by Curtis Bunn
As much as Brenda helped me, it remained hard for me to shake the mental prison I was in. Between being bipolar and immersed in homeless life, I had lost a lot of the characteristics that made my wife and family love me.
Violence and mental health issues were so much a part of the homeless culture that I had become paranoid about being in large crowds or tight spaces. I had read about ex-cons feeling trapped or unsafe around a lot of people because they had seen so much violence in prison and believed it could creep up on them.
It was that same reason I refused to sleep in the shelter unless it was below freezing outside. I saw too much. I saw enough violence and rage and chaos that I could not stomach any more of it.
One night, about two months after the accident that took my family, I hung out on the corner with some of the guys from the shelter. Most were lying about what they had or had done. They were funny, but I could not bring myself to laugh. Laughing made you feel good, and I did not want that.
All was fine until three white guys tried to join in on what they considered fun and threw in a joke about Trayvon Martin, the teenager who was shot to death by a punk community security guard, George Zimmerman.
Apparently, those guys, from south Georgia, near Florida, did not realize how sensitive a case it was, or they didn’t care.
“Look at him over there wearing a hoodie, talking shit,” the first white guy said to Banks, a shit-talking homeless guy from Jackson, Mississippi. Banks had talked about how sick he was of the racism he experienced in his hometown and bolted for Atlanta. He said he expected to have a job in the coming weeks that would allow him to get an apartment.
“Looks like that Trayvon Martin fellow who was breaking into houses and got killed. Probably his long-lost daddy.”
He and the other two white guys laughed.
They did not notice that none of the six or seven black men were amused. Another white guy said, “Yeah, he probably got some Skittles in his pocket, too.”
The third guy realized we did not laugh. “What? That’s not funny. You talk about each other’s mother, but that’s not funny? Don’t be so sensitive.”
Banks was the first of all of us to step forward. And he was livid.
“You think some punk killing an innocent black kid is a joke? You think that’s funny?”
“Wait, man. Back up. It’s just a joke.”
“You don’t joke about a kid being killed for no reason,” Banks yelled. Split flew out of his mouth, onto the first white guy’s face. He backed up. “Listen, man, get outta my face. It was just a joke.”
And on cue, as if all the black men had practiced a gang assault, Banks punched the first white guy in the face—and the other men attacked and beat down the other two white men.
I knocked the third guy to the ground as he tried to get away, and kicked him in the stomach. Before I could do anything else, the other men knocked me aside and executed brutal assaults that made me fearful that they were going to kill them.
Someone alerted shelter staff, which came out and stopped the beatdown. But it was an ugly scene. We all ran from it, too, scattered.
That was just one case. There were times when I heard men across the room getting stabbed. Fights broke out over petty concerns. With so much anguish and despair dominating the residents’ existence—no home, no money, no job, mental illness, alcoholism, drug abuse—it was a powder keg that often exploded.
Even the staffers were so disconnected and desensitized that they were mean to the homeless residents. It was routine to hear them belittle the men instead of being a positive, encouraging force. Once, on a Sunday, when people would come from around Atlanta, park their cars on Courtland Street and donate food and clothes—like some big, homeless flea market—the shelter workers would berate the residents, boss them around and generally make them feel worse than they already did.
When the guy they called Cunningham told me, “Get to the back of the line. And don’t let me tell you again,” I lost it. “Who the fuck you think you talking to? Get the fuck outta my face.”
I was not that vulgar in my previous everyday life. But the streets had already changed me. Cunningham was a bully, and just like a bully, when I stood up to him, he backed down, slinked away. It was then that I decided I’d be better off on church steps or a park bench or under a highway overpass.
About a year and a half later, after Brenda’s influence, I thought about leaving that life. It was ridiculous that the conditions didn’t move me off my mission of defiling myself. But I came to a realization that was hard to accept: I was sick.
Ever since I was diagnosed at twenty-eight, I accepted what the doctors said, but not really. There always was something in me that doubted it. It was a burden most people could not bear—to believe you were not normal. To accept something was wrong with you.
People wondered why a person with bipolar disorder—or high blood pressure, for that matter—many times did not stay on the prescribed medication. I would say because it was hard to accept you were sick, especially when you didn’t feel sick.
My wife, Darlene, told me about instances when I had an “episode” and fell into a depression and would not leave our room. Somehow, I did not thoroughly recall most of them. There were dreams that seemed so real . . . until Darlene made me realize they were only dreams.
The cases when the disorder took over were plentiful, and still, I could not admit, fully admit, to being sick. It went against everything I thought about myself.
Seventeen years later, I dismissed the façade and stopped lying to myself. It happened after we left that meeting with Dr. Taylor. Brenda and I stood in the building’s lobby and just looked at each other. I felt her heart and caring and trust in that moment more than ever.
She offered me a ride and I did as I always had—refused. But we hugged like real people, real friends, hugged at her car.
“I have a gift for you,” she said.
I was shocked.
“I don’t know how to accept a gift.”
“Just open your hands. That’s all you have to do.”
Then she popped her trunk and pulled out a gift bag. It reminded me of the gifts my wife used to give me, with all the colorful tissue paper sticking out of it.
I wanted to say something clever, but I couldn’t think of anything.
It was difficult to not seem excited, but I calmly pulled back the paper and reached into the bag. There were multiple presents in there. The first thing I pulled out was a bottle of cologne, Viktor & Rolf Spicebomb.
“It’s not a hint,” she cracked. “Women, people, love a good-smelling man. You have really committed yourself the last month or so to focusing on your appearance, which I respect. I love the haircut you got today. Now we’ve got to trim that mustache and beard and you’ll be a looker.”
I opened the box and took a whiff of the cologne. It was refreshing but manly. But wearing cologne was not a priority for me, so I put it back in the box. And reached in for the other gift and pulled out an iPod with earphones.
“You said you loved music and used to dance a lot.
“We’ve never talked about music, but I was sure you liked music. Music can take you places, beautiful places. I loaded at least fifty songs, all kinds of songs from different decades. They are categorized. I just wanted you to have something when you walked during the day or at night to listen to instead of being trapped by your own thoughts all the time. That can’t be healthy or help you find a new reality.”
“Wow, thank you. And thank you for the cologne. I love it. I do love music. And you know what? I haven’t really thought about music since I’ve been out here. I hear it when people drive by with it blasting in their cars. But I’m not aware of any new music, so I will definitely put this to use. Tonight.”
Brenda flashed a broad smile. “There’s one more thing in there.”
I put my hand in the bag again, and I felt a small book. It was What It Feels Like, a compilation of stories provided by Esquire maga
zines from people who told personal tales about dramatic events in their lives.
“Interesting,” I said, as I found and read the “Table of Contents.” ‘What It Feels Like To Be Shot In the Head. What It Feels Like To Walk On The Moon. What It Feels Like To Be Bitten By a Snake. What It Feels Like To Participate in an Orgy. What It Feels Like To Have Amnesia. What It Feels Like To Perform an Exorcism.’ Wow. This is pretty cool.”
I told Rodney: “Men don’t like to read novels, but these true stories are about some pretty wild stuff. In the end, for me, it’s about how we have the capacity to overcome anything. There is a story in there called ‘What It Feels Like To Die.’ Now that’s something, right? And the stories aren’t long. They are straight to the point.
“I got you a book because you’re a smart man and smart people read. Something.”
“I love the book. That’s something else I did not think much about over the years. I loved the written word. I even thought about writing a novel at one point.”
“Now you can write your story.”
“My story?”
“Yes. The story you’re going to be able to tell when you finish therapy and find the right medication and create a new life for yourself. It will be a best-seller.”
“See, that’s why I like you. You’re a dreamer. You believe in good stuff. I let all that stuff go and built this wall to block me from dreaming. And yet somehow, you’ve penetrated the wall I took two years to build.”
“We were destined to meet, Rodney, and to be friends,” Brenda said. “This is bigger than us.”
I could not argue with her, but I was not sure whom to give the credit to, either. I had my issues with God. Why did he let my family die? Why did He allow me to live? Why were so many people homeless across America? Why was I bipolar?
But I also submitted that God had protected me on many nights I was vulnerable while sleeping on the streets, from disease and, ultimately, from myself.
“You’re right,” I responded. “You’re right. But you know, I feel bad because I don’t have anything for you.”
“Trust me, you being here is more than enough for me.”
I actually felt a little emotional about that moment, so I told her: “Gotta go. Thanks again for the gifts. They are right on time.”
We hugged briefly because it was about all I could stand without getting emotional. And then I walked away, without looking back. But when I turned the corner on Juniper Street, and ducked into a parking garage, tears streamed down my face. They were tears I had not shed in . . . I could not remember the last time I had been overcome with emotion from joy and relief.
That’s what I felt that day. Becoming emotional in that way had left my spirit. But the tears represented that I was connected to something or someone, which was something. I had tried to avoid.
And all that suppressed emotion came gushing out like a New York City fire hydrant. The release was significant. For about three minutes, I sobbed—from joy, from the memory of my wife and kids, from having a true friend in Brenda, from believing there could be a life out there for me to live.
Guilt had been such a heavy burden. I had no idea how heavy until I opened my mind to release it. When I finally composed myself, I was physically drained. I gathered myself, pulling out a bottle of water from my backpack and sipping on it.
I filled my lungs with the warm, humid air and began a slow walk through Midtown Atlanta. My destination was Central Park, where I could claim a bench and sleep. I was not hungry, but I had chicken strips from Publix and chips in my backpack if I needed something.
The walk was torturous in eighty-eight-degree heat that accounted for the sweat that poured down by back. The walk, though, was a haze. I was consumed with where I was in my life and worried about how I would or could rejoin society.
Homelessness was a different world in and of itself. It fed off of itself and bred contempt for others, sadness, hopelessness, depression. Listening to the stories of those without a place to call their own was heartbreaking and toxic. If America was the home of the free, why would there be such disparity in how people lived? I hadn’t thought about that until I was on the streets.
I heard the story of a man who had been without a home as a ten-year-old and found himself back in that position forty-two years later—and had no apparent recourse to overcome his plight. I heard stories, countless stories, where losing a job meant eviction . . . and a place in the shelter. I heard stories of alcoholism that moved me to shake my head over men who could not go two hours without a drink, starting during the morning-rush hour.
I heard stories of drug addiction that crippled the strongest of men: cocaine, crack, methamphetamines, painkillers, heroin and the sort. They were walking zombies.
I heard stories of war veterans who survived, who were still of the earth, but whose minds and coping mechanisms had been killed on the battlefields. They saw so much up-close-and-personal death and brutality that their minds were blown. Worse was the lack of care for those who fought for the country and had no place to go when they returned home.
And there were many like me, with bipolar or some other mental disorder that impacted how they functioned in everyday society. I saw it in men and women on the corners or walking the street yelling at no one, screaming nonsensical gibberish. It was hard to witness.
I saw enough to know I did not belong on the streets. It astonished me that it took two years to come to that realization.
On the park bench, finally I rested on my back with my backpack serving as my pillow and looked up at the stars. It seemed like the first time I noticed stars in two years. And that simple thought made me cry.
I thought about how much I had missed while trying to punish myself. The simple things like the stars, television, music, books. What had I done?
I pulled out the iPod and attached the earphones. It was unusually busy in that area that quieted after 10 p.m. But the music took me away from it all—and my jacked-up life. Brenda had programmed Anita Baker and Incognito, Earth, Wind & Fire and Luther Vandross, Beyoncé and the Notorious B.I.G. and so much more.
I texted Brenda: “Thank you again for the gifts. I’m listening to the music and it is awesome. You made some great selections.”
All night, I listened to music. I was reminded how it could take you to a place and time in your life, moments you may have forgotten but remember through the song. The songs made emotions resurface, too, made me cry because it filled my heart with memories of my family.
When I heard Will Downing’s “There’s No Living Without You,” instantly, I was taken back to 1993. Darlene and I both were twenty-three, and while our friends were heavily into hip-hop, we loved soulful R&B and romantic songs with meaning. And we talked about how important we were to each other and that living apart would never work.
We were young, but it was not puppy love. We connected because we were serious about family and commitment and travel and work and love.
Listening to music helped me come to the realization that I did not want to be sick anymore—at least not sick in the way I had been, without medication. I could not bring back my family. But Brenda was right: I had tortured myself enough. I was alive, so I should live. Or at least try to live.
There was one big question, though: How?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE NEW ME
BRENDA
Rodney’s text message came just as I was beginning to lay in to Norman. But it startled me because he had never used the text messaging feature on the phone. Until I met Norman, no one texted me. But since he was sitting in the chair across from me at my apartment, I knew the text did not come from him.
“Excuse me,” I told him as I read the text and responded. “Hold on a second.”
After I hit “Send,” Norman asked, “Who was that?”
That was not the question to ask me in that moment.
“Nunyah,” I said.
“Who?” Rodney asked.
“None of your business.”
>
“Hold up. Why you talking crazy to me?”
“My husband used to say, ‘Meet crazy with crazy.’ ”
“Oh, so I’m crazy now?”
“Crazy and something else, too.”
My body was rounding back into form and my hair had grown and I looked good. And so I made sure I stood up and strutted around as I shared my anger and disappointment with Norman.
Standing over him, I placed both hands on my hips.
“I cannot believe you went and found Rodney and said the things you said to him.”
He slowly shook his head and looked up at me. “That was him you were texting just now, wasn’t it?”
“Why do you care? And you do not get to ask me that.”
“What difference does it make that I went and met the guy?”
“If you had met him and was kind to him, it would have been fine. Wonderful. But to go there and insult him and tell him what he doesn’t have, like he’s not good enough for someone; that was inappropriate, out of like and, I have to add, a bitch move. Real men do not go to a man who is downtrodden, homeless and insult him.”
“Bitch? You’re way outta the box calling me a bitch. I did what anyone would do: I checked out the competition.”
“That’s so silly, Norman. What’s wrong with you? I told you Rodney and I are friends. That’s it. And you even said to him that he didn’t have the tools or whatever to have a relationship. So why do Rodney and I think we would have a relationship?”
“I saw how he looked at you that day. I saw how you looked at him. Even when I said your name at McDonald’s, he lit up.”
“The man is homeless and I’m his only friend. So our relationship means something to him. It’s important to him. And it’s important to me.”
I walked around Norman and crossed my legs after sitting down on the couch. He stared at my legs, which were shining from coconut oil.
“Well, my woman has to be about me and me only. She doesn’t have time to be seeing other men, even if it’s totally innocent. It’s not jealousy. It’s being proactive. I know because women who I’ve dated had friends who ended up coming on to me because I was friendly to them. That’s how it starts, as friends who are cool and overly friendly. Then it escalates.”