--a flower that looked like it was pulled up from the roots. It even had some dirt on it still.
"Thank you, Anna. I'm so glad I can trust you. I had 8 crab ragoons, and a whole baseball hat full of Lo Mein noodles. I would have never been able to have that without you."
Thanks?
And to whomever's garden was ransacked for the sake of Eric's thank you, I apologize. But I really appreciate that flower.
07 July 2009
I Love Paulie, His Staples, His Racoon Eyes
Paulie got so drunk last week, he blacked out in his apartment and had to get staples in his head. He also evidently fell asleep in the sun with his sunglasses on, because when he came to talk to me, his face was impressively tan with the exception of white circles around his eyes.
"It's not all fun and games anymore, Anna. This is for real now, I guess."
Most people wouldn't describe a life of homelessness as "fun and games" at any point, especially not at the beginning. But Paulie is 19, and spent the first year after being kicked out of his parent's house in Holland volunteering to take out the trash at Tini Bikini's so he could hang out with some of the girls. That was fun.
Then he got bored, so he got a job. He got a job by smiling. He's cute.
He worked at the Bistro and got to eat the "best food ever. All the time. You would like it." That was fun.
Then he decided to go back to school, so he applied and recieved a Pell grant. He registered for four classes at Community College, dropped three, and barely attended one. Not as fun.
Then he got sick of sleeping by other dudes--older dudes who weren't as good at gelling their hair as he was. So he applied for an apartment at Verne Barry Place, subsidized government housing reserved for those with physical and mental disabilities. Paulie turned in his ADD diagnosis, and got a nice, newly furnished, studio apartment for free. The girls from Tini Bikini's weren't allowed to come up and visit, though, so he got bored.
So he started drinking again (he never stopped drinking, but at least he got distracted during the daytime). There's a rule downtown that any sort of voucher (bus tickets, Degage Dollars, food stamps) were worth half their price in cash. Instead of $150 in shrimp and potato chips (Paulie's favorite foodstamp expenditures), he could get at least $70 in alcohol. Sounds like fun.
But last week, sporting staples in his head, Paulie smiles less. Time to do something about it, he guesses. Time to look into detox, rehab, maybe a more supportive group of friends.
But this week, he forgot the fear he felt when he woke up on the floor of his apartment, his head bleeding. This week, he's back to his MP3 player, asking me to look up the dates of the concerts at Van Andel.
This week, I hope that the love I show Paulie (I love Paulie) is not as helpless as it feels.
"It's not all fun and games anymore, Anna. This is for real now, I guess."
Most people wouldn't describe a life of homelessness as "fun and games" at any point, especially not at the beginning. But Paulie is 19, and spent the first year after being kicked out of his parent's house in Holland volunteering to take out the trash at Tini Bikini's so he could hang out with some of the girls. That was fun.
Then he got bored, so he got a job. He got a job by smiling. He's cute.
He worked at the Bistro and got to eat the "best food ever. All the time. You would like it." That was fun.
Then he decided to go back to school, so he applied and recieved a Pell grant. He registered for four classes at Community College, dropped three, and barely attended one. Not as fun.
Then he got sick of sleeping by other dudes--older dudes who weren't as good at gelling their hair as he was. So he applied for an apartment at Verne Barry Place, subsidized government housing reserved for those with physical and mental disabilities. Paulie turned in his ADD diagnosis, and got a nice, newly furnished, studio apartment for free. The girls from Tini Bikini's weren't allowed to come up and visit, though, so he got bored.
So he started drinking again (he never stopped drinking, but at least he got distracted during the daytime). There's a rule downtown that any sort of voucher (bus tickets, Degage Dollars, food stamps) were worth half their price in cash. Instead of $150 in shrimp and potato chips (Paulie's favorite foodstamp expenditures), he could get at least $70 in alcohol. Sounds like fun.
But last week, sporting staples in his head, Paulie smiles less. Time to do something about it, he guesses. Time to look into detox, rehab, maybe a more supportive group of friends.
But this week, he forgot the fear he felt when he woke up on the floor of his apartment, his head bleeding. This week, he's back to his MP3 player, asking me to look up the dates of the concerts at Van Andel.
This week, I hope that the love I show Paulie (I love Paulie) is not as helpless as it feels.
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