Welcome to My World

by Curtis Bunn

  “I don’t have a man. I have someone I’m technically still married to, but he has been gone for two years and I haven’t heard from him. He just left. His family wouldn’t share any information with me. So I’m filing the divorce papers, and I will tell the judge that he has vanished. I’m told that will make it quick and easy.”

  Our food came. Before we partook, Rick offered to say grace—another bonus point for him.

  In the time it took to eat, I envisioned myself traveling with that man, enjoying walks in the park, cooking for him and even making love to him. I was not going to share that with him, but that’s how fast romance and a future together can play out in a woman’s head.

  He probably was sitting across from me thinking about hot sex with me. Meanwhile, I had his life figured out in my mind. The combination of my fantasy and the wine made me flirty.

  “So, how do you keep that beard together?” I said, tilting my head, pursing my lips, anything to show I was interested in him.

  “Pretty easy. I use this handmade, all-natural pomade called Shwaxx. It’s made by a brother who lives here in Atlanta, Kevin Rodgers. I love it. His shop, The Tilted Crown, isn’t far from here. And I should have told you earlier that you made a good restaurant choice. I love supporting black business, too.”

  And a third Brownie point for Rick.

  I had not been on a lot of dates in a long time, but that one flowed so effortlessly. I was comfortable with Norman. But Rick had a stronger presence and a self-assuredness that made me feel safe.

  “So, how long you in town?”

  “Just the weekend. My parents are here. Just came in to see them. Hadn’t been home in about eight months.”

  “You’re a good son,” I said. “I wish my parents were still alive. And I lost my sister earlier this year. She was in a coma. I used to visit her every day, talk to her. Don’t know why I did. She couldn’t hear me.”

  “Well,” Rick said, “that may not be true. There are countless studies that indicate those who have come out of a coma said they recall hearing specific things from people.

  “In fact, there’s this book called What It Feels Like and—”

  “Wait. I have that book. I mean, I recently bought that book for a friend. How crazy is that that you would bring up that book?”

  “I’m talking about the small book put together by Esquire.”

  “Yes, me, too.”

  “Wow. You’re the first person I know who has heard of the book,” he said. “I have not read all the stories, but there’s one about ‘What It Feels Like To Come Out of a Coma,’ and this guy tells the story of being hit by a car as a kid. He was in a coma for several days. When he came out of it, he asked, ‘How’s Francis?’

  “Francis was a kid in the bed next to him in the hospital that he had never met, but died the day before he came out of the coma.”

  “Wooowww. That’s so crazy. OK, I gave mine to a friend, but I need to get one for myself. I saw the subjects the book covers and it’s pretty interesting.”

  At that point, Rick was trippin’ me out.

  “I think I’d better go home.”

  He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “This has just been an interesting dinner.”

  “I hope ‘interesting’ is code word for fun.”

  “It has been fun and interesting,” I reiterated. “I’m just blown away by this book thing.”

  “I know how you feel. I had something similar happen to me.”

  “Really? What?”

  “A friend of mine went to South Africa and brought me back this wine, Pinotage, which I had never heard of. About a month later, I met this flight attendant. We hit it off and sometime later, she came to visit me. On the way to my house, I told her I had some wine at home.

  “She said she only drinks Pinotage from South Africa. She had been there recently. I told her, ‘I think that’s what I have at home.’ She said, ‘There’s no way you have Pinotage. Most people have never heard of it.’

  “Well, we get to my place. She gets comfortable on the couch and I get two wineglasses and the bottle. Didn’t say a word. Just opened it and brought it to her. She was like you were just now: stunned. ‘How can this be? I can’t believe this.’ I just smiled because I couldn’t believe the only wine she liked was a wine I had but had never heard of. Crazy.”

  “That is crazy. I’m finding you more and more interesting.”

  “Really, well, this will flip your wig then,” Rick said.

  What more irony could come forward in one night, I thought. I braced myself.

  “That guy in the picture that I asked you about? The picture on Facebook?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “What’s his name?”

  My heart rate increased, but I was not sure why.

  “His name is Rodney.”

  “Bridges? Rodney Bridges?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thought so. Haven’t seen him in years. But I know that guy. Thought he was dead.”

  “You thought he was dead? Why? How do you know him?”

  “He’s my cousin.”

  I almost lost my breath. I was conflicted. I was happy to know someone who knew Rodney, but ultimately not sure what to think.

  “His cousin. You’re right: This is crazy.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Well, it’s a rare story, I would say. We met outside McDonald’s at the very start of summer. We got into sort of a disagreement and then, somehow, came together and became the closest of friends.

  “I was going through something and he obviously was going through something and he—”

  “Excuse me, but what do you mean he was going through something?” Rick wanted to know.

  “I mean, he was—he is—homeless.”

  Rick sat back in his seat. He looked down and shook his head. It was obvious he was unaware of Rodney’s life.

  “Homeless? I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  Rick sipped on his wine and cleared his throat.

  “What do you mean you thought he was dead?” I asked.

  “No one has seen or heard from him in years. Not his wife, not his family. No one.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “His wife and kids are dead. They died in a car accident. Rodney was driving.”

  Horror took over Rick’s handsome face. Tears formed in his eyes. “What? When did this happen?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but Rodney said about two years ago.”

  Rick looked at me sideways. He grabbed his cloth napkin and wiped his eyes. He had anger in his voice when he said: “You think that was funny?”

  I was confused. “Funny? What are you talking about?”

  “Why would you say his family is dead?”

  “That’s what he told me. Wait, you’re saying they aren’t dead? They’re alive?”

  “Yeah, they’re alive.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. My head spun. “Please, let’s slow this down. You’re telling me Rodney did not kill his family in a car accident.”

  “Brenda, Rodney left home for the airport one morning in 2014 and never came home. Two days later, they found his car badly damaged off of Camp Creek Parkway, near the airport, in a ditch. No one has seen or heard from him since.”

  “I’m blown away right now. He’s been living on the streets of Atlanta since then—fifteen miles away. In plain sight. And no one knew this? I can’t believe this.”

  “You can’t believe it? I cannot believe it, either. When he never called from wherever he was supposed to go, Darlene, his wife, and his kids were panicked. They checked all the hospitals in the area. His story was on the news: Local man’s car is found crashed, but he’s missing. It’s been something that really damaged his family.”

  “You know Rodney has issues, right? Mental issues. Something called PPD. Bipolar.”

&nbs
p; “Of course. It didn’t really show up that much, but then I wasn’t around a lot, so I don’t know. But I know he had his challenges.”

  “I have been going to therapy with Rodney. In his head, he believes he killed his family in this car accident. He told me many times. That’s why he ended up on the streets. He said he didn’t deserve to live but was afraid to die. Said he didn’t deserve to live comfortably after he caused their deaths. So he’s lived on the street, mostly sleeping on a park bench or church steps or the Peachtree-Pine shelter during the winter.”

  Tears flowed down my face. Rick held back his. We waited several seconds to continue. We had to compose ourselves.

  “This is a miracle, something that I never would have expected,” Rick said. “I thought the guy got killed by some thugs who carjacked him and no one ever found the body. After several months, that’s what everyone thought. It was easier to accept than him leaving and not returning.”

  “How can a man people are looking for live in plain sight, not trying to hide, and not be found?”

  “Well, think about it? It happened with kidnapped kids. What’s the girl’s name who had been kidnapped and was finally found nine months later about fifteen or so miles from her home?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth Smart. Her parents even wrote a book called In Plain Sight. It was in Utah.”

  “And the family ripped the police department because she was so close and out in public, but not found,” Rick recalled.

  I was dazzled. I had one question for Rick: “What do we do now?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: LIFE’S TWISTS AND TURNS

  RODNEY

  Sleeping on the streets felt different when I did not want to be there. Before, in the beginning, I didn’t think about it. I just did it. I believed I had to do it. And then it pretty quickly became a way of life.

  With the idea of trying to make a transition, I found it almost difficult because I finally understood it was not normal. It was not normal for me to punish myself in that way.

  Until change happened, though, that’s where I was. So I was again in a conflict with my emotions: excited about the potential of leaving the streets, sad to be on them.

  But I changed. I became more paranoid about my surroundings. I spent my days working for people. I stood with dozens of men on the corner between the CVS and Starbucks on Ponce de Leon Avenue, where people seeking help with odd jobs, moving furniture, etc., would come to get muscle for a fraction of the cost of hiring a company.

  I usually got two jobs a day, either moving someone from one place to another or moving around furniture in a home for some old lady. I didn’t mind the work. It gave me something to do, some money, and it killed time.

  At that point, it was like watching the big hand on the clock click another space: slow and boring. I did not like having something to look forward to. And I was not sure about what I was looking forward to.

  “You should relax,” Brenda said. I texted her and she called me during her lunch break. “What’s something you can do to help in your transition?”

  I had no answer. I had been trying to forget that, so I wouldn’t look forward to it. Didn’t work.

  “I know. Read that book I got you. The stories are short and interesting. Skim through the table of contents and pick three stories and text me what they are. I have a copy of the book, too. We can read the same stories and discuss them when we go walking later.”

  I wasn’t excited about the idea, but I went with it because it was something to occupy my mind. I read the story “What It Feels Like To Be a Hostage.” I skimmed the many stories and stopped there. The word “hostage” resonated with me.

  Barry Rosen, who was taken hostage for 443 days spanning 1979 and 1980 in Iran, told the story. It resonated with me because I had felt like a hostage all my time on the streets.

  My disease held me hostage. My emotions held me hostage. My pain held me hostage. My sorrow held me hostage. And unlike Mr. Rosen, who was finally released, I was not sure I could ever feel free, no matter how slowly and easily I transitioned back into society.

  It made me say “Wow,” to read that Mr. Rosen, who had been held mostly in total darkness or blindfolded, said when he finally was released, he “couldn’t focus well for weeks” because it was too bright outside. That registered with me because I had envisioned that the light would be too bright on the other side of my transition.

  I could relate because as sunny as a day was while on the streets, it always felt gloomy. When I was with Brenda, I had momentary breaks from the dreary nature of my life. I wore those sunglasses Brenda purchased for me, but they were good mostly because no one could see the discomfort in my eyes than for blocking the sun. In my mind, the sun was hot, but not bright.

  I refused to read the story “What It Feels Like To Have Multiple Personalities.” I didn’t need to read it. I had seen it.

  The first time startled and scared me. The guy’s name was J.C., for James Carlton. J.C. was a muscle-bound man, reserved and nice, smiling all the time, which made me wonder about his state of mind. There was nothing about being homeless that merited a smile. But that’s who he was and that’s what he did.

  Well, one day, a car came to a sliding halt in the crosswalk, and avoided hitting J.C. by about two feet. And that’s when it happened. Like clicking a mouse on a computer, he flipped, banging the hood of the car so hard that he dented it while screaming at the same time.

  “You trying to kill Zeus? You can’t kill me. I’ll kill you first. Get this car outta here. You see Zeus, you run the other way.”

  He turned to the people who were on the street and yelled: “You see what I did to that car? I’ll do it to you, too. Don’t mess with me.”

  No one moved. The man in the car knew better than to get out. I prayed he would not. I believed “Zeus” would have killed him. We he finally moved from in front of the car, the man sped off.

  That same night, I had gone to the shelter to shower. When I came out, I noticed this woman with a long wig in front of me. “She” turned around and it was J.C.—or “Zeus.” I took a step back.

  “Honey, is it raining outside now?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Honey, don’t you hear Crystal talking to you? Is it raining outside?”

  “Oh, no. No. I don’t think so.”

  “It better not be because I can’t get my hair wet. I just got it done.”

  “Crystal” wore tight jeans and a chiffon shirt that exposed “her” chest and a colorful scarf around “her” neck.

  It scared me. I heard from other homeless men at the shelter—homeless men at the shelter loved to talk—about four or five others with multiple personalities. I didn’t see those guys act out and I didn’t want to see them. Seeing J.C. was enough.

  I read the story “What It Feels Like To Have Amnesia” because too often I had been told about something I did, but had no recollection of it. That had to be a form of amnesia.

  It wasn’t like drinking alcohol. When I was young and in college, I drank so much at times that a part of the night was lost. Couldn’t remember. The episodes when I lost time after being diagnosed bipolar were deeper, stronger.

  Like the day I ran from Brenda. Not only did I not recall that, I did not recall any of that day. It was like none of it had happened. But I had walked and talked with her, had eaten with her—and then gone. It was like I had been sleepwalking.

  The story in the book was different from mine. The person telling it had a skiing accident and could not remember details of the day. He was rightfully scared, but in less than an hour, he regained his mental coordination.

  I shared that with Brenda during our nightly walk. “Well, with medication, you’re going to feel better all the time. I’m sure of that.”

  It was another good night for us. But I sensed something was not quite right with her. “What’s wrong? You met a man and don’t want to tell me?”

  She laughed. “I’m not going down that road again.”


  That did not answer my question. Brenda chimed in.

  “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “This one is really personal?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You ever think about sex? I know you had been in so much pain and did not want to think about pleasurable things. But you can’t control sexual desires.”

  I smiled. I had expected that question from her long before then.

  “Definitely think about sex. And this might be weird to men, but I only think about it with my wife. And since we’re so close—my only friend, you are—I will tell you that I have masturbated more in the last year than I had in my entire life.

  “And I’ll tell you something I won’t tell anyone else. One night, the urge hit me hard, and I was sitting against a building in Midtown. It was late and quiet. No one was around—or so I thought. There was a light rain, sort of misty, so I didn’t expect anyone on the streets.

  “I’m a pluviophile—a person who loves rain. So, I start doing my thing. I got lost in the moment and closed my eyes. I’ve got my stuff out, in my hand, and this woman walks by, turns to her left and sees me, uh, holding the goods, so to speak.

  “She screamed and ran. I jumped back and hit my head on the wall. She called the police. Within three minutes, they arrived, shining a bright light on my face. I wasn’t exposed any more, but they arrested me anyway. It was thrown out of court because there was no proof—her word against mine—and she didn’t show up for the hearing. But it was not a good night.”

  “Oh, my goodness. You’ve always got a story,” Brenda said. “I was thinking about your cousin you said you visited in prison. Did he ever get out? What’s his name?”

  “Yeah, he got out. Rick. He moved to D.C. and tried to rebuild his life. Didn’t want to do it down here, where he wrecked it. Don’t know what happened to him, though. Hope he found a way. If he could do it after eight years in prison for drug possession, then maybe I could make it, too.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Maybe I should try to find him.”

  “You don’t have to do all that. Like you said, there are plenty of stories of people overcoming obstacles. I’ll read about them. That’s another thing the book did for me: Made me realize how much I miss reading.”