Finding Momentum

“It’s a trip,” Mike tells me as we lean against Gyp­sys’ restau­rant, “watch­ing that guy do his thing.”

James, an African-American man dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket, is shak­ing the cup in front of the Asian Ghetto. He’s singing some­thing akin to a gospel spir­i­tual. I say help a friend, I say hel­llp a friend with the charm and gusto of a stage per­former. His voice is rich and boomy, but more impres­sively he con­tin­ues to sing as peo­ple pass him by. Just a lil bit of change, I say, help a friend.

Mike just shakes his head. “It’s a trip cuz I’m see­ing it from the out­side. And I’m watch­ing all these peo­ple passin’ and, I dunno man, it’s such a trip.”

There is an unwrit­ten rule for work­ing a spot. Once some­body has arrived, the place is in his pos­ses­sion until he leaves. A part of this is prac­ti­cal, because two peo­ple work­ing the same spot means half the earn­ings. A part of this is sim­ply being hon­or­able to the liveli­hood of the other man.

—

The first time I asked Mike if I could pray for him, I was sur­prised by the imme­di­acy of his response and the quick­ness by which he grabbed my hand and bowed his head. We prayed with our hands clasped in some sort of handshake.

I found Mike talk­ing to another stu­dent one night. It turned out he was from the Nav­i­ga­tors fel­low­ship. I asked him if we could pray for Mike together. He agreed, and we both clasped our hands around Mike’s, pray­ing God’s heal­ing, mercy and love over our brother. Peo­ple were laugh­ing at the sight, but let me tell you it was beautiful.

It’s very hard for me to believe in those sorts of prayers, espe­cially with the real­i­ties of life that Mike faces daily. I tend to think that Mike has greater faith than I do. He told me a week later, “You know Drew, when­ever peo­ple pray for me, the pain stops. God bless me, Drew. He’s working.”

—

Mike’s med­ica­tion pre­scrip­tion has expired, leav­ing him with­out his nitro­glyc­er­ine pills (in addi­tion to his water pills and his iron pills). He gives me a call one day in class, and I pick up to hear his light drawl over the phone. “Lis­ten, man, Andrew, I need to talk to you.”

His tem­po­rary Medicare cov­er­age has expired (it was a 90-day pass), leav­ing him with­out the abil­ity to pay for his pre­scrip­tion meds held for him at High­land County Hos­pi­tal in Oak­land. “Andrew, I need some twenty-five bucks.”

I stop when I hear this over the phone. You see, Mike has this vibe that he wants my com­pany more than he wants my money. That’s what I like about him. But this is impor­tant, and I have no time to doubt his inten­tions so I tell Mike I can meet him later that afternoon.

“Andrew, you’re my real part­ner” (Mike drawls part­ner into pard­ner) he tells me as we meet at dusk. I don’t know how to respond to that.

He gets the meds and pre­scrip­tion that night (“The doc­tor goes down to the phar­macy, the pharmacy’s closed but he gets my meds for me any­ways”). His shakes and flut­ters have gone away for now, he tells me. Good, I tell him.

—

I don’t know Mike’s last name. It’s cer­tainly crossed my mind that should Mike pass away, I should find out on some sort of pub­lic data­base. But I don’t know his last name, and the pos­si­bil­ity of death haunts me (par­tic­u­larly after not see­ing him in front of his typ­i­cal place in front of the Asian Ghetto for awhile). I don’t know Mike’s last name, because to me he’s Mike, his estranged wife is Belinda, his cousin is Cal and some­how that is enough for him.

Note to self: find out Mike’s last name.

—

Mike bounces around from rel­a­tive to rel­a­tive, mov­ing as often as they’ll let him stay. Often­times he’ll be kicked out because his relative’s “baby momma” didn’t like him, or because his sister’s finan­cial sit­u­a­tion was worse than his own. He comes in to sleep at 12AM and leaves as early as pos­si­ble, often at 6AM. He’s cur­rently stay­ing with cousin Cal, who has acquired a “crazy girl” as described by Mike. She has taken a lik­ing to Cal… and Mike. “I ain’t get­ting inti­mate with her” Mike tells me with a fiery look in his eyes. Cousin Cal thinks dif­fer­ently. “Hey cuz,” he tells Mike, “why don’t you spend some time with her?” Mike laughs. “That girl crazy.” He laughs some more. “I’m hold­ing true to my word.”

—

Mike’s been to prison before, for some petty crimes and finally to the big house in 1986 for sell­ing weed on a street cor­ner to a man who turned out to be an under­cover cop. “I regret every one of those deci­sions” he tells me. He was engaged to Belinda in 86 with a child and one on the way (if I can remem­ber cor­rectly). “I can still remem­ber that day I went out to sell. Belinda was call­ing out to me telling me to go straight. Worst deci­sion of my life.” After the arrest, he spent 10 years in the big house, San Quentin. “I never got to see my chil­dren grow up. And now I can’t see them anymore.”

—

As pre­vi­ously men­tioned, I sus­pect that much of the rea­son why I like Mike and have hit it off so well is because he’s rarely directly asked me for money.

Mike calls me up today. “Andrew, man, I gotta talk to you man.” He repeats him­self: “I need to talk to you man. I need some cash.”

This is the sec­ond time he’s called and asked for cash. I begin to regret giv­ing him my num­ber, and the other mil­lion asso­ci­ated doubts flut­ter in my head again.

This request brought back some bad mem­o­ries in my mind of pre­vi­ous
encoun­ters with other men on the streets who have taken advan­tage of me. More doubts flut­ter in my mind. Am I being a softie? He’s prob­a­bly gonna get some more booze with that change. He’s no dif­fer­ent from the others.

And I want to, at that moment,
hang up on Mike. I hes­i­tate, for maybe a moment too long�

I remem­ber that my God, who knew that I’d abuse his grace and mercy far ahead of time, died for me any­ways. Did it cheapen his death? No, it ampli­fied my need for Him�

“Andrew, I need the cash for my niece’s birth­day tomor­row. I’m gonna go over to Wal­greens and get her a doll. I wanna be there for her birth­day, man.”

Can I trust this man? I ask myself. Does it even mat­ter, in light of what I’ve done for you? God gen­tly reminds me.

I meet with Mike that night (he comes to Berke­ley on the BART) and give him some money. It is one of the hard­est things I’ve ever done, because my doubts about him are still there. I’m still feel­ing the fool for hand­ing over cash to Mike, a man I could pos­si­bly call a friend but who is so removed from my universe.

“You show me so much love, Drew.” He grips my hand hard. I am reluc­tant to return his embrace.

I walk back to a dull throb in my head, afraid that this will have been like every other time.

I walk slowly, pon­der­ing Grace.