by Curtis Bunn
I did not have an inclination to refute Brenda. It was like a fog was lifted from my eyes and allowed me to see into who I was: a heartbroken man overcome with so much grief and guilt that I felt unworthy to live a good life. Knowing my wife, Darlene would have said, “Let it go. Live your life.”
“Brenda, I don’t know how to live my life. I can’t just go get an apartment and take a shower and wash off two years of living on the streets. Living on the streets is a part of me. I’m more that than anything.”
I leaned across the table and looked to see if anyone was close enough to hear me.
“I’m sitting here at this restaurant, and I’m uncomfortable. I’m used to eating while sitting on a park bench or on a curb. This isn’t me.”
“But it was you,” Brenda shot back. “I’m not saying it will be easy.”
“I want to battle for my family. I want them to be proud of me.”
Brenda nodded her head. Then she motioned for me to come closer.
“That’s great and I agree. But you mostly have to do this for yourself. You have to want this for you. That’s what you taught me. And trust me, when you accomplish your mission, you will have a pride about yourself you never had before.”
I believed her—but still was unsure of the steps to take to make it happen.
“I need to see Dr. Taylor next week,” I said. “I need to talk to her about a process to get where I want to go.”
“You’re not going without me,” Brenda said. I smiled at her—it was amazing to smile freely and to embrace the feeling it gave—and we tapped water glasses.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: GROWING PAINS
BRENDA
In two days, I became a Facebook junkie. It was fascinating to find friends and to be found—and to see what was going on in other people’s worlds. It was a snapshot that we did not get before social media was invented.
I got comfortable enough to post photos of my family and two of Rodney. I posted pictures of my late sister, and they drew a reaction from friends of hers I had never met.
From all over the country, her college classmates and coworkers sent messages expressing their condolences. It made me feel good to learn how many people liked and respected her.
It was interesting to receive a message from a man named Rick who asked me in a private message: “Nice to see you on Facebook. So that guy in the photo with you. Is that your man?”
Before I responded, I checked out his profile. He was a handsome man, with a nicely groomed beard and pretty teeth. Teeth always mattered to me.
According to his profile, he was a partner at a marketing firm in Washington, D.C., but originally from Atlanta. He did not wear a wedding ring. Some photos on his page showed him with women, but none looked like they could claim him.
I thought: This Facebook thing may be all right.
After about fifteen minutes of reviewing as much as I could about him, I responded to his message: “Hi. Thank you for contacting me. To answer your question, no, that’s not my man. I don’t have one, in fact.”
For the next hour, I waited for a response, but got nothing from Rick. I received a few friend requests from men I did not know. And I thought: This Facebook thing was a less direct version of a dating website.
I accepted two of the friend requests because the men seemed interesting and did not look creepy. The third one I ignored. His profile photo was of him with jeans hanging off his butt holding up two fingers for the peace sign. Turnoff.
My interest in hearing back from Rick was another indication that I had come full circle. I wanted a man. I didn’t need one, but I was sure that having one in my life would or could be a good thing.
I had been married to Troy for eight years—long enough to get used to having someone in my everyday life, but also dysfunctional enough to know I would not accept just anyone.
Since I felt so much better about myself—better than I ever had because I had more self-awareness and confidence—it made sense for me to get back into the things in life that I had enjoyed but abandoned when Troy walked out on me.
One of them was a cigar. There were a few things about my marriage that I could consider positive, and enjoying a cigar on occasion was one of them. Troy got me into them. I resisted at first, because of the health factors and I could not stand the smoke in my hair and clothes.
Over time, I found cigars that were light and tasty like the Java or Tatiana, which were smaller in size and infused with chocolate or vanilla or some other flavor to make it appealing. I went to Leaf, a cigar bar, with Troy and was amazed that I had such a nice time with smokers. There was a cigar culture that I did not know existed. And the smoke did not bother me.
It got to a point when Troy did not come home or was missing in action, I entertained myself by going to Leaf and enjoying a cigar and the nice people.
So imagine how disappointed I was when I learned that Leaf had closed. But my search located countless cigar lounges in the Atlanta area. In my two years struggling with who I was, Atlanta became a popular cigar destination.
I met Rodney after work for our daily walk and I pulled out two Tabak cigars.
“How did you know I liked cigars?” he said.
“What?”
I was so excited.
“I didn’t know. But I like them, too. I don’t smoke the bold ones. I like these that have flavor.”
“I used to sneak and have mine because my wife hated the smoke and my daughters got on me, saying they were no good for my health.”
“Well, you probably haven’t had one since I had one,” I said. “I got these from Highland Cigar in Inman Park. This really nice and knowledgeable woman who worked there, Amber, suggested these after I told her I wanted something with flavor and not too strong. They are coffee-infused, although they smell like chocolate.”
I had Amber cut them and she sold me a nice torch. We stopped in front of the Bank of America building downtown. Rodney took the torch. “You should not have to light your own cigar when you’re with a man,” he said.
“I appreciate the chivalry. Trust me, a woman needs that in her life.”
He lit us up and we walked to Spring Street and turned toward downtown.
“Do you know cigars are like a thing now,” I said. “I lost myself on the Internet for about an hour. There are black-owned cigar lounges in Atlanta like Cigar City Club, Trilogy, Habanos and 617. I was stunned. And check this out: There is a popular women’s cigar organization called Stixx & Stilettos in New York that I read about on the Ebony magazine website. Also, there is a woman here named Octavia, who calls herself ‘HERficionado’; she has a monthly woman’s cigar event called She Smokes Too.”
“You sound excited.”
“I am. There are options and there are so many more women enjoying cigars than when I was as long as five years ago. I’m going to check out all those places.”
“You should.”
“Anyway, so, I was thinking, Rodney, one of the best ways to get back to your life is to do the things you used to do—or new things that you’d like to do. That’s what I’m doing with smoking cigars.”
Rodney puffed on his. “Thank you for this. This is a nice, very nice, cigar.”
“Yes, it is. But what do you think about what I said?”
“I . . . I think it’s a good idea. But I have to work up to that.”
“OK, let me think of some things you might want to do that will make you feel—I don’t know—feel right.”
“Like what?”
“Like church. I know you said you had a problem with God for allowing you to live and not your family. But you’re here because He wanted you to be here. And He has a purpose for you.”
“Listen to the young preacher,” Rodney cracked. “Didn’t know you were of the cloth.”
“Very funny. But I’m serious. Don’t you think He would not have spared you if He didn’t have a purpose for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, we know going to c
hurch can’t hurt. Maybe you would get a word that will touch you, move you.”
“I doubt that. I’m cynical about preachers, especially in this town. I’m sure there are some who are on the up-and-up. But most of them are running a scam.”
“Rodney.”
“You don’t think so? What church do you go to?”
“I was going to Ebenezer, but after Troy left, I was embarrassed to go back there because many of the members knew us as a married couple. I didn’t want to get the questions.”
“And you didn’t find another church?”
“I wanted to. But a few days after he left, I got depressed. I couldn’t do anything but work and go home—and see my sister in the hospital. Once I fell into that pattern, that was my life.”
“Until you met me.”
“Until I met you. How great is that?”
“Look, don’t feel like you owe me anything or have to keep walking with me every day. You’ve gotten yourself together. Go on with your life.”
“Walking with you is a big part of my life. Period. Please don’t bring that up again.”
We worked our way to Suite Food Lounge at the corner of Luckie Street and Ivan Allen Jr. Boulevard. On the side of the building was Trilogy.
“This is one of the cigar bars I told you about. How ironic. I just told you about this place. Let’s go inside.”
“Brenda, I don’t know. I don’t go into people’s businesses—unless I have to go to the bathroom.”
“OK. Go to the bathroom. We’re right here. We don’t have to stay long. Please. For me.”
Rodney gave in. The place was quaint and inviting. We were greeted at the door. “Welcome to Trilogy. I’m Gary, one of the owners. This is Henry, the other owner.”
They were fashionable young black men who looked to have themselves together. They extended their hands for us to shake, but Rodney acted as if he didn’t see them. He had told me he did not shake hands.
“Love your place,” I said to distract them from Rodney’s slight. “We were walking by and I wanted to check it out. But we will be back.”
“You guys did a good job with this space,” Rodney said. “I’ve been here before, years ago. It was called Luckie Lounge then.”
“Yes, we’ve been open over here about three months,” Gary said. “We have a full food menu and a nice selection of cigars.”
“Cuba being open through President Obama gives you entrée into the most respected place for cigars,” Rodney said. “But I will tell you this: They are making some high-quality cigars in Honduras, Nicaragua and the Dominican Republic that rival Cuba. Plus, the huge inventory of fake Cuban cigars hurts more than it helps right now because people are skeptical about paying the money for something that might not be authentic.”
Gary and Henry nodded their heads.
Two other men came over. “This is Tory, one of the owners of Suite and Al Williams, the manager,” Henry said.
Again Rodney acknowledged the men, but did not shake their hands. “It’s great to see young black men doing something so big. I’m proud of you,” I said.
“Me, too,” Rodney chipped in. “I wish you the best.”
And then we left.
Rodney was quiet as we walked toward downtown. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just hadn’t had any real dialogue with anyone—other than you—in a long time. I don’t count the guys in the shelter or on the streets . . . It felt good.”
“Great. See, that’s a step right there toward doing things you used to do.”
Rodney didn’t respond.
“You OK?”
“I’m all right. But . . . I’m scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“I had a cousin—have a cousin—who was in prison. I went to visit him about three years ago. He had close to a year left on a seven-year sentence. I told him: ‘Hang on, man. That’s not long. You have to be excited about getting out.’ And he said, ‘Man, to be honest, I want to get out, but I’m scared. I don’t know if I can fit back into the world.’
“I had no idea what he was talking about. But I do now. It’s like I’ve been in prison for two years. To be pretty much disconnected for that long makes me question how I can fit in. The world kept on moving. Look at those young guys with their own businesses. I’m forty-five. How can I get a job now? I worked in human resources. I would have two years with no work experience on my resume. I have no connections. That’s hard to overcome.”
“Yes, but people have done it. Many, many people have been in prison, been out of work for a long time and recovered. You are too smart to not make it.
“Plus, I saw a light come on when you were talking to those young guys who own the cigar bar. You enjoyed it. And that thing about Cuban cigars and Honduras and the D.R., where did that come from?”
“I started reading the newspaper more. See, that’s another thing. I have these emotions conflicting with my actions. I’m scared of being back in society, so to speak, but at the same time, I’m reading the paper. That’s a sign, in my mind, that I want to know what’s going on. I want to start over and be up on the important stuff in the world.
“But then my mind tells me I’m not ready.”
“And that’s OK, if you’re not ready. Don’t pressure yourself. Take your time. You’ll get there. Go at a pace that works for you. I think enjoying a cigar was a good start. And talking to the guys. And listening to music. That’s good stuff.”
“There’s something else,” Rodney said.
I did not respond. I waited.
“This disorder I have. I’m afraid of it. I’m scared something will happen and I will do something or run away and don’t even remember what happened.”
It saddened me to hear my friend speak like he did. It reminded me of me when I was down. It was all dark and stormy. So I had to be encouraging.
“That’s where we’re going to let Dr. Taylor take over,” I said. “What we did today—walking, talking, having a cigar, meeting people—that’s all therapy in a sense that’s going to get you right. And medication. I’m not worried.”
Like it mattered if I was worried. It was my attempt to show confidence in him.
“And there’s one more thing: I’m scared that I am or will be too reliant on you and run you away. I know you said to not bring it up again, but it’s important. I need you to tell me when I’m doing or asking too much because one thing I’m sure of is that I can’t make it without you.”
“You have to dismiss that,” she said. “We need each other. Don’t think that dating Norman for that short time meant anything to our relationship. We’re tied together now. Unbreakable.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: EPISODES
RODNEY
My days were different after I decided I wanted to live like people live. Instead of walking aimlessly and asking for money, I was consumed with thoughts of a relatively normal existence, meaning a house or an apartment, a social life that included friends and doing fun and interesting things.
Getting there was another story altogether. And it depressed me. Three days after having the cigar with Brenda, I was overwhelmed with negative feelings about almost anything I saw or thought of.
I found a shaded place on a bench in Piedmont Park and I curled up. I was petrified. I felt like everyone walking toward or past me was out to get me. But I was so dark inside that I could not run.
So, I pulled a jacket out of my backpack, covered my head with it, curled up on that bench and lay there almost all day, quivering I was so scared.
I knew it was the bipolar disorder; Darlene had read some of the characteristics of it to me when I was first diagnosed. One said something like: life changes can trigger a manic or depressive episode.
I felt the disorder claim my body, the way a demon would an unsuspecting child. It was aggressive and decisive and dominating. I had been there before, many times, and there was nothing I could do until it passed.
I got there because I told mysel
f that I was all right. That arrogance showed me who was in charge—and it was not I.
The remarkable part about those episodes was that I could feel them ending. It would usually last much of a day, two days on a few occasions.
When I came out of it on that occasion, I sat on the bench with my head in my hands—and an Atlanta police officer standing in front of me.
“Sir, you can’t sleep here. You’ve got to go,” he said.
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to go.”
I was discombobulated and attempted to get my bearings when the cop grabbed me by my arm and tried to pull me up. I yanked away from him.
“You don’t have to touch me,” I told him. “I’m getting up. Was just trying to get myself together. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Listen, you’re about to get arrested for resisting.”
Before my life on the streets, I had at least a modicum of respect for law enforcement. But seeing how they had beaten down black men for no reason other than sport, how they bullied and often judged their attitude on class and race, I hardly trusted any of them.
But I did not make an assessment until I had enough to judge. That cop incited me to let out some pent-up anger.
“Don’t threaten me with arrest. Nothing happened for you to go there. I’m not resisting. I’m insisting. I’m insisting that you look at me as a man and not a black man who is homeless. I have chosen to be homeless. And even if I hadn’t, you have no right to put your hands on me. I have done nothing to make you want to use force on me.
“This is why there is a breakdown in the relationship between the police and the citizenry. You want us to respect you, but you respect only your badge. You think that gives you license to shoot us, beat us, intimidate us, threaten us and arrest us for no good cause. I ain’t afraid to die. I’m already in pain. I’m not scared and I’ve been to jail. So, the power you think you have over me, you don’t.”
The officer was taken aback for a second.
“OK, you obviously are an intelligent man. Why don’t you go on home? OK? You can’t spend the night at the park on a bench.”