A Karma Carol

A Karma Carol

‘Twas the night before last,

and there at the counter.

right in the deli,

a Karmic encounter.

Hot, sweaty, and tired,

a frazzled mess of red hair.

If my hours were shorter,

I wouldn’t be there.

It’s late and it’s hot,

just doesn’t feel fair.

To be standing in line,

Behind a man in his chair.

I smile and I wait,

though my patience is thin.

All I want is some turkey,

So I can go home and turn in.

His track suit is red,

a brace on one wrist.

Useless legs being driven

by a stick in his fist.

The top of the counter,

so far up he can’t see.

I pass him his lunchmeat,

and he smiles at me.

It doesn’t seem to bother him,

that he can’t stand up and get it.

Then he looks at me oddly

and says, “Are you a paramedic?”

I nod, the polite mask

slips safely into place.

Decades of service,

worn into my face.

Tonight I wear no patches,

few markers at all.

He must have seen my ID,

my pants or boots made that call.

Now he is animated,

“Do you work around here?”

“No sir, in Newark.

For my 26^th year.”

“I knew it!” he cries,

good hand slapping his chair.

“I’ve seen you before.”

I say, “It must be the hair.”

“You and your friends,

twice saved my life.”

“Once from a gun,

the second a knife.”

I smile at the words,

“Are you sure it was me?”

“Yes ma’am I am,

a drive-by in 93.”

“It was a hot summer night,

two blocks from your lot.

I remember your face (and hair),

the night I got shot.”

“That night took my legs,

but I got shiny new wheels.

I’d fly down 12^th Avenue,

just to see how it feels.”

“A couple of years later,

you know the Divine?

I got robbed with a knife,

right under the sign.”

“I didn’t have much,

I was kind of a wreck.

Still he took my few things,

left a blade in my neck.”

“Again came your friends,

down the street in the night.

I lost one good arm,

but still kept my life.”

His voice held no hate,

or bitter remorse.

He laughed at himself,

on his motorized horse.

Our orders were sliced,

but the clerks were distracted.

By this very real talk

of events that were tragic.

We talked for a while,

a mutual history.

About real life and real danger

and real love of one city.

See we both came from a time,

before gangs and franchises.

Each night made better,

only when the sun rises. 

We knew the same streets,

shopped the same stores.

He knew the *real* Prince Street,

when he lived on the 8^th floor.

“Night after night.

Kids shot in the head.

You and your friends drag them out,

a chance at life in its stead.”

“The politics are a sham,

the city strangled and hacked.

Yet as bad as it was,

you always came back.”

And before I knew it,

it was time to move on.

The hour was late,

the list was still long.

I expressed my condolences,

he waved off the rest.

“I have my life and my family,

I feel very blessed.”

“We don’t get to know

how our story ends.

Mine goes a bit longer,

thanks to you and your friends.”

“My name is Darin,”

using his good hand to shake mine.

“You will always be welcome,

by my family on South 9^th.”

His companion arrived

and they continued their errands.

I was left at the counter,

not quite sure what just happened.

It’s hard to explain,

the war against Death.

Our anonymous life,

revolves around that last breath.

Years of thankless service,

done in nameless grace.

All of a sudden,

I’m given a face.

Nobody notices,

nobody cares.

Until that one day,

by a man in a chair.

I was still tired,

sweaty and hot.

But I was less hopeless,

See I’d almost forgot.

That in the middle of it all,

our jobs do have meaning.

Even if just to one man, one family,

one child still dreaming.

That the reason we return,

time and time again,

Is not for the thanks,

it’s the love of the win.

The violence, disease,

the pain and the rage.

Is made a little less,

and that is our wage.

It’s self-destructive, I know

a relentless tenacity.

But there’s a reason that none of us

gets out of Brick City.

I paid for my items,

lost in my head for a time.

When I again heard his chair,

zoom by with a whine. 

I heard him exclaim,

as he drove out of sight.

“Thanks again Red,

keep up the good fight!”

Circa 1992 - 93

This is based on a real interaction I had a couple of nights ago in my local grocery store late in the evening.  While the sentences are paraphrased they contain the actual content of the conversation.  I was completed astounded that this person would remember me 21 years later, a state away - but he did, and he was so sincerely thankful to me "and my friends" that it made a very significant difference not only in my day, but regarding some other career things as well.  So Darin, thank you as well.

The Mom House

The seashell road to the house.

This is not fiction.  This is my life, or a snapshot from it.  I make no bones about coming from a long line of dedicated addicts.  In fact I've lost just about my entire family to them.  Mostly alcohol, some drugs - no matter, they're all strung out or co-dependent to someone who is.  The only away to avoid the trap, is to be able to have boundaries and stick to them.  Balanced against the inherent love of your family, having to strength say "no" and walk away comes at an incredible cost.  I understand now why my father could never do it.  Why my grandmother could never do it.  I have been able to do it, but it is profoundly heartbreaking and goes against my entire character and the values I've built a career on - to help.  To maintain it is a daily struggle that is just as constant as the addiction is and will only end when death comes.  

If you know my mother or rather, knew my mother, then do not feel you have to read this.  If you have good memories and healthy boundaries, there is no reason to look further.  I share this because I believe that when it comes to addicts, secrets are what kill the family and I won't do it.  I share it because I know (for a fact) that I am not the only adult child facing this, or to this degree.  You are not alone.  To my friends in Recovery, thank you for each day you get up and win one more round.  

The air remains heavy and hot, despite the fact that the sun has long since disappeared.  Summer nights in the south aren't so much a cooling off as a kicking off of the heavier blanket, where the sheet gets left on, keeping some of the air trapped.  The crunch of my tires on the seashell driveway is an undercurrent to the cicada songs that undulate past my window.  Past the neighbor’s place, large dark shadows move slowly, telling me the horses are out.  A break in the trees and there it is, my headlights hit the small white house sitting on the edge of the water.  The garage door is open, waiting for me.  I hesitate at the entrance and wait for the motion sensors to come on, there is no telling what the configuration of the garage will be each time I come and I can’t afford to fall out here.  Under the yellow bug lights I pick my way through the odd assortment of dry goods, fishing poles and rusting gardening tools.  The old wooden screen door leading into the house creaks tiredly, pulling it open draws a drag of fetid air with it.  I cringe inwardly as I can feel the layers of smell settling on my clothes, years of exhaled cigarettes, stale sweat, dried urine and even a trickling thread of … decomposition? 

This part of the house is quiet, living room lights on courtesy of timers.  Furniture unused for years sits on Persian rugs whose tasteful designs carefully camouflage a variety of yellow and brown stains.  I put my bags down and make my way past the virginal dining room table.  The smell of rot is a little stronger as I head into the small kitchen.  A dying cantaloupe is folding in on itself on the counter, sticky juice pooling beneath it like a little melon crime scene.  Every surface is covered with a composite of grease, odd spills and splashes.  Dishes with dried food, meals untouched or left off in the middle, sit by the sink.  I crack the refrigerator (face it, you would too) and realize this is where some of the smell is from.  Steaks, lamb, burgers, a mosaic of browns and grays that were never meant for meat.  Curiosity duly punished, I follow the sound of a blaring TV to the living room.

Piles of catalogs, loose papers and assorted garbage are dotted across the floor.  The local newscaster smiles at me with his non-regional diction from the enormous TV in the corner.  An old typewriter is on the couch next to barely literate letters on stained paper, laboriously typed to people no longer alive or who no longer care.  There is ash everywhere, empty packs and cigarette butts visible in every receptacle that will hold them.  An odd assortment of items from those discarded catalogs crowd the end tables and furniture – an Egyptian wall clock with moving Horus, an Airstream trailer birdhouse, an Uncle Sam nutcracker, bird art of all kinds.  I go to perch gingerly on the edge of a couch and am immediately hit with the acrid smell of urine from the cushions.  Failing to find safe purchase to stop and collect my thoughts, I know I have to continue looking.

The hallway leading to the bedrooms is dimly lit by a single nightlight, which is reflected by the glass in fallen picture frames that line the floor on one side of the hall.  Old family photos slump against the floor, staring up in mute indignation.  There is light coming from the last door on the right, where the garbled sound of a second TV competes with the news behind me.  I crane my head and look into the room.  She sits on the edge of a bed that’s covered in soiled sheets and a faded comforter.  Legs crossed in a very ladylike fashion, she draws deeply on her cigarette, ash falling unheeded onto the floor.  There is dried blood all over the arm of her pink satin nightgown and other, even less palatable, dried stains elsewhere.  She wobbles slightly, and an empty beer can falls from the pile atop the small garbage can next to the bed.  It clatters raucously across the hardwood floor, reminding me who the master of this house is.

I lean against the doorway.  “Hi Mom.”