The Conclusions Part I

Tuesday, February 28th, 2012

Nearly one month. That’s how long this post has taken me to complete. Generally after I inherit the feelings and emotions that I trust are worth publishing I’d immediately get to work. Writing the blog and editing photos to tie in the story ASAP is often a must, although,  this story was different -very different.

The reason why.

I can’t get it out of my head.

New Orleans was an unreal experience that I will never forget: great friends, humble emotions, struggles and hunger. It was everything that I had begged for, but tangible. These bitter-sweet lessons and amazing stories came from the tears that stained my cheeks and softened the faces of my brothers. My heart grew larger with love and deeper with concern as the days rolled through.

To be frank, it was hell. A living, breathing hell at times. The traumatic experiences that I encountered still flash in front of me, as if I were still living the days that these events happened.

“What’s happened to me? To us? To everything that I use to believe?”

My laptop loads the edit pages. I’m reliving and researching all the data, photos and videos that disturbed me months ago. I spill my heart out on a keyboard that doesn’t speak back.I beg for answers, but only hear the clicking and clacking of letters being pushed to plastic. Clammy caffeine driven finger tips tremble over half-inched alphabets. I’m struggling to type.

I wonder about my friends, “What are you guys doing? Did you find a place to sleep last night? Are you still alive? I wish I could have told you who and what I really was …but sadly, I can never let you know.”

I worry about myself, “Are you ready to move on? Are you physically, mentally, spiritually stable?” This would not be the first day that I would cry in front of this bright white sceen of words . I’ll cry in front of my laptop – and recollect these thoughts, experiences, emotions- so I can tell you this story.

My coclusive ending to New Orleans.

The Conclusions. Part I

#3 friends 

Chad, Brandon and Brock. Three friends with three different stories.

Each one of us had our own pasts and presence. No story the same, but shared a common goal. To make due with the situations that we had inherited and search for the best possible ways to overcome any obstacles that would arrive. Unfortunately plans don’t always go as…  -Well, planned.

I wish I could write a story that’ll cheer your senses.  Give you a sense of hope or a map that could brighten your day a litle bit more before you stepped back into work. I don’t think this’ll do the trick. But maybe it will do something else. Maybe it will show you how that druggie on the corner became an addict? Maybe it’ll give you an idea of how important it is to respect our men and women in uniform, even if they’re not suited for duty. Or maybe it’ll open your eyes to a new understanding on life that you never had to deal with, but thousands struggle with everyday. It’s not homelessness. It’s not addiction or drugs. It’s something that we’ve all had to deal with from time to time.

Misjudgment

 

Chad

23/M/CA

“Every time he would BEAT my mom I wanted to kick his ass! He’s a piece of shit! I don’t know why she’s still with him!” His mouth was a  flame that couldn’t be settled with the precipitations of my settling words. The rowdy claps of business men and woman’s feet marching around us was inevitable. A rambling percussion of thumps and beats smacking pavement, like a song used to build foolish adrenaline. The climax was building.

“If we were somewhere much quieter! If I could just pull him aside and talk!” His legs were far too long for me to catch up to his livid foot pace.  “It’s going to be alright bro.” I inserted. “She’s divorcing him. Don’t worry man. It’s all going to be ok.” I tossed the words at him again, this time a little louder. I could tell he didn’t want to hear much, just speak. His “need” was to drench the fire himself with vile words. Words that would drench the embers of his heated mouth.

Exhausting. Extinguish.

Chad was a former model for the clothing company The GAP. He fled from Los Angeles to escape the family troubles that tortured him. He could no longer take the physical and emotional abuse his step father was drowning her in. The look on his face filled his dimples with dabs of jabbing disappointment as he carried on our conversation. “I told her too! My step dad is a piece of shit! He doesn’t do anything, -but live off of my mom’s money and stay at home while she works her ass off!” His words were like a current of disbelief and un forgiveness that continued to drag him deeper in an ocean of rage. He stared at the ground with a mist in his eyes as we walked eastward on Gravier Street. He began to pace faster not saying a word. I could no longer see his face, but I knew his eyes were soaked in tears. I knew he didn’t want me to see his face. To see the pain. The hurt. He didn’t want to show instability.

To spill a tear, is to leak the signs of weakness on your face. Wiping your cheek was to make it evident to others. And to wipe twice showed failure toward being “man”.

A tranquil sadness began to absorb into the pink taste buds of his sobbing tongue. His voice crumbled, “H-e doesn’t de-serve her…” We froze in the middle of New Orleans’ curbside traffic. We were two small insects surrounded by thousands of  worker ants. Each one of them with a place to go, a person to e-mail, a family to love, a bed to lay in.

They washed past us like the river does to the fallen timber. No where to go. Sacrificed. As the camper gladly uses the dying wood to step on, over the streams vast flow, we often don’t or do realize when we’ve done the same to a friend or lover.

His step father was that person. A camper.  Chad’s mother was that person, Chad was that person. The log that was chopped and thrown into the water. His life, her life, -the current that bends the shape of their trunks, only for a man to step over and use repeatedly.

Chad’s hands grabbed my shoulders, searching my eyes for answers. His eyes piled with tears again as he struggled to hold them back. His lips drew into his front teeth as he fought the need to cry.  “Ev-vry time I tried to stop him… Every time I tried to stick up for her! Every time they would fight!”

Cell phones rang. High heels knocked, beating cement in a laguage that expressed, walk faster! Walk Faster! You’re in the way!

I stared deep and asked, “What happened? What?”

I saw the tear roll as he said,

“She would tell me to leave her house…”

 

 

Brandon

M/29/MS

It was the last physical piece of his fiance’s love that he owned. A treasure piece worth more value than money. It was a memory, a reminder, a note.

Brandon’s fingers gently searched under a photo of her he kept in his wallet, striving not to damage the neat corners of her photo. Sliding under his index finger was a white sheet of notebook paper. You could see the black traces of her name (Brandy) and elegantly drawn hearts on each side while he held it in his palm. As he began to unfold, gently sliding the corners away from the center folds, we felt the emotions that he settled in to this letter. “Dis  uh letter Brandy sent to me two weeks ago.” He said now looking up at us. “I read it errh’ day. I need to. It keeps me knowin’ why I’m here. It reminds meh why I moved here.” He explained. “Because I’m in love.”  I looked to Chad and Brock with a heart felt smile.

Call it what you may, but the sounds and explanations of why a person loves another is something that makes my heart beat a little better. It helps me smile a little deeper. And I loved the way that he would continually explain the reasons why he loved his fiancé. But this, this was the first time I could hear her explain why she loved him, through his voice.

Brock, Chad and I stared as he drowned his attention to the letter. No thing. No problem, worry or feeling existed to him as his face smiled. “She keeps meh feelin’ good. Weak at da knees.” He referred to the letter as if it were her, looking at him. A sigh of life flew from his lips as he starred deeply, then read.

“D’hear Brandon.”

Ambulance sirens passed by. Loud, but still not breaking his concentration.

“Ah love you Brandon.”

Honking gulled the back ground.

“N’ this time away from you haz ben’ hard. But I want you to know that no matter what, I’ll be he’yur for you.”

Echoes between the buildings filled the air.

“‘Ah can’t wait to see you in a few weeks.”

The green light glowed. It signaled us to walk again. We didn’t.

“Don’t forget dat Brandon…”

Now looking at us.

“Ah love you more.” -His smile assured us that he was happy at this chaotic moment. “…An’ more with each and every.” His  squinting eyes told us that he would rather not share this moment with anyone else in the world.

“Forever n’ ever.”

-Because we were the friends that meant the most to him.”

“Love, Brandy.”

-And nothing was going to change that.

He slowly rested the note to his waist in thought. Reflection of how important it was to have a group of friends to talk to. To not bottle everything up, but to share with people that care. “Yuh know felluhz, y’all probably the best friends I ever had.” Brandon said, acknowledging while we had his attention. “Dis tahm’ away from Brandy has been killin’ me.” Eyes now turned away. “But y’all been here ever’ step uh the way.”

Brock stepped up to lighten his thoughtful situation. “Ahhw. Come he’yuh yuh big teddy bear!” We began to form a circle around him, with our arms hugging whatever part of his upper body we could grab.

The circle was light. We laughed as we noticed his posing discomforted remarks. “Ahhw, come on guhyz!” He responded jokingly.

As we released he refolded the letter behind the photo of her in his wallet. With his thumb he allowed the space necessary to keep is securely in place. It was all that mattered, except one more thing. The photo that laid on top.

He pinched the photo out carefully. “Ain’t she beautiful?” He asked, handing me the photo. It was a photo of Brandy standing to the left of the frame. She had a proud smile that wrapped her arms around another. It was him. He held her equally satisfied. Both of their faces were in glee as they touched lips.

Eyes. Both closed. In love.

“Yeah. Y’all sure are.”

Brandon had one month to find a concrete job, an apartment and most of all, a life worth giving to his future wife.

For now, they may have been miles apart, but in their heads – in his head- he would soon find her and him living a fairytale ending.

Together. Forever and ever, right here in New Orleans.

 

Brock

M/?/LA

He’s the dirty outfit that you saw walking down the street. The man with a black garbage bag of clothes over his right shoulder and a blanket under hit left pit.

As he searched for a warm place to sleep, did you laugh? Point in his direction, as he noticed your finger describing his pained misfortune? Was his body a mainstream of amusement for your social wellbeing?

“Take a picture quick! And post it on Facebook! Hurry! Hurry!” 

Was he not noted at that moment as being a real human being? Or  a quick laugh and an anticipated comment or like?

I’ll tell you who he really is. He’s more than a human. He’s an American soldier.

Brock: The soldier that fought for your freedom. Soldier. -A man you didn’t know is (& once a soldier always a soldier), ’til I told you. An Outcast. -An assumed lackadaisical timeline based on his wardrobe. A teacher. -Ramming a vital dose of New Orleans street smarts curriculum in my head. Professional. -A medic and aggressor on the field of battle. Role model. – Filled with wisdom, intellect and love that made him fan worthy. Friend. – The soldier that kept me safe from the cracker jack convicts in NOLA. Keeping me conscious when I didn’t have a conscience. A man who gave me the wisdom to keep me safe when I was vulnerable. A mentor, helping me become bold when I was afraid. And a side kick who kept me laughing when moments seemed grief.

I thank God for Brock, because throughout all the friends that I’ve met -homeless or not! He is the only friend that I can honestly say understands me, because he’s been there. That’s who he is: generous, loving, adventurous, brave. -But much, much more than I. So I strived- still try- to be much, much more, like him.

Even if it kills me.

Green, yellow and red traffic lights directed vehicles through rush hour traffic on Gravier Street. Our eyes swept the street corners, searching for the fastest route to The Oz. We had few minutes to catch the feeding line at the shelter. Missing the meal meant not eating ’til the next day and starving on a cold winters’ night. Something I’ve experienced several times, and wouldn’t wish on any person on the streets.

-“HONK! -BEEP- BEEP!”

Cars shoved to the curb as police sirens blared throughout the buildings. As they pushed past one another I was reminded of the traffic in Mexico. It’s quite the sight to see. The sounds of rushing police and ambulance vehicles were more consistent than St.Patrick’s church bells chiming on the half our. I knew the dangers that lurked in this city were great, which was why I chose to come, but I still had a lot to learn.

As we walked past the now frozen cars, I began to marvel at how well I had learned the streets. My pacing hours on sidewalks allowed me to study, which streets will lead me where and how long it would take. My feet were covered in blisters that made my determination evident. “It’d probably be best if we turn up Loyola.” I recommended. Brock studied the traffic as I spoke.” We won’t have to deal with as many stop lights and it’s just a stretch to Lee Circle.”

“You learnin’ deze streets pretty well buddy.” He said with an interested reply. I could tell he was happy to know that I was learning the area, but I knew his morals were slightly different. He didn’t like me walking in dangerous areas alone. We’ve trekked through Canal Street and several others, but only so far. Everyday was a set schedule with a time to eat, sleep and walk. I had to dig deeper! Alone. It built drama in my mind of what lurked behind shadowy walls and abandoned buildings. At times the lights and music could entice you. Make you think you were in a section of “Times Square”, but the moment the sounds of trombones and cellos diminished from your ears you’d end up in “Skid Row”. The city is a very dangerous place to be in if you don’t do your share of searching.

-“Yeah, I’ve been walking all over. Just trying to understand it better. I love walking the city. Especially the harder areas.”

Yellow light. Red light.

-“Yuh know kid,”  His face filled with different matter. “I worry about you.”

“Yeah?” I asked feeling a sense of relief. I knew people cared about me from where I was from. But to have someone in a foreign state tell me they worry about me, it brought a feeling of relief. An answer that said, “you’re not out here alone.”

“Yeah buddy.” He said with an exhaled emotion. “This city. It ain’t no joke. I don’t know where yuh run off too sometimes, but I have an idea.” His eyes now studying the roads. “Yuh know, yuh remind me a lot of mah’self. Dat kinda worries me.” The demeanor of his personality changed. It was a cocktail of reflection and worry. Reflecting on himself or maybe the conversations that we’ve had before. Conversations about travels, exploration, danger, excitement.

My eyes turned away from his. I’ve never been a fan of lectures. “I’ll be alright.” I assured him.

He continued to study the roads. Eyes like a machine. Scanning the the area and his surroundings. His mind is a radar that continually searches for alternative routes and signs of threat. I reminded myself of the times we’ve walked the streets together. How it seemed that he could spot the impossible. Crack pipes, syringes and drugs all bluntly in front of my face. Maybe hidden in an abandoned cigarette carton, folded in a stray cap or lying on the concrete sidewalks.

It reminded me of how unknowing I was of my surroundings. Although I thought I knew, I really didn’t I was as blind. Blind as the first time NOLA tourist who walks Bourbon Street and expects a mellow glass of wine with his 80 year old religious grandmother. I didn’t know what “the streets” were. I assumed, believing they were all gray cement roads.

Not every street is the same. Just as I had believed that every shelter and homeless feeding line  were the same. They’re not. Most are a real blessing. But some can offer some very dark secrets that remain behind a curtain.

… -I’ll that save it for later.

Green Light.

Go…

Out of all the people who I’ve met on this journey, I would consider Brock to be my best friend.  We were both adventurous and daring. We steered clear from the bars and strip clubs that provocatively tried to gain our attention. And we were enthusiastic about danger. We’ve had many intellectual conversations about poverty and corruption. Some that most politics wouldn’t understand, unless if they were in our situations. -For most, I’d say unlikely.

He backpacked the Appalachian trails. He was a veteran in the war in The War in Afghanistan and Desert Storm. He didn’t smoke, drink or do drugs. He was a soldier with a big heart for the homeless, just like I do.

A week before I met Brock he was working at a local homeless shelter that ironically left him on the streets after her quit. Discovering the corruption within’ the system led him to the escape route that became the streets. His allegations were ones that I heard line up with several others’ stories. All consistent in their discussions. Especially when I made the decision to stay the night at a particular shelter myself… I learned first hand about some of the issues at the “shelter”.

As we stepped into the feeding line without a moment to spare, the disposition of Brock’s face grew weary. I began to notice the scuffs from his tortured shoes speak to me the way that my very first homeless friend’s did, Frank. They said, you shouldn’t be out here. You’re too young. You have too much life ahead of you.

“-Look.” He said, staring in my eyes. His face wrote out a letter of sincerity that I could no longer ignore. “Be careful my friend. Stay safe is all. Just please, be careful.”

 

 

#3 friends Week 3 

Chad

 

“You seen Chad aneh’where?” He was breathing heavily.”I been lookin’ fur em’ da past few dayz. I ain’t seen’t him no where.” Brandon could barely keep his sentences together as he juggled expressions and emotions like a metaphorical street mime.

“No. No I haven’t seen him in a few days actually.”

-The first sign of my brotherhood crumbling.

“I was going to ask you the same question.” No person at the shelter had seen him in days, which was odd, because there are hundreds eyes to notice one man. If anyone knew anything, saw anything, it was someone here.

Brandon’s hands reach for my shoulders as he looked at me with anxiety. “There’z uh hit on em!”

I wasn’t expecting to hear those words come from my friends mouth. It was probably the last thing I expected to hear. I had to – I had to ask him again! “-A what?!”

“Uh hit! Lahk someone iz lookin’ tuh kill him! I ben’ askin’ round, seein’ if aneh’one had seen him around. People been tellin’ me there’z a guy comin’ round the shelters lookin’ for him. Askin’ where he’s at.”

My heart sank to the back of my rib cage. “What? Why?” I immediately thought.

“The guy whose lookin’ for him’s a drug dealer. Turns out he thinks Chad was tryna’ set him up, cuz Chad was tryin’ tuh sell em’ two phones.”

-“Two phones!” I thought to myself. “I remember!”

“N” next thang they knew, tha cops showed up! Thinkin’ it was uh’ drug deal!

Eyes struck open. I remembered. He needed to sell those phones in order to purchase a uniform for his new job! The Oyster Bar on Iberville.

Chad’s face was covered with pride when he gave me the details days before. He held a sense that something good was finally turning up. It was an upscale restaurant that required the proper apparel for the job. The only obstacle in his way was money. The uniform. A few dollars. “Chad told me about those phones man! He told me he had to sell them for some new pants! I was with him the day he got the job!”

“Ah know! He told me. He told all uh us! But what can we do now? Ah don’t even know where he at! If he even alive or what?”

Mardi Gras was coming up within’ a few days. The job was a given to him because they needed to train servers before the celebration. It was his ticket to a new life! To a better life! And now… Now I didn’t even know if he was lying face down in a gutter or on a bus to California.

“We have to find him!”

 

Brandon

-“You’re in love with him?”

A buzz through the microphone signaled tears to his face, running from his tired eyes.

Then came questions of heartache.

“What do you mean you never loved me?”

-“Buzz.”

“What about me! What about us!” A realization of everything.-

-“Buzz…Buzz,Buzz.”

“What do ah’ do now? What do ah’ do!” -The only thing that mattered to him.-

“Click.”

– Gone.

For one week Brandon called, texted and voice mailed his fiancé. No replies were sent back. He sent paper letters with his own handwriting. Drawings that expressed his unconditional love for her. Pieces he wrote with his own hands that were a reflection of his heart. Messages describing his love for her through the phone, quivers of concern. And for one week… there was no response. No call. No text. No letters.

This woman whose name was tattooed on his arm, whose promises -lies of moving to New Orleans and starting a new life – they were all broken. His heart, his pride, achievements, goals! -They all meant nothing now, because he lost the spirit that kept them alive.

Two weeks later… my friend Brandon did heroin for the first time.

It now marks a chapter in his life.

His new life in New Orleans.

 

Brock

The life of “the gang” weakened more and more as the days progressed. I’ve slowly seen two of my friends lives deteriorating. Their lives were out of my hands and gradually I was losing my sanity. We all were.

Brock found a woman. He said he had fallen in love with her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Loneliness was covering the shadows of our backs. The air was getting colder and the spirits of my friends were disappearing.

My mind was blown by what had happened to Chad. The idea of falling in love seemed less and less real when I looked at my friend Brandon. I was searching for new ways to pass the time. An expel of depression was leaking from my head an on my shirt, staining my heart. I wanted to go home. I wanted nothing more than to be with friends and family.

And as for Brock… well he was the biggest target of all, and he didn’t even know it.

A woman. Something that most of us on the streets long for. A woman to come and fill in the gaps of loneliness with abundance. A woman to wash our worries away with her kisses on the cheek. A smile that could replace hunger, fear and chills in the winter night. Nights together became less frequent. The days slowly became me myself and sometimes Brandon. Brock’s presence became limited. He was changing and I was starting to figure out why.

She was from California. Addicted to drugs. I sat across from her in an Narcotics Anonymous session.

Alyssa.

-“I saw my ex boyfriends’ face get blown off by a shot gun right in front of me.” Her cries were low, but her beating voice made her trauma apparent. “-I.” Sniffles and jerks in her lungs made it difficult to speak. “-I. I shouldn’t be.” Another strained sentence and wipe of her tears. “It was over… over drugs. I thought I was going to die that night. I-I should have. But I didn’t. And now all I have are the drugs. I don’t know anyone here. I’m alone here-.” The weeping of tears poured out from her face as a former addict responded to comfort her.”

-The sad truth behind this story is, Brock could never be the man she needed, only the man she wanted at the time. She wanted him to fuel her addictions.  She was depressed, alone and experiencing withdrawal symptoms from heroin. He wanted to make her happy, because the feelings of depression and desolation were taking over him as well.

Loneliness. It’s your closest companion on the streets. It’s who you sleep with when friends are fading and family is distant. Constant reminders of your situation reoccur every time you lay your head to sleep then replay in the morning when the sun rises.

She was rarely ever by his side, but more along the sidelines, while he tried to pull her close. At random I would see him, but he was never the same as I remembered. Something was different. Something terrible. His eyes were black around the eyelids. When we made plans to hang out he would disappear and days later come back with bleeding needle marks tracking his forearms. He was turning into a heroin addict.

If I turned a corner he would vanish, searching for more of this “relationship stabilizer”. -The object that kept both of them closer to each other-. His goal for the month was to have an apartment. He was only a ‘temporary street walker”. He received checks for his duties and damages in war. He always had a roof over his head, ’til now. ‘Til he started purchasing love.

His recent previous relationship was worked the same way. He spent every dime he had to make his girl friend happy, but it wasn’t on drugs. It was on materialistic objects. Clothes, food, furniture. After three years she kicked him out of their apartment and kept all of their belongings. He claimed he didn’t want any part of her in his life, including the superficial.

Alyssa didn’t love him the way he loved her. He called it “love” . I called it getting what she wanted.  I’m sure she’s done this sort of thing to many others before, she seemed like a professional, ruining my best friends life. I’m not sure if he was ashamed of what he was becoming or even aware. He became blind. Blinded by “love”.

Bargaining affection.

He didn’t know it, but Brock was buying homeless, hopeless, happiness.

When you are alone, homeless, starving, sad – “she” is your priority. Whoever she is, it’s your job to make her happy, otherwise you have no affection. No lover that you long for! There is no one else to hold or kiss. These opportunities are rare.  There’s no back up plans like some people arrange out “in the real world”. The opportunity to love a woman is rare, at times almost unrealistic.

The determination of a man is influenced by a woman. He can either change for the better or the worst. When a man believes he is in love, his priorities, previous ambitions or desires shift. Tilt in the direction of his lover’s.

When life is hard, we become powerless to what makes us feel good. Because life can be shitty when things are bad, but it’s hell when you’re alone.

My friend Brock is now a heroin addict.

My biggest influence is dying in NOLA.

An American soldier is stranded and lost… in the battlefield of New Orleans.

And little did I know… I was next to lose my life, to the stresses of the streets.

Because I didn’t listen to him.

I didn’t want to listen to him when he told me… “Be careful.”

Sunday, February 5th, 2012 (Super Bowl Sunday)

#Epilepsy

 

It’s almost as if your mind processes the world in a sequence of frames.

Tree! Branch, branch, branch.

One frame after another slides through, while sensations of discomfort enter the brain, interrupting your abilities to function.

Sunlight. People. Car. Branch, branch.

“What’s wrong with meeeE? I can’t  S-Top. I need to STOP. StOp. Stop! TALKING!”

“-STOP!”

There is a cerebral numbness. The feeling is like acupuncture on the nervous system. Needles infecting the parietal and occipital lobes of the brain. Pulsing! Beating in my skull like a hammer to sheet rock! As the nails dig deeper and deeper, muscle movement becomes uncontrollable.  Your voice and body is being exorcised by “the demon of epilepsy”.

Branch, branch. BRANCH!

Then, the need to touch – Grab something!  The hunger to grip reality and flee this cycle of fear bursts in your chest.

Branch, branch, BRANCH!

Your mind wont stop racing ’til you do! You need to touch something! Grab it! Fucking Grab It Before You GO Into Convulsions!

Branch, branch, BRANCH!

And when you do…

You won’t realize how real this life is.

BRANCH! BRANCH! BRANCH!

SNAP!

“NO!”

‘Til you feel it for yourself.

To Be Continued…