by Curtis Bunn
“That’s all I wanted to hear. We could have saved the last ten minutes. But be clear about this: I’m not trying to control you. That’s not my personality. I actually follow the man’s lead. I believe that’s the way it should be.”
“OK, well, are we good?”
“We’re good.”
“Well, there is one more thing,” Norman said. “A requirement I have is that the woman I’m involved with does not hide me from people close to her. You seem to not want to tell your friend about us and I don’t like that.”
“You make a good point. This is a different case, though. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him about us. It’s that I already did and he didn’t handle it well. He does not remember me telling him. But he ran away from me, talking about you were a spy trying to catch him.”
“Oh, this dude has problems.”
“I told you that. But we’re going to a therapist to—”
“We? What do you mean, ‘We’re going to a therapist’?”
“I told you that already.”
“I found a therapist for him to talk through his issues to try to get him right, so he can get off the streets and try to lead a normal life.”
“And you think this guy isn’t falling for you? You’re helping him like this, walking with him almost every day, and he just sees you as another woman?”
“He sees me as his friend. There has not been one questionable comment or act in all these months I have known him. We hugged the other day for the first time, and then only because he has cleaned himself up much better lately.”
“Yeah, he didn’t really look homeless to me when I saw him.”
“Well, you didn’t see him at the McDonald’s on Ponce when I first met him. That’s where he spent a lot of his time. It was obvious he was homeless then. But I have helped him and he has helped me.”
“Bottom line: Are you going to tell him about us?”
“Yes, Norman. I am. I’m going to talk to the therapist first and see what she says about how I should do it. I’m going to see her by myself. But why are you jealous of a homeless man who has been a blessing in my life?”
“He’s a man, right? Homeless or not, you apparently have really strong feelings for him. Maybe I shouldn’t be concerned—well, I’m not concerned—maybe it shouldn’t matter. But it does.”
“I will tell Rodney. I just have to figure it out with the therapist because I don’t want to upset him again. Seeing him have an episode like that was scary.”
“But are you missing the point? Why would he have an episode when you told him about me if he didn’t care about you?”
I had thought about that long and hard. I didn’t have a concrete answer. But I had a theory. “This is a man who for two years has been crushed by the death of his wife and children. He went to the streets. He didn’t have anyone to turn to. No one talked to him and he talked to no one.
“And then here I come along and convince him—and it wasn’t easy—that I was interested in his well-being. So he and I eventually formed a connection. And maybe he felt that threatened that the connection we created, which had become important to him, could be broken. I don’t know. It’s a theory.”
“Well, the guy is obviously very sick, so there’s no telling what the deal is with him. But I will say to be careful. Because he’s so out there, bipolar, living on the streets, you never know what could trigger him to turn on you.”
“He’s not a dog, Norman. He’s not a pit bull. He’s a human and a nice man who had his world turned upside down. There are so many people with bipolar that it’s not even funny. And there are ways to manage it. That’s what we’re working on.
“And doing that with him does not mean anything to our relationship. So I’d appreciate your support as I try to help this man get his life back in order. He deserves that from me because, really, if it were not for him, you would not have said a word to me at the mall when we met. I would not have been at the mall and I would not have looked like I do now. Rodney changed my world.”
CHAPTER TWENTY: HATERS GONNA HATE
RODNEY
I rested on a bench, my jacket serving as a mattress, by the tennis courts at Central Park. It felt like it was about midnight. For the first time in a long time, I could not sleep.
I wondered about Brenda. Each of the previous three nights, she either did not answer the phone or rushed me off it. Was she trying to distance herself from me? That was the only thought that flooded my brain.
When I finally dozed off—after watching two dogs fight on the softball field—I dreamed of my family. The same dream. Only I was awakened before the crash by the sound of thunder. Rain was coming, and I did not have the energy to seek shelter.
Plus, I liked the rain. It was like a natural shower. At night especially, the rain was like sleeping music. That night, though, I could sense it was going to be heaving, so I pulled myself up and took up a spot in the back of Publix grocery store on Piedmont Avenue.
The storm was aggressive and loud, with bolts of lightning brightening the sky. I had no idea why, but I cried for a time. I think it was the confusion in my head that had me twisted.
I heard so much chatter: my wife asking what I was doing; the devil telling me to punish myself; Brenda insisting I had something to offer the world; Skip telling me he was going to kill me. I felt hopeless.
When the sun came up, though, I felt hopeful in that it was a new day and Brenda and I had an appointment with the therapist. That was new for me. I had no optimism about anything. The next day had been like the last—full of nothing good.
I used the Publix bathroom to relieve myself and rinse my face. I had a small bottle of mouthwash, and so I gargled with that. My clothes were damp and rank. And it seemed like everyone I passed stared at me.
Out of habit, I walked over to McDonald’s. A part of me hoped I would see Brenda, although I knew she had given up on fast-foods. Chester was already there. I hadn’t seen him in a week.
“Where you been, man?” I asked.
“Hospital. Had pneumonia.”
“Damn. How you feeling?”
“Like I just have the flu now.”
“Why you leave the hospital then?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t want to be there anymore.”
“Stay away from me. I don’t need to be sick.”
I pulled out a copy of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution to read when a guy came over.
“Hey man, here.” He held out what looked like a few dollars. “Get yourself something to eat.”
I hadn’t asked him for anything. I did not see him. Countless times I received money from people, but never when I hadn’t asked for any.
“Why are you giving me money?” I asked him. I did not take the cash. Something about him didn’t feel right. He was neatly dressed and I smelled cologne.
“You don’t want it? Don’t you need it?”
“Man, thanks, but no thanks.”
“Aren’t you Brenda’s friend?”
That jolted me. How did he know that? Who the hell was he?
“Who are you?”
“You’re Rodney, right?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Brenda’s friend, too. She didn’t tell you about me?”
“What’s there to tell? And how do you know who I am?”
“I’m Brenda’s man. We’re in a relationship. She didn’t tell you?”
I was taken aback. Brenda and I had become so close—she was my only friend. Who was this guy who knew my name, what I looked like, where to find me? And yet I’d never heard of him.
“No. Never heard of you.”
“Interesting. Well, I’m Norman. We’ve been dating about a month now. She’s my woman. She’s told me a lot about you. That’s strange if you all are supposed to be so close that she hasn’t told you about us.”
Something about the way this man spoke to me made me feel like he was trying to get me angry. Or jealous. Or something. I couldn’t pinpoint wh
at it was. But I attacked right back.
“Norton, I don’t—”
“Norman. My name is Norman.”
“Oh, my bad. Nellie, Brenda never said a word about you, so maybe you’re not that important to her.”
“Why can’t you call me by my name? Brenda told me you’re crazy, but I thought you could hear.”
“Crazy? She told you I’m crazy? Then you should know that you’re putting your health at risk being here. Did you hear that?”
“Relax, man. I was just here to meet you and to help you get something to eat. Wanted to meet the man my woman has spent so much time with.”
“Why? You threatened?”
“If you had something to give her, maybe I would be. But you ain’t got a car, a house and probably don’t have a wallet. Damn sure know you ain’t got no money in it, if you do have one. So threatened? I’m more threatened by the weather than you.”
“Nancy, you should get the hell out of here.”
“Nancy? You’re being really disrespectful right now.”
I was not into fighting, but I could fight, as Skip learned. I was about to show this guy that I could, too. I walked closer to him and leaned into his ear.
“What you gonna do about it, Nana?”
And just like that, I took his heart. He backed away.
“Don’t get on edge,” he said. “I just wanted to meet you and help you out.”
“You came here to talk shit, which means you came here to get your ass whipped. Take that two dollars and buy yourself some courage.”
He turned and damn near ran away. I turned to Chester.
“He’s the kind of guy that gets you sent to jail for beating him down,” Chester said.
“You got that right. Punk ass.”
But I was just as mad at Brenda. Well, maybe more disappointed than mad. Her not answering her phone some evenings finally made sense. She was dealing with that guy. So did she really trust me as her friend? If she had, she would have told me about him.
In the moment he left, the bit of optimism I had about life left with him. I felt worthless, used, inadequate. I could hear Chester calling my name, but I couldn’t stop. I walked toward Ponce City Market but with no destination.
My first inclination was to call Brenda. But I was afraid that if she lied to me, I would not be able to take it. I already was on the brink. I could feel something in me not right. We had a meeting with Dr. Taylor scheduled for 5 o’clock that day, and I was not sure if I would go.
For the first time that I could remember, the day went by slowly. I walked all the way to the Virginia-Highlands area of Atlanta, but I didn’t remember getting there. All of a sudden, when my head became clear, I was in front of Yeah! Burger. But I remembered that I had issues with Brenda.
It was a bad place. I already was mentally fragile. I didn’t want to be disappointed in the one person who made me smile, who made me think, who gave me hope that I didn’t seek.
I thought about that guy and something came to me: Why was he threatened by me? Did he think I had a romantic interest in Brenda?
Before my late wife, Darlene, and I got married, there was this guy who was interested in her. Instead of appealing to her, he came to me because she had shown an interest in me; he had seen us together at a party and at a concert.
He said to me then: “What’s up with you and D?”
I said, “Who’s D? And who are you?”
“Darlene. That’s the pet name I have given her. I’m David.”
“Really? OK, Dick. What do you mean what’s up with me and Darlene?”
“I said my name is David. You trying to date her or what?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. We’re dating, Doug. Why do you care?”
“You need to get my name right. I’m just asking. Seems like she’s interested in me, but I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
“Man, you coming at me the wrong way. If Darlene had an interest in you, you’d know it and wouldn’t be coming to me, Donnie.”
“So you think you’re funny? You can’t remember my name? David. But you can call me King David.”
“I’m going to call you an ambulance if you don’t get out of my face.”
The guy then backed off. Recalling that made me smile. That was where I came up with the tactic of calling Norman anything other than his name. It frustrated them big time.
The difference in this case was I did not have a romantic interest in Brenda. I had a romantic interest in no one. I had lost that part of my being when I lost Darlene.
Still, it shook me that Brenda did not tell me about this guy, Norman or whatever his name was. Was my idea of the kind of friends we were off base? Why wouldn’t she tell me about him?
I felt betrayed, something that was hard to handle. All my life, I needed to be trusted and to trust those that mattered to me. When I didn’t, my emotions ranged from disappointment to anger to fear. The fear was the worst part, because it prevented me from trusting anyone else.
Before I met and later married Darlene, there was Janet, a beautiful woman whom I coveted. It was not love at first sight, but the first time I saw her, I loved her look, which was polished but sexy, not sleazy. She was tall and fit and was comfortable with her height. I knew that because despite being five feet nine inches, she wore tall heels.
We met at a car wash waiting room. I could not stop staring at her. I stepped out of my box and approached her, telling her that she had distracted me.
“Huh? How?” she asked.
“I can’t stop looking at you. It’s not a line. I don’t know any other way to approach you than with the truth.”
Janet smiled and we talked and eventually dated for more than a year. It was a beautiful relationship . . . when it was right. When it was not right, which was every fourth or fifth day, it was ugly. And it all centered on not being able to trust her.
Other men apparently were taken by Janet’s lovely presence, and I learned that she was unable or unwilling to shun outside interests. The lack of trust drove me . . . well, I won’t say it drove me crazy. But it shaped how I would deal with other women moving forward.
Eventually, I left Janet. There had been many breakups and reconnections—so many that I had lost track. But as much as I wanted it to work, I needed it to be right. Needing it to be right didn’t make it right. When that came into focus, I walked.
With Darlene, I had no such concerns. We met at a Meals on Wheels, the organization that delivered food to the elderly around Atlanta. We both had volunteered. During the brief orientation, she caught my eye and I introduced myself to her.
When she smiled, I felt light cover my body. I had to get to know her. She worked as a greeter that Christmas Eve and I worked in the kitchen, fetching boxes out of the walk-in freezer, setting them up to be placed in cars and delivered.
During a short break, I wandered over to the entrance to see her. She smiled again. “You’re done?” she asked.
“Not for another hour or so, it looks like. But when I am, we should go to breakfast.”
“We should?”
“Yep. You can follow me. I know a good place.”
Then I turned and walked away. Didn’t give her a chance to reject me.
That was our beginning. We were married for two years before the first of our two daughters came. At forty-five, we had twenty-two years of marriage before the accident—and I never had a doubt about her commitment to me.
The third woman I cared for in my life was Brenda. We had a much briefer history, but it was important to me. It scared me to think I had misjudged her.
Where at one point I had considered not showing up for the session with Dr. Taylor, I became eager to get there. I wasn’t sure if I was going to talk about that guy coming to me or if I was going to wait for Brenda to bring it up. But I knew I needed to have it addressed.
So I got my bearings and headed for the shelter. I had worked hard to not look like a homeless man in the past few weeks—or
to look less like one. But the rain soaked out my clothes, so I needed to clean up before therapy.
I had a pep in my stride, a purpose. That made me marvel at Brenda. I walked the streets of Atlanta for two years with no real destination and no purpose. Having somewhere to be at a particular time made me feel . . . made me feel purposeful.
It was amazing how far removed I was from things that were a normal part of my life. Like the idea of getting clean clothes and trying to look my best—things I had dismissed long ago.
I even solicited—OK, bummed—enough money to get a haircut. I decided I would get one before I got to the shelter. Showing up looking better would make me feel better, I hoped.
The barbers knew I was homeless; they had seen me walk past their shop for years. I made sure to not be repugnant when I went. My clothes had dried out, but they were not stinky. As carefree as I was about what life I had left, I didn’t want to offend anyone with body odor that would burn nose hair.
“Man, you’ve been up and down this street for years and now you finally come in here,” one of the barbers said.
“Yeah, I’m making changes in my life,” I told them.
“Good for you. I can tell. I see a difference in you. Come on. Sit down.”
I did and I was satisfied with my new, less-wild look.
When it was time to pay, the barber refused my money and told me: “I’ll make a deal with you. You continue to clean yourself up, leave the drugs alone, and I will give you a free cut once a month. Deal?”
“It’s a deal. But I don’t do drugs. I don’t even drink. I’m just going through some things.”
“OK, my bad. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just assumed. But we have a deal. And you look good, man.”
I looked into the mirror and I looked like myself from two years before taking to the streets. It was stunning how much a haircut could give you back some years.
My hair had been a mess. Only a few times did I have it trimmed, and I did it myself with clippers I either found or borrowed from someone.
At the shelter, I answered questions about my fight with Skip—apparently, a few people saw it and they told everyone else. I tried to dismiss it, but a guy named Dong pressed me. Dong was short for “Ding Dong.” It was a name he got from being a bully.