Finding Momentum

Mike's breath sports the sour edge of alcohol. "Had some wine at my sister's anniversary tonight," he tells me. He's had plenty tonight, the fumes tell me over the din of Tupac's All Eyez On Me.

He's looking pretty disheveled in a secondhand jacket and a Jamaica-themed beanie. Standing still, holding up his sign above his head ("Need some Help--God Bless"), Mike cocks his head at an angle. "Drew, I gotta talk to you mang."

Mike's stiffly staggering as he walks up the block, toward me. He's desperate. His cousin's friend broke into his ATM account, his Medi-Cal coverage was refused and his bills are piling up.

"Drew." Mike's at the end of his rope. I can see it in his eyes. He's cornered (and it scares me). I instinctually back away.

His face falls, eyes squint as if to keep in tears and suddenly he's emotional. "Listen, man, you gotta help me, man."

Mike lists off his needs. He's always long-winded about these things. Mike tells me about Belinda, and how "she's probably gone drunk right now--you wanna call her now? You wanna?" and he's going off on how his phone bill gonna be cut off ("It was due on the 11th of last month, and I just pay it on this month the 8th. They cut me off tomorrow--call me Drew. Call me now. See?")

Mike has a cell phone bill of 57 dollars a month. I don't know anybody who pays 57 dollars a month for one cell phone. Why, if I had a phone plan I'd just get a pay-as-you-go plan and pay about fifteen dollars a month. What's he thinking? He's so irresponsible.

"Listen, Drew, they deny me my medical coverage. I gotta get those heart pills." How many you got, Mike? "I got about 70 tabs left, they last me maybe a few weeks." He pulls out a bottle filled with little nitroglycerin tablets and shakes a few out into his palm--"They go stale after too long, you see"--and begins to put them back but begins dropping tablet after tablet because his hands are shaking.

Mike stands up to his full height. "Liiisten, Drew, you gotta help me. You gotta help me."

I'm really irritated now. "What do you want, Mike?" I try to keep the tone of my voice calm but my anger is starting to come through. "You want money, man? How much do you want?" I want to take back every word I say for every reason.

Mike falls onto his milk crate, draped in cardboard cartons. "I dunno mang, you just gotta help me."

I don't know why, but I egg him on. "How much you want, man? You just want the money, right?

Mike doesn't respond.

I'm just standing there with my anger welling up more and more inside me--is that all I am? I'm feeling a little more hurt than I am angry. "Okay, you want money? I'll get some to you tomorrow. When are you free?"

That's not enough for him. "Listen Drew, my phone bill. They gonna cut off my phone. You got a couple bucks now?"

The nerve.

Mike's head lulls with every syllable, the alcohol slurs his speech. He keeps rambling and I have to stop myself from walking off.

I'm standing, he's sitting. I'm ramrod straight and he's rocking back and forth. I look down at him with a sore expression. "You want money?"

He's still rambling, staring into the street, "...and it's gonna end up being in the thousands..."

---

But I already know how much I'm supposed to give Mike: enough to hurt. The last night I told Mike to meet me at 9 in the morning on the Durant sidewalk, then I oversleep with last night's anger still simmering inside.

He's reclining on a folding chair when I walk up at 10:30AM, his boombox cradled in his lap, punching the buttons on the front panel. He turns to me: "Hey Drew, got any idea why the CD don't work?"

We spend a good 10 minutes punching buttons and flipping switches on the ancient boombox, to no avail. "Batteries probably died," I halfheartedly suggest. The CD inside makes a pathetic attempt to spin.

"Whoa! It's the batteries," he declares.

We make small talk for a bit. He's sober, and doing better than he was last night. "I stay over at the shelter last night, then got out here early in the morning.

I drop some money into his cup. He stands up and beams. "Thanks Drew. I know I can count on you."

I say nothing and turn to leave. I don't think I can come back here, not in the near future.

"Hey," he calls after me, "you think we messengers?"

"What?"

"Messengers. Spreadin' the word. Disciples, apostles, is that the word?"

I give him a half-hearted grin. I don't know. I walk off.

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