Finding Momentum

Sunday, I get a call from Mike. "Hey Drew, listen I gotta talk to you man," he starts. But this time, his voice is different: wearier, on eggshells. "I'm at Alta Bates right now. My brother Wayne's in the hospital. He's on his way out."

"Oh, my God. What happened?"

"He's got an infection, and it's been bad Drew, it's been bad." I hear some muffled voices in the background. "But hey Drew, I gotta go now. I need your prayers."

--

Truth of the matter is that when I graduated and moved away, I lost touch with Mike. It wasn't a sudden break, but gradual and subtle. I graduated. I went to Africa. I came back and started working. Mike stayed around.

Every once in awhile, I get a phone call from him. "Hey Drew, how ya doin?" Mike will ask. And I will tell him that I'm at work, and I'll call him back. I try to remember to call him back. I really do.

--

"He's gone."

"Mike, I'm so sorry."

"He passed at 7:07."

"I'm so sorry man."

"Wayne just gave up man. Drew, I'm tired."

I can say nothing.

"I can't cry no more."

--

Sarah and I show up at Alta Bates later that evening with some coffee and La Burrita. We wait for Mike in the waiting room. Soon he comes in a bit unsteadily, a boombox clutched in one hand, a thick wool beanie covering his head and ears. Slumping into the seat across from us, he leans forward and puts his head in his hands. "He's gone"--and exhales.

The details make their way out. "I was out in Berkeley doing my thang. They had to come find me, tell me 'Mike, your brother Wayne's in the hospital. You gotta get over now.' Can you believe that? They had to come find me.

Sarah offers Mike some coffee. Mike looks up and over--you brought that? Bless you. A deep sip.

"Wayne had an infection"--Mike says the name of some medical term, but I can't quite catch it. "There was an infection on his insides. He was in so much pain. They say he couldn't hear nobody, but I was there at his side talking to him and I know he can hear me. You know? He twitch."

--

"I gotta tell everyone on his street that he gone now."

Mike chuckles a bit.

"Listen, I tell you, Wayne used to always walk by this woman's house in the morning. She used to ask me, 'Why does Wayne always do that?' I say 'It's because he likes you!' She says 'But I'm married!' and I say 'Well that's why Wayne always coming around when your man's gone!'

Mike laughs as he relives the memory.

"I was prepared for Moms, but nothing prepared me for Wayne, you know? You're ready to see your momma pass, but not your own brother. Drew, I can't cry no more."

--

Last I heard from Mike, he was about to go in to court for his Social Security hearing. "You gonna come, Drew?" he asked me. I told him I'd be there, and just to give him a call. "Good. I just need you to say to the judge that you seen me have heart problems and take me to the hospital once." I tell him to have his lawyer call me. She never does.

Mike called the afternoon before his court date. I'm at work, so I let the call go straight to voice mail. "Hey Drew, it's Mike. Court hearing's tomorrow. Can you come?" I call him right back, but alas, it's disconnected. All through the evening and into the next day, his number's still disconnected, and I wonder how his case turns out.

--

"God got his purpose, Drew. I know that. Last night I was walking the neighborhood and I saw this shooting star. Just... shoom"--Mike makes this flying hand motion--"I saw a shooting star and it fly right over Wayne's house. And I knew, I just knew.

"Wayne was a grumpy guy, you know? Every time I come over he kick me right out after fifteen minutes. Say he don't want to see nobody. He was a hard man, but he was family ya know?"

Mike's expression changes, and he puts his head down in his hands again. "When my Moms passed, we all came together again. That was her last wish. We usually fighting and everything and sure enough, we came together. But we was fighting all over her things.

"My big sister give me a call one day and she says 'Mike, come down here and take some of Mom's stuff.' I say, 'I don't want nothing to do with it.' Everybody's over there taking and taking. I finally go down and you know what's left? A vacuum cleaner." Mike's face registers disgust. "They take everything but her vacuum cleaner."

Sarah and I don't know what to say, but to look intently at him.

--

I've heard from Mike time and time again. He'll call me once in awhile and leave a voice mail message. "Hey Drew, just thinking of you. Call me back all right? Say hi to Sarah for me."

"We don't deserve a friend like Mike," Sarah told me last night. "You know? Like we're not nearly as good as friends to him as he is to us. He has every right to disregard us as do-gooder students, but we really are his friends."

I try to remember to call, I swear I do.

Since Mike doesn't have a working cell phone any more, he calls me from several phone numbers, all of which I judge to be his family. One number is his sister's, another is Belinda's. "How's he doing?" I ask Belinda. "He's not doing too well," she replies.

"Can you talk to him?" his sister asks, her voice cracking too, "He really needs someone to talk to."

--

I met Mike on a starry evening five years ago on Telegraph and Durant. Was it March, or was it April? He was sitting on a milk carton at the time; I was a big-eyed freshman willing to talk to anybody. I met a Mike who was lost in his thoughts. "You know what man," he tells me that evening, "I miss my Moms. She passed five years ago today."

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