Welcome to My World

by Curtis Bunn

  “At this point, what good is learning about it? He’s gone.”

  “If you wanted to help me, you damn sure would want to help him, if you could. Right?”

  “That’s true, but he probably ran off with another woman. And that ain’t got nothing to do with being bipolar. But it’s kinda ironic you telling me all this. How are you doing with managing your thing?”

  “Hahaha. My thing? That’s a nice way to put it. I’m doing all right. I have had my moments, though, that you haven’t seen—I hope you never see.”

  “Like what?”

  I was hesitant to tell Brenda because I had finally come to accept her as a potential friend. I didn’t want to run her off. Hearing about my issues could have turned her away. But I took the risk because she asked and also because it would serve as a test to see how committed she was.

  “Two or three nights ago, about an hour after you went home, I had this feeling of paranoia come over me. It seemed so real that dogs were after me. They came from everywhere. I was sleeping over near the Civic Center. I woke up scared and all I could see were dogs coming at me from all angles. I got up and ran.

  “I ran about two miles, down past Krispy Kreme and up Ponce toward Boulevard before the dogs disappeared—just when I got too tired to run anymore. Something in me knew it wasn’t real. But it felt too real to not run.”

  “Oh, my God, Rodney. I’m so sorry to hear this. How often does this happen?”

  “No telling. Every few days, once a week.”

  “OK, I’m your friend, right? And you’re mine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let me take you to a doctor to get you some medication.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you that medication makes me feel different and trapped. I don’t feel like myself. It’s like I’m a zombie or not in control.”

  “But the medication keeps away the drama, right? It helps you function more stably, right?”

  “Overall, it does. Yes. But . . ..”

  “But I’d like to see you one hundred percent healthy.”

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “Well, the best you can be. That’s all any of us can ask of ourselves. Shit, even on our best days, we fall short of being a hundred percent. It has to be about being the best we can be.

  “And if you will allow me to say this: You’re not at your best living on the streets and in a shelter.”

  “That’s your opinion. And opinions are like assholes—everyone has one.”

  “But Rodney, if you get consistent with your thoughts and not have the stretches of paranoia and hallucinations and stuff, you will settle in and realize you need to pick yourself all the way up, get a job and a place . . . and live. Your wife and daughters would want that.”

  She had some nerve telling me what my family would want. I was able to talk to her because she seemed careful about not overstepping her boundaries or assuming to know what my life was like or what was best for me.

  “You ever seen my wife? Ever talked to my daughters?”

  “No.”

  “So how in the hell you gonna tell me what they would want?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just guessing.”

  “Don’t speak on them. They are looking at me and glad I’m living like I’m living. Why would they want the best for me after I killed them?”

  “It was an accident, Rodney. You didn’t kill them. They died, but you didn’t kill them.”

  “That shit makes no sense. This conversation makes no sense. I know what went on and what’s going on in my life and in my head and you can’t change it. You ain’t God. You ain’t a hypnotist. What’s in my head is in my head. And it ain’t never going anywhere.”

  “So this is it? This is the life you’re going to live for the next twenty, thirty years?”

  “Hopefully long before then, I will die. Pneumonia. Hit by a train. A stray bullet. Cancer. Brain tumor. Something. Maybe then I can see my family again with smiles on their faces. All I can see now is them in fear and death.”

  “I’ve got to say that I really don’t like to hear you talk like that. You have too much to offer.”

  “You’ve said that before. I don’t have anything to offer anyone. I can only disgust or make someone sad.”

  We walked the rest of the way—about fifteen minutes—to Brenda’s car without saying a word. I figured she was thinking she did not want to further upset me. I didn’t have anything to offer.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said before she got into her car. “Are you happy with your life?”

  “Am I happy? Well, I’m happier than I had been. Why?”

  “No one has ever called you on your cell phone when we’re together. No one texts you. I have seen people who damn near got hit by cars because they were on their phones walking down the street. I have seen people damn near kill themselves trying to drive and text at the same time. Senior citizens. Kids. Even homeless guys, guys in the shelter have cell phones and get phone calls. But you—no one calls you. Ever.”

  I did not mean to embarrass Brenda, but I had. I was not going to apologize because I considered apologies worthless. But I was going to try to temper it a little, but she stopped me.

  “Sad, right? You said something that was true: We’re alike. Maybe that’s what drew me to you. I don’t know. But I’m OK with not having a lot of people calling me. People are only of good when they are not focused on themselves. And most people most of the time don’t give a damn about you.”

  Suddenly, I knew I liked and cared about Brenda because the roles reversed. I tried to give her advice.

  “You’re an attractive woman. You should be going on dates, not walking around with a homeless, hopeless man. I told you months ago that your life was shit, but that doesn’t apply anymore. I see that you have life in you. It’s a waste to waste it with me.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Rodney, I have life in me, as you put it, because I met you. You were right when we first met. I had nothing going on. But since I began talking to you, which helped me feel better about myself, I’ve gotten a new job. I’ve lost weight. And most importantly, I have a new friend.

  “Maybe I will meet a guy one day. But it’s not what’s going to make me whole.”

  Her answer again reinforced who she was—a good person. In an indirect way, I was testing Brenda, which was not fair, but I could not help it. I did not want her to find a man. Finding a man would mean she’d likely spend less time with me. And after two years, I could finally admit that even in my pain, I was lonely.

  Although I spent most of my time alone, because Brenda cared, really cared, I did not feel as lonely anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: WHAT HAVE WE HERE?

  BRENDA

  The new job was in Buckhead, across from Phipps Plaza, which was great for two reasons: one, it was full time and with a salary slightly more than my previous full-time salary and, two, there were two shopping malls one block away.

  It was strange how my world opened up when my attitude changed. I almost believed the unfortunate and bad things that happened to me fed off each other because I did not put up a fight. Instead, I just sunk deeper and deeper into a personal abyss.

  No way I could have known befriending Rodney would be the jumpstart to rebuilding my self-esteem. Above all, I had been taught by my parents to help people: And do so unconditionally, without expecting anything in return.

  The nightly walks with Rodney helped me to get closer to my old size, a size in which I felt more comfortable: in my clothes and in my skin. I had called myself “big-boned” or “thick,” when the reality was I should have been wearing an 8 or a 10, not a 16 or an 18.

  By cutting out fast-foods and processed foods and walking with Rodney, I melted away six sizes, down to a 12. I was so proud of myself. Gaining weight was easy and fast. A couple times I told myself I would go on a cleanse or get a personal trainer or stop eati
ng junk food. But it was all talk. I was addicted to the bad stuff, and it had a stronghold on me.

  One night after I had met and then could not find Rodney. I looked at myself in the mirror and I cried. Not just because I was not happy with what I saw, but mostly because I believed I did not have it in me to change it.

  Rodney deserved the credit for my change because he challenged me. Not only did he walk me, but he also talked to me about diet and educated me on the value of eating fresh fruits and vegetables instead of Krispy Kreme and Mrs. Smith’s. He introduced apple cider vinegar into my life, a health tonic that fought diabetes, suppressed the appetite, lowered blood sugar and so much more.

  He said if I followed his plan, I would see major results in a few weeks. He was right. And he said I would feel better and feel better about myself in the process. He was right about that, too.

  It was strange that I did what Rodney suggested. I easily could have found most of what he told me to do on the Internet. I had Googled how to lose weight in a healthy way and the entries were limitless. But I did not act on anything I had read.

  I smiled to myself thinking about the irony as I walked out the Tahari boutique at Phipps Plaza during my lunch break. This man, Norman, noticed.

  “Must be a good daydream,” he said.

  Norman was not tall. We were eye-to-eye in my heels, which made me appear about five feet ten inches. But he oozed confidence. And he was so comfortable with himself that he made me comfortable.

  “I’m just a happy person. So I smile,” I said. That was the best relatively clever thing I could come up with.

  “That’s a good thing. Most people are burdened by something, and it shows on their faces. It’s a good change to see happiness on someone’s face.”

  He then introduced himself and within ten minutes, we were sitting in The Tavern having lunch. Turned out, he was on his break and browsing the mall when our paths crossed.

  I felt reinvigorated, much as I did with Rodney, only different. A professional, attractive man had an interest in me. This was another world from where I had been just a few months earlier.

  Preventing a perpetual smile from creasing my face during that forty-minute lunch was a chore. My heart danced—not because I was so caught up, but because it was awakened.

  Before we departed, Norman said: “Thank you for trusting me enough to have lunch with me. I’m glad we met. I hope it’s not the last time I see you.”

  Too excited to follow protocol, I volunteered my phone number. We hugged and I felt like a woman.

  The essence of being a woman was feeling sexy and powerful and in control and smart and tender and tough and caring. Yes, all that. And I had begun, through Rodney’s influence, to regain much of that. The sexy part was missing . . . until that moment.

  Having not dated in so long, I could have been a little rusty about judging men. And maybe I was wrong, but I left Norman feeling like I had come upon someone good for me.

  The remnants, though, of Troy remained, and so I would not dare throw myself into any man, no matter how smooth he was or how horny I was.

  Troy did not ruin it for other men, but he definitely made it more difficult for someone to get close to me. Trust was in short supply. If Troy could walk away from me and we were married, why wouldn’t Norman . . . or any man?

  After nearly a month of dating Norman, I made a decision about him: He was not Rodney.

  That decision shocked me. I had not planned to compare the two. There was no comparison, I thought. I had no romantic interest or connection to Rodney. But with Norman, I did not have that organic connection that produced hours-long substantive conversations that I had with Rodney. And that was so important to me. Good, mature conversation was sexy.

  And one night, Norman sensed something.

  “So, can we have a real conversation?” he asked.

  “Don’t we always?”

  “I’m not sure. And I’m not sure because either you don’t really like me or you’re seeing someone else—or both.”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because it’s almost midnight and it’s the first time I’m hearing from you today. And it would be one thing if this was rare, but it’s almost every day. I can’t reach you until late at night. So, seems to me you’re seeing someone when you get off work and then talking to me before you go to bed.”

  “On weekends, we have gotten together early and gone to dinner,” was my feeble comeback. He just looked at me.

  “OK, there is someone,” I said.

  Norman’s facial expression changed to disappointment.

  “But it’s not what you think,” I quickly added. “I have a friend that I see on most days after work. His name is Rodney. We walk and talk and he’s become my closest friend over the summer.”

  “So there’s no romance?”

  “No. We’re very close now, though. And here’s the thing: He’s homeless.”

  I watched Norman closely. His response was going to determine our friendship. If he acted like a snob, it was over. If he accepted my friendship with Rodney, he had a chance.

  “Really?” he said. “That’s interesting. How did that happen? How did you meet?”

  And with that, he passed. I went on to tell him about how Rodney and I met and about Rodney and what his friendship meant to me.

  “That’s really special, Brenda,” he said. “That says a lot about you. Have you told him about me?”

  “I haven’t. Wasn’t sure you would still be here.”

  We laughed.

  “But I’m going to tell him tomorrow. And I want you to meet him.”

  That next Saturday afternoon, I met Rodney on North Avenue behind Ponce City Market. I had bought him a pre-paid cell phone, so we could not lose touch. He was reluctant to take it, but he did. And he improved his appearance on most days. I was so happy that day to see that he looked fresh in “new” clothes and was relatively groomed.

  “You got a haircut?”

  “A trim. Guy wanted to cut it all the way down, but I didn’t want that. Wanted to shave all the hair off my face, but a black man with no facial hair doesn’t quite look right to me.”

  I laughed.

  “Can I treat you to lunch? Let’s go to Piedmont Park. There’s a food truck festival.”

  And so we walked and talked over the almost three-mile walk to the park. I paid our entry fee and we walked among the thousands of people on the picturesque sunny day.

  It was strange that I felt uncomfortable telling Rodney about Norman. Intuitively, I believed he could get jealous. Or was that my ego?

  I waited until we had each had a Cuban sandwich and salad. We sat on the grass in the huge open field, watching people toss Frisbees, fly kites and play with dogs.

  “So, Rodney, I met this guy and—”

  “What? You met a guy? You’re dating him?”

  That response made me really uncomfortable.

  “I met this guy named Norman about a month ago. He’s a nice man. I wanted to tell you about him and for you to meet him, so you can give me your thoughts.”

  Rodney was agitated. Was he jealous? Or was he about to have an episode?

  “His name is Norman? That’s not his real name. Did you tell him about me?”

  “I told him I had one friend I wanted him to meet.”

  “He’s a spy. Brenda, don’t you get it. People are after me. They won’t leave me alone. As soon as I get comfortable or think they’re gone, they find another way.”

  He started looking over his shoulder and all around us. My heart started racing.

  “Rodney, you don’t have to meet him. Don’t worry about it. It’s OK.”

  “It’s OK?” he yelled. “How the hell is it OK when you’re bringing a spy around me?”

  “OK, Rodney, please calm down.”

  He didn’t. It got worse.

  “I bet he followed us here. He did, didn’t he?”

  His voice got louder and people started to notice.


  “You told him to meet us here? What’s he look like? Did you see him with a gun?”

  “Rodney, please—”

  Then he jumped up.

  “That’s him,” he yelled, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to look. I saw no one. When I turned back, all I could see was Rodney’s back as he sprinted across the field like a track star, looking back occasionally until he disappeared behind the Park Tavern on the corner.

  I was devastated. I had set him off. Also, I was disappointed in myself. Rodney had opened up to me that he still experienced episodes, but as long as I did not see them, I did not think much about them. The reality was I should have pressed him on seeking help. If he would not take the medication, maybe he would go to therapy, and maybe there he could be convinced to get the medicine.

  People looked at me as if I had a problem after he ran off. I sat there unable to move and uncertain of what to do in that moment. I sipped on my sweet iced tea and decided I would wait a few hours and call Rodney.

  I just hoped he would answer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: REALITY CHECK

  RODNEY

  “Hello?”

  “Rodney? It’s Brenda.”

  “Yeah, I know. No one else calls me.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes. Sure. Why you ask?”

  “What? You ran off and left me at the park yesterday. I’ve been calling you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You telling me you don’t remember us sitting down at Piedmont Park, talking? And then I told you I met a guy that I’d like you to meet—and then you got up and ran.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  That scared me. I knew Brenda was speaking the truth. And so was I.

  I was scared because there were other times I had been told something happened and I didn’t recall.

  “You don’t remember us walking to the park and—”

  “What park?”

  “Piedmont Park, for the food truck festival.”

  “We didn’t go to no food truck festival. What are you talking about? We walked the Beltline and then went to the shelter and I introduced you to Tony and Oz. They told you their stories and then the police came. Someone had robbed a couple and they lined all us up to see if we were involved, or knew who was involved.