by Steve Lopez
A weekend at a conference of the National Alliance on Mental Illness in Irvine does nothing to ease my fears about the risks facing Nathaniel, who was one tunnel and one block away from a beating. Dozens of attendees—many of them the relatives of people with mental illness—ask me how he’s doing, and I tell them he’s giving me a terrible scare. They understand. This group, which counts StigmaBuster Stella March as one of its pioneers, has become the largest advocacy and support group in the nation, and many of its members campaign to relax laws that make it difficult to forcibly treat someone who’s mentally ill.
Carla Jacobs, an Orange County resident with short blond hair, a business suit and a look of fierce determination, sits me down in the lobby of the Irvine Marriott and tries to sign me up for the crusade. She tells me about her husband’s delusional sister, who resisted treatment and was protected by existing laws, which prevented Jacobs and her husband from getting her the help they knew she needed. The tragedy that followed, she and her husband believe, was thoroughly preventable. The sister murdered her mother in a psychotic rage.
Jacobs pauses to let the weight of what she has just said sink in for me, then she puts it in context. California’s 1968 Lanterman-Petris -Short Act ended involuntary commitments for people with mental disorders unless they were considered a danger to themselves or others, and it led to the emptying of the state’s mental hospitals. In 2002, a year after a mentally ill man shot and killed three people in Nevada County, a new law gave counties the right to force “gravely disabled” mental patients into treatment if they were deemed unlikely to survive without supervision and couldn’t provide their own food, clothing or shelter. But Laura’s Law, named for one of the victims of the Nevada County shooting, was unfunded, challenged in court and seldom applied.
Get behind it, Jacobs implores, her gaze intense and unsettling. It’s Nathaniel’s only hope. What’s more humane, after all? To respect someone’s civil liberties to the point of allowing them to wither away on the street, or to intercede in the interest of their own welfare?
“He won’t get better without treatment,” she tells me, and he won’t get treatment unless it’s forced on him.
She may be right. But I walk away from our conversation, wondering how it would play out if Nathaniel were judged to be gravely disabled. Would a police car roll up, with officers chasing him and then carrying him away, kicking and screaming? Would a team of doctors come by with syringes and stab him with a sedative first? And would anything done forcibly make him more inclined, or less so, to trust authority and go along with a treatment plan over the long haul?
I take these questions across the hotel lobby to a nattily attired and neatly groomed Dr. Alex Kopelowicz, director of the San Fernando Valley Mental Health Clinic and a professor at UCLA. Kopelowicz, like Ragins, preaches recovery, but his model is more conventional. He strokes a close-cropped beard as he hears the latest with Nathaniel, and he’s unsurprised by his roller coaster ride or my exasperation. Kopelowicz says antipsychotic medication is one of several keys in a case like this, along with strong family support. His approach seems to be more about imposing a structured program on the patient, whereas Ragins tries to create a supportive environment in which the patient defines and manages his own recovery. The longer you go without treatment, Kopelowicz says, the harder it can be to go into remission and the less remission there will be.
So should I try to force him into treatment, as Carla Jacobs has just suggested?
Kopelowicz says he agrees with Jacobs that the pendulum has swung too far to the side of leaving people like Nathaniel to fend for themselves. He can’t tell me what to do or what might work best for Nathaniel, but he says it is not unheard of for psychiatrists to advise loved ones to call the police and claim they’ve been threatened or assaulted. If a situation is dangerous and dire, and it’s the only way to get treatment, it could save a life.
Is Nathaniel’s situation dangerous or dire? Even without the Bumfights beating one block away, of course it is. I could even make the case that he is “gravely disabled,” since he’s unable to provide shelter for himself. But would either argument hold up in court? Probably not, given the high standard for proving incompetence and the reluctance of courts to infringe on civil rights.
For the rest of the two-day conference, I imagine myself dialing 911 to report that Nathaniel has threatened me. An actual injury might make it more believable, but what should I do, punch myself in the nose? Bang my head against the wall?
At the awards ceremony, I’m called to the stage and honored for the insights and public education I’ve provided with my columns about Nathaniel. I don’t feel as though I’ve done much more than write about what people at the conference already know, and as I look out at a crowd that is standing and applauding, I’m tempted to grab the microphone and ask if anyone out there can tell me what to do next.
12
"You’re going to have to leave the shopping cart at Lamp,” I tell Nathaniel. “They’re not going to let you roll that thing into Disney Hall.”
“I’ve got that all taken care of,” he insists. For days, he’s been asking me if we’re still going to see the Los Angeles Philharmonic, which he’s now written on his T-shirt with a blue pen. He’s worried that either I’m playing games with him or his mind is.
“I’ll get you tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.”
“Okay, Mr. Lopez.”
“So what time am I picking you up?”
“Nine-thirty, right here in the courtyard.”
“It’s going to be a big day,” I tell him.
“The anticipation is horrible,” Nathaniel says.
The invitation began with Catherine Babcock, a Music Center publicist, who said we were welcome to attend a concert. Nathaniel was grateful for the offer but didn’t want to be a distraction to paying customers. He said they shouldn’t have to sit near a grubby, nappy-haired bum who goes weeks without bathing.
“You can shower at Lamp and I’ll buy you some new things,” I offered, but he still declined. I might have tried to talk him into it, but I had doubts about whether he could stay focused through an entire concert and whether he’d go into a panic about being trapped indoors with a couple thousand people. This was a man who preferred a patch of pavement to an apartment and dreaded the thought of being cooped up anywhere.
After telling Babcock thanks but no thanks, I called back with an idea.
What about a rehearsal?
Babcock referred me to Adam Crane, a publicist with the L.A. Philharmonic. Crane knew Nathaniel worshipped Beethoven and often visited the Pershing Square statue for inspiration, and it just so happened that Ludwig was the star of the 2005-2006 season. When I told Nathaniel that Crane had invited us to an early October rehearsal, he looked like he did on the day I brought him a new cello and violin. By the way, I said, they’ll be working on Beethoven’s Third Symphony.
“Symphony Number Three in E-Flat Major,” he said, practically making the sign of the cross. “The Eroica.”
“Have you played it yourself?” I asked.
“Yes. Many times.”
“I can’t wear these grubby things,” Nathaniel says on the morning of the big day. He’s got on burgundy sweatpants, a black T-shirt, a blue cardigan and white sneakers. “I’ve washed them over and over, and that’s the best I seem to be able to do.”
He stands in a corner of the Lamp courtyard next to his shopping cart, edgy, sweaty and crabby. This is a man who at his best has a way about him that could be called self-possessed or charismatic. There’s a killer smile and a glint in his eye, sly and knowing. You can imagine him surrounded at a party, reciting Shakespeare and breaking down the interplay between violin and cello in The Swan. Then a switch goes off in his head and it’s as if he’s under a cloud, wondering if the rain is ever going to stop. Like he is now.
His right hand is wrapped with a dirty white rag. He tells me he got banged up in a fight, but he isn’t in the mood to talk about it. The man
I expected to find—spit-shined and ready to revisit Beethoven—is a no-show. I remind Nathaniel this is no ordinary day. We have a big event scheduled, and it’s time to leave his shopping cart inside as we’ve agreed. But this is not the Nathaniel who found the anticipation unbearable.
“I can’t leave it here,” he snaps, making it sound personal, and I know we’re in trouble now.
“Give me a minute and I’ll see if I can talk to someone inside,” I offer, but Nathaniel tells me not to bother wasting my time.
“I cannot leave my things with the rascals in there, who cannot be trusted to do anything they’re supposed to do.”
This is our latest little dilemma. The place he comes to so he can get better is the source of new problems, and it’s bringing out a dark side I seldom see when he’s away from Skid Row and over by the tunnel. He’s antisocial, doesn’t like the way the agency is run and reserves his worst criticism for the people in charge.
“Mr. Stuart Robinson is not competent to manage Lamp, Los Angeles, Cleveland, New York City, LAPD, and I don’t want any of those clowns in there telling me what to do when they cannot deal with the drug addicts and cigarette smokers who come in here and steal everything. They cannot be trusted, they will not be trusted, and I don’t want anything to do with any of that nonsense. You can tell that to Los Angeles police chief William Bratton, Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, the president of the United States of America, House of Representatives, U.S. Senate, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, the lieutenant governor of the state of California. A cockroach does not tell a greyhound what to do.”
Maybe not, but more important, a columnist does not tell a paranoid schizophrenic what to do. Even if I could change his mind, what might we be in for at Disney Hall? I can’t take him up there like this, and I’m angry with myself all over again for investing too much time in a losing proposition. I cut short my time with Caroline this morning once again—and left the house when Alison needed a break to concentrate on some work—so I could be with a man who is so sick he’s sabotaging an adventure he eagerly anticipated for days.
“They’re doing Beethoven’s Third,” I remind him, thinking the mere mention of Beethoven’s name will be like a spoonful of medicine.
“I am not going,” he says. “If I have to miss all of that up there, I don’t care. I don’t need to go to Walt Disney Hall, Fantasia, Donald Duck, Beethoven. What I care about is this problem right here, that these people cannot be trusted to do their damn jobs. Does a cockroach talk to a greyhound? They cannot be trusted. Nobody here can be trusted and I am not leaving a thing in there with all the nonsense that goes on in this place. I wouldn’t leave a dog here with those clowns.”
Carla Jacobs is right. How will this ever change without medication? The chemical nature of his meltdown is so evident, even Tom Cruise could see it. Those neurotransmitters are sputtering, teasing out his anger, insecurity, paranoia. His muscles are flexed. His back is up. I’m going to give it one more try, using something I’ve never used on him before, and if that doesn’t work I’ll call it quits.
“We arranged this for your sake,” I tell him. “It’s Beethoven, and the orchestra has been kind enough to invite you up to Disney Hall so you can enjoy the thing you love most. It was very generous of them, and I think you should take advantage of this opportunity. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, I’m asking you to do it for me. I’m your friend, and I’ve put a lot of time into this. I’d like you to do it.”
No eye contact. He stares at the ground, and I can’t begin to guess at the response I might get. The range of possibilities extends from him telling me to go to hell to him jumping into my car and humming Beethoven’s Third all the way up the hill. Do I hold any sway over him? I’m too worn out to care. If he says to forget it, I’m prepared to walk away without another word, and I won’t be back anytime soon.
Nathaniel finally brings his head up and there’s a hint of contrition in his eye.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But I am not leaving my cart here.”
I check my watch.
“Look,” I tell him, “I’ve got my car here and I can’t fit your shopping cart into it. I’m going to drive back to my office, and if you want to go to the rehearsal, I want you to push this cart over to my garage. I’ll get someone to watch it for you, and then we’re going to walk up to Disney Hall. But we’re running out of time, and if you don’t get moving right now we’re not going to make it.”
I’m firm to the point of being harsh, but I don’t have a choice.
Nathaniel nods agreeably, but looks like a kid who has been ordered to eat his vegetables. I wait for him to get moving and then drive back to my office, hoping for the best. Fifteen minutes go by. No Nathaniel. Twenty minutes. Nothing. It’s like having another child. I get back into the car to go looking for him but he’s disappeared into the crowd. By day, Skid Row is swarming with shoppers looking for deals in the Toy District, at the flower markets and cheap variety stores. I try the Beethoven statue and the tunnel, then drive back to my office in defeat.
This must be what he put his family through. Jennifer is the only relative who checks in with me to see how he’s doing, but, bound by obligations to work and family, she hasn’t yet been able to visit her brother. I suppose she knows too much about how he broke their mother’s heart over and over again with this very behavior and worse, and she must feel a need to protect herself. I feel jerked around, I feel sympathetic, I feel abused. It’s almost harder to see Nathaniel on the good days than the bad, because you let yourself be deceived into thinking he’s going to stay that way. And then that switch goes off and he’s fighting himself and blaming it on everyone around him. I see now how someone really sick can burn through your patience, if not your sense of compassion. Not that I can forgive Nathaniel’s father, who seems to have written him off years ago. I don’t know his situation in Las Vegas, how he spends his days and nights, but if he’s too busy to pick up a phone and check on his son, why should I be out here worrying about Nathaniel?
Whatever the answer, I do worry. And I can’t just walk away. Part of it is the desire to follow through on something that’s become important and meaningful in my life, and to satisfy the human instinct to help someone less fortunate. And maybe there’s something more.
The issue of race is inescapable for me. I often joke that the main difference between the East Coast and the West is that when I wrote columns for The Philadelphia Inquirer, the mail said Go Back to Puerto Rico, and in Los Angeles it says Go Back to Mexico. It’s a strange phenomenon for someone with grandparents from Italy and Spain, and it makes me more attuned to the hatred aimed at people of color even in a place like Los Angeles, which is defined by its multiculturalism. If I write about political observations at a black barbershop I frequent in South Central, there’s often e-mail from someone calling me a nigger-loving spic. E-mail is a safe, convenient cover, the last refuge of the small-minded and the profane. If I write about the Latino mayor in Los Angeles, regardless of what I say, good or bad, I can expect mail calling me a kiss-ass Mexican sleazeball and apologist, or worse.
When I look at Nathaniel my thoughts flip back to a defining moment in high school, when I was hanging out with classmates in a park. One of the revelers had too much to drink and pounded his chest in a battle cry, announcing it was time to go kill some niggers. He had forgotten in his drunkenness that one of the kids among us was black. What has stuck with me through the years is not only the comment, but the look on the black kid’s face.
I park the car in the Times garage and walk to the corner. Time to call Adam Crane and apologize, and then start the scavenger hunt for another column now that this one has bombed out. I look back over my shoulder one last time, but he’s not there. The light changes and I look to the east.
There he is.
Nathaniel, with his knack for last-minute drama, has just turned the corner at Second and Main, with the two palm fronds sticking up out of the grill. If he puts up a figh
t about leaving his cart with the parking lot attendant, that’ll be the end of it. But Nathaniel surprises me. He thanks the guard, grabs a violin out of the buggy and off we go.
I don’t know what happened between Lamp and here, but he’s relaxed now, the circular diatribes put away for the moment. We pass the corner where we’ve spent so much time just hanging out and talking, and he looks around to reset his bearings. The tunnel, the L.A. Times building and, up ahead, Disney Hall.
“You know,” I tell him, “I’ve got tickets to see the National Symphony later this month. I’ll get to see Itzhak Perlman.”
“Oh my God,” he says. “He’s like molten lava on violin.”
A half hour earlier I was with a madman. Now I’m with my own personal professor of music appreciation. Disney Hall floats above us, its metallic wings radiating late-morning light. “An iron butterfly, ” Nathaniel says. From paranoia to poetry, sirens to violins, madness to genius. Nathaniel’s life is opera.
Disney Hall is the crown jewel in downtown L.A.’s attempt to reinvent itself after years of shabby desolation. The music center project had been foundering despite a $50 million donation from the wife of Walt Disney, but local philanthropist Eli Broad stepped in after her death and willed the Gehry-designed hall into existence, with a grand opening in 2003. Unfortunately this civic energy and vision of new beginnings did not extend just down the hill to Skid Row, and downtown L.A. was now a lady with a glittering crown and shabby boots. Nathaniel, up from the flats, hits the top of the hill at Grand Avenue and First Street and walks up to the performance schedule, running his hand over the board and pausing at the names of the composers who visit his dreams. “There’s Beethoven,” he says.
I’m still worried about how it might go inside. Adam Crane sounds like a perfectly nice gent on the phone, but how will he react if the Nathaniel of an hour ago reappears? I worry that Nathaniel will feel out of place or claustrophobic, but we’re here now, heading up the stairs to the artists’ entrance.