“And if it does go somewhere?”
“Then, maybe our sessions become group therapy.”
“You can kiss my ass, Doc.”
“Based on our final session, I don’t think you’re emotionally ready for that,” I give her the silent treatment for a few seconds, then she gets serious, “It’s just coffee Miles, not marriage. Besides, embrace that you’re the Southwest Airlines of the dating world.”
“What?”
“You’re cheap, relatively easy to deal with, and come with free baggage.”
Funny how the last two people I have spoken to on the phone act like these coffee dates are run of the mill meetings instead of watershed moments.
I thank her for taking the call, promise to keep in touch, and return to the table where John is setting up a game of checkers for us—like he knows I have nothing better to do.
“You travel pretty light—”
“Compared to the other homeless people,” he finishes for me, “When you’re homeless, you have to be ready to move at a moments notice. There’s no time to gather your things, you just grab your stuff and move to the next stop.”
“Who makes you leave?”
“It could be anybody, you name it; rich folks scared their neighborhood is going to hell, rodents on trash day, flooding … it could be anything, but it doesn’t matter because we don’t matter.”
It’s sobering to know that we’re sharing breakfast but live in different worlds that, whenever I leave, I can go back to my home, and John will go back to the street. He can see the affect his words have on me.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, I’m homeless by choice.”
Funny how one throwaway remark can lead to more questions than answers. I’ve always thought of homelessness a consequence of life, rather than a choice. The idea that someone would willingly become homeless makes no sense to me; either my face has contorted to express my confusion, or John is used to telling his story because he explains it all.
He grew up with a single mother, living in a two bedroom apartment in Harlem. His father was never around, so his mother worked different jobs to maintain their lifestyle. Halfway through college, his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The love he has for his mother makes me wish I had a better relationship with mine. After dropping out, he worked several odd jobs to make the mortgage payments. As gentrification swept through the neighborhood, his mother was offered several chances to sell their home, but repeatedly declined. Eventually the owner of the building took them to court, and his mother died during that process. Her death only steeled his resolve to stay because it was all he ever knew. Every memory he had was in that apartment.
Eventually, a judge forced him to take a settlement and vacate the premises. The owner went belly up and John was left with only 20% of what he was forced to settle for. No longer able to afford an apartment in the city, he decided to rent a storage unit for the items that were invaluable to him. The building he lived in his entire life is now a Whole Foods.
“Why didn’t you just take the money you had and leave the city?” I ask.
“This is all I know,” he nods toward to the city. He looks up the street, staring at the city he loves that doesn’t love him back. “To leave this place would feel like I was leaving my mother … that her death was in vain.”
“She wouldn’t want you to live on the streets.”
John smiles, “I think that too, especially on cold nights. But if I leave, I’d feel like I’m leaving her behind.”
You never know the life that strangers around you have lived. Mostly, we view people on a surface level—without a thought to understand their journey and how it shapes their actions. John is living in a prison of his own construction, and I totally get it.
“You gonna give Mel a call?” he asks without looking up.
“Maybe.”
“Good, there’s more to her than what meets the eye.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just call her and see where it takes you.”
Five
It's Ok, I'm just watching
It’s funny how emotions work; when you’re riding the high, you feel invincible. Maybe you send a risky text to someone you’ve been crushing on, or perhaps you tell off the coworker that’s been acting above their pay grade. Or, in my case, you fly to New York on a whim to reconnect with someone who made it explicitly clear they didn’t want to see you again … among other choice words.
But, as soon as you send that text or tell that person off, the high gives way to the crash. Rational thinking takes over, and you find yourself lamenting how stupid you are. I’m currently in this stage as I sit in an Uber, eating a bag of Lays somewhere in the borough of Queens. My driver, Jah,—a Middle Eastern man with an affinity for Brit-Pop—sits next to me as I ponder my next move.
You wouldn’t think of Queens as being part of New York because it’s so different from Manhattan. The row homes connect together and stretch the length of the block, they each have brownstone steps, and I can’t help but wonder how many people have sat on them and had their hearts. It’s a weird thought to have, but I think of random things like that. They’re packed so tight that one assumes the developers were trying build as many units as they could in one space. The streets have one lane going each way and, if you aren’t careful getting out of your car, you could easily be hit by a passing vehicle. This is as close to a suburb that I’ve seen since I landed.
The neighborhood has working class vibes with shops representing different cultures and customs. Mothers shuffle their children along, with laundry carts and spare groceries picked up at one of the numerous corner stores. Life definitely moves slower here compared to Manhattan. The people look you in the eye and inquire about your day, shopkeepers are more likely to engage you in conversation about the Mets pitching woes than whether or not you plan to purchase anything.
Thirty yards from us, right in front of one of the complexes, there’s a woman yelling at another woman, who’s pleading outside by the steps. It reminds me of Jungle Fever, when Wesley Snipes’s character is caught cheating on his wife. Either this is normal or people mind their own business in this neighborhood, because nobody is stopping to figure out what’s going on.
I sent Melody a text on the ride over, but she hasn’t responded yet. It’s these kind of waiting games, that remind me why I was happy to get married.
“You got anymore rides you need to take, Jah?” I ask, crumpling the bag and wiping my mouth.
“No my friend. As of right now, I’m done for the day.”
“Alright, look, I need to go have a conversation with that girl over there, the one outside the building,” I say motioning to the women in the argument. He looks nervous and I can see him pondering exactly what he’s gotten himself into. “It might take awhile, but I’ll need a ride back into the city if you’re available.”
He looks at me and then back at the confrontation and nods his approval, “How much time do you need?” he asks.
“Half an hour,” I reply. As I say this we notice the woman preparing to push a television out the window—I’m talking old school tube television with a glass screen and the red, white, and yellow ports.