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It was a 10:30 PM Monday, a little more than a week (Friday before Halloween) since Bill* disappeared – heading back to live on the street and to his heroine — the thing he hated and loved above all else. I guy from a resturant near a pretty seedy part of the city called me. Bill asked him to call. He wanted me to pick him up and take him to the hospital, I assumed to dry out. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled my car up to the resturant and he walked over. When I saw him, he was wearing a charcoal hoddie and sweat pants, though who knows their original color. Bill had a new but scraggly beard, and underneath new lesions weaping blood and puss. He smelled sour, like urine mixed with mildew, and was talking in the frantic semi-sane babble of a dope-fiend. Bill gave me his cell phone, wallet, and keys, and after sputtering a tearful apology, went around the corner saying he had to get his stuff. I waited a half hour. It gave me penlty of time to think about Bill and my friendship. I met him in the Serenity Club, a meeting place for AA/NA meetings. Our faith family meets there, a lot like one of the other meetings — discussion based, open, willing to deal with real issues, real people, and real honesty. Bill wandered in, thinking he was at an AA meeting. He sat on the couch and and promptly feel asleep on his own chest. I went to talk to him when the meeting was over. It was obvious that he fell asleep under the weight of all he was carrying. He beat his heroine addiction because he had been in an accident that had nearly took his life. He was living in a shelter, but that was better than the bridge he was living under for the years before that. No family. No future. No connections. My wife Suzy and I took him to lunch so we could hear the rest of his story. In the diner, the more Bill spoke and listened to us, the more he seemed to come alive. His dull eyes were beginning to clear, beginning to see, beginning to fill with hope. That day was a year ago last weekend. Since that day, Bill continued to hang around until he had really become a member of our faith family. We worked with him to rebuild his life. He completed his outpatient program and decided to become a disciple of Jesus. We helped him get into a studio apartment, find work, and get through some legal issues — both from his former lifestyle and the unfortunate policies designed to make life for homeless people difficult. Bill was growing into a wonderful and healthy person. Maybe that’s what made this situation so frustrating. Sitting here in my car waiting for him to come back was worse because I had seen Bill put all this behind him — or so I thought. Tired of waiting, I drove over and parked by a hydrant. I got out and walked down to the corner where Bill had disappeared. He was no where to be seen, but the guys dealing drugs out of the conversion van just down the street made me reluctant to go looking for him further. I returned to my car and waited another twenty minutes. When he came back he was even more frantic. He tried to wave me off, like he wanted me to leave without having to say anything, obviously too gone to remember I had his phone and wallet. I asked him what was up. He said, “Just go. I f**ked up. Ben, go. You’ve done to much. I don’t want you to…” I continued to pry at what was up. He told me he owed his dealer or someone $32, and if he didn’t pay, they had a key and his address and would put a brick through his window. His mom was staying there and he was afraid she would get hurt and that they’d wreck his stuff. He said he was going to pan-handle until he came up with it, check himself into a hospital, and call me from there. I didn’t believe him. I told him to wait right there while I went to the ATM to get the money. When I got back, he standing where I told him. I thought, “O great, I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight.” After a few minutes he came from the direction of the bridge — the one he used to live underneath – with a water bottle and a plasitc bag full of Halloween candy — I guessed that’s what he was living on besides heroine. I gave him the money and he swore that he wouldn’t buy drugs with it — that he’d pay off his dealer, get his stuff, and come right back so I could take him to the hospital. I waited and waited. Most of the time, I spent kicking myself. If there is one cardinal rule to helping a heroine addict, it is to never put money in their hand. It’s just too much for them. An hour later I gave up and left. Bill had obviously found other uses for the money. He was probably passed-out in some drug crib out of his mind on whatever $40 could get him; at least tonight’s Heroine, and maybe some dope for tomorrow too. On the drive home, I felt like the donkey chasing the preverbial carrot for three hours. Was it my delusions of heroism that made me such a sucker, or was it my compassion for a friend, even though he was such a liar? When I got back to the house, I went through Bill’s wallet. After what he put me through and all the lies, I felt justified. I found two credit cards he just signed up for, even though he was unemployed and broke latetly, and I had told him he didn’t need plastic to worry about at least a hundred times. On an inside pocket there were two condoms in overworn wrappers, in a condition that might raise doubts to their effectiveness. Behind them was a used tissue, stained with blood and who knows what else. I was about to throw it out in disgust, but it felt heavy, as if something was inside. I unwrapped it, and there was Bill’s gold crucifix. He must have taken if off so no one would steal it when he was high. Maybe too, he felt guilty like a married man removing a wedding band beforing seeing his mistress. It struck me as a little poetic. Credit cards. Condoms. A crucifix. Bill kept the protections of all three of his gods in one pocket. They were tailsmans to ward off danger, but obviously they had failed. But then again, it was the real Jesus who had made him call me. If not for meeting Christ, he would be as he was before, without connection. Regardless of Bill’s belief, I was on that corner because of a very real God, and even though I left without Bill in the car, that alone could be proof that he really was not alone. (*Not his real name)
Original content by: http://blog.thetruthtree.com/?p=3.
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Scott Bartchy is a radical. He believes in a subversive system that embraces those on the fringes of our society and seeks to establish a new way of life that goes against the status quo.