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“Crazy” Carl
The first time I saw him, he was wandering across Sixth Street, apparently oblivious to traffic. He had a bright green sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders, but it didn’t do much to protect him from the rain. His lush brown hair was wavy, and matted. He had a wild beard. My mind put him in a box: wild man. Crazy homeless guy.
The temperature was expected to dip into the twenties. My son and I had gone out to spread the word that an emergency shelter was open, and would provide a meal and bed for the night.
I got out of my car and approached the guy. He glared at me. “Hey, brother!” I hollered, as if I were some kind of weirdo.
“You wanna help!” he growled the accusation. “You wanna help. Cigarette.” I was a naive idiot, and he knew it.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said in my sweet, middle-class and, I’m sure, ridiculous voice. “I don’t have a cigarette. But I’d like to talk to you.”
“Cigarette.”
“I’m sorry.”
He mumbled, “not your brother” as he speed-wandered off, weaving down the side street, getting away from me as fast as possible.
—
A few days later, the same son and I were spreading some bad news; the shelter had unexpectedly closed. We had blankets and sleeping bags to give away. I was driving down a nearby street, and saw him out the side window. He was on the sidewalk, up against a building. His stuff was strewn everywhere, and he was eating something.
“You’re persistent,” he said. He remembered me! I did a little tap dance in my mind.
“Would you like a blanket?”
“Persistent. Harumph.”
“I have some blankets. Do you need blankets?”
He looked off to the side, not directly at me, and kind of nodded. Then he said, “Yeah.”
I got out, trying not to dance a friggin jig over my success, and got a blanket for him. I made small talk.
“Would you like a pillow?” He said “yeah.” I had a blue bunny pillow. He said he’d give it to his daughter. His hand went down to his side as though he had a three-foot kid with him. He ran his fingers through her imaginary hair.
As I got him the blanket and the pillow, he told me between mumbles that his daughter works for the CIA.
I asked his name, and he told me. “Carl.” (*name changed)
After I gave him the stuff, he talked to me some more. I couldn’t really understand what he was saying, but I tried. He kept looking off to the side, reminding me of a shy kid. But he didn’t really look away.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Mumbles, but definitely not a “no.” So I took a chance.
“Would you like to know my name?” He didn’t look at me, but he nodded.
I told him, and kept trying to make eye contact. His eyes would dart up at mine, and then back off to the side.
I put my hand out, just a little, offering to shake hands. I don’t know what was going on in my mind. I was trying to stay present with him, asking if he needed anything, if he had enough to eat, if he’d be able to keep warm. I was wondering what I could do for him, if anything, and at the same time wondering how I was supposed to go home and just leave him here. Not to mention feeling foolish. Always feeling foolish, but even more with my hand out as though this guy was going to touch me.
His hand wavered, and I thought maybe I should wait. It wavered again, back and forth. Then it came closer, and I realized he wanted to reach for me. I waited, gently, and he took my hand.
—
Weeks passed before I saw Carl again. It was spring now, windy, but not as cold. He was under a tree, his bright green sleeping bag on the ground under him. The wind was blowing is hair. Carl has few teeth, but he has beautiful hair.
I had just picked up some tacos to share with Tracy. I grabbed one and jumped out of the car.
“Hi! Are you hungry? Would you like a taco?” Did I mention the sweet, white, middle-class lady has dimples? And, often, pig-tails?
He took it.
“Well, you could say ‘thanks’, Carl.” I smiled at him, but winced inside. What kind of idiot makes a friendly jibe at guy like that?
“Thank you very much.” He took me seriously. But he also looked up.
“Do you remember me, Carl?” I squatted down to talk with him.
He reached his hand out, and nodded. He grasped my hand again. (!)
I told him I was happy to see him. Asked him how he was. Looked at his wrinkled face, his warm eyes, which, today, were smiling.
He held my hand for a long time. He kept trying to tell me something, but when I’d ask what he’d said, he’d shake his head and say “Thank you very much. Nothing. Thank you very much.”
After one of those moments of “Thank you very much” he seemed stressed, so I sat still for a minute so he could relax.
“I’m glad we’re friends, Carl. Do you think so? Are we friends?”
He reached over, directly, with no hesitation, no tremor, and hugged me. I held him for a few seconds, and wondered when he’d last touched another person.
The moment passed, and he tried to speak again.
I so wanted to understand him. I’d ask, and he’d try, then he’d give up. “Thank you very much.”
I could have sat down next to him and watched traffic, but instead I wanted to go home to my family, so I got up to leave. I said goodbye, and he nodded. Then, as I stood looking for my husband and the car, he said:
“Four slices of cheese.”
Back I went. I knelt on the ground. “Is there something you want to tell me, Carl?”
“Um, mumuh… Nothing. Thank you very much.” He shook his head in frustration. “Thank you very much.”
Posted by Angela under stories
Wednesday, April 15, 2009