Justin hands me a photo a few weeks ago. Can you get this blown up? Mike wants it.

I go see Mike. What do you want it to say?

He thinks.

“Rest in peace, Godfather. From your brother, Spicy Mike.”

"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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Mike and I are standing in front of the food court again. He looks haggard as he relays his story.

"They got me on jaywalking charges. You know those cameras they put up on intersections to catch red light runners? Two years ago they caught me jaywalking at 3AM across an empty intersection, no cars on either side. The other jaywalking charges they say they have on me they don't even have evidence for! Can you believe it?!"

Mike walked into the police station to see what the fuss was all about. They told him that he'd have to pay a $400 fine, or do 40 hours of community service. Incredible.

"Look, man," Mike is weary. "They're looking to get me on anything they can. First it's for sittin' on a milk crate, or playing my boombox, and now this. You know what?" Mike lowers his voice. "They're doing a crackdown. They're just trying to clean up, clean this place up before the holidays."

Every semester, the Berkeley Police rounds up the homeless in Berkeley and shuffles them out before parents picking up their students can see them. It's just how it works.

"I got a place, this church, where I know I can do my hours. But man! I can't believe this. And my birthday's coming up on the 23rd, right before Christmas. Hah!"

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A few months ago, Mike's lawyer in San Jose abruptly terminated their relationship after hearing about his purchase of a stolen bike. It made her jittery enough to dump him from her caseload. Mike's switched over to a new lawyer in Berkeley since, but the transition process has slowed down his application for Social Security assistance.

It's a chilly evening, and I'd like nothing better than to get to get back to my apartment and get some work done on my projects. I do a little hop and watch wisps of hot breath fall upwards into the night.

Mike's somewhat changed the subject. "You know my cousin? He left me in Sacramento that one time. He said, 'Hey Mike, I'm gonna be staying up here a little longer.' Well I got to get back to Oakland and I tell him that. But he refused and he lock me out of his girlfriend's place. Well I had nowhere to stay and no choice but to leave without him. I got on an Amtrak back to Oakland."

Mike's waiting for me to say something, and I'm honestly in no mood to wait around. "You want me to pay your bill, Mike?" It comes out a little harsher than I meant it to.

Mike stops and gives me a sidelong glance. "You would do that, Drew? It's fifty dollars."

Inside, I gasp at the figure, but figure this is as good a chance as ever to figure out a cheaper plan for Mike. "Yeah, man. Do you have a phone bill?"

Mike looks at me quizzically. "What's that?"

"You know. A paper statement telling you how much you've got to pay and a list of everybody that you call and how long you call them for."

"No, I don't got that. I pay my bill on my phone."

I take Mike's phone, a MetroPCS model, into my hands and poke around at the options. Sure enough, there's an option for on-phone bill payment. Fifty dollars? I think to myself. Ridiculous.

I look up at Mike. "You gonna be out here tomorrow?" Mike nods affirmatively. "Meet me out here tomorrow at 10AM."

--

Mike's old bike was stolen in September. He had walked in to Kingpin Donuts for a cup of coffee, and when he walked out, it was gone. He claims he knows who did it; a shady figure from Oakland was seen riding his bike up the street shortly after. "I know who he is. Don't he dare to ever show his face around here again," Mike growls. I imagine the shady man's eyes to be thin slits, venom pouring out his fingers.

Mike tells me later that the very same shady figure from Oakland ambled up to him a couple of weeks later, a brand-new Trek bike in his hands. "That's a nice bike," Mike tells the snake man, and I'm surprised that Mike doesn't clobber him right then and there. The man smiles an enigmatic smile, and offers it to Mike for twenty dollars. Mike only has fifteen, and that's just enough.

Nobody can prove that the new bike was a stolen, but it makes Mike's attorney nervous enough to dump him. I wonder if it bothers Mike at all: a stolen bike for a stolen bike (it appears the same in the grand calculus of things).

--

These days Mike doesn't have cell phone service, and he has no means for his attorney to contact him. I go home and research cell phone plans. Monthly or prepaid plans? AT&T, Alltel, Virgin, MetroPCS, Sprint, Verizon? Does he need long distance, voice mail, text messaging? Argh, if I only had Mike's bill and could figure out the best plan for his usage patterns.

I'm internally conflicted as to how I should present this to Mike. I want to tell him to ditch his cell phone, let him know that he doesn't need one. Why can't he just use a calling card? Sarah puts some sense into me: "He lives in a world where he depends on his connection to others. In some ways, it could almost be necessary." I don't fully understand the truth of that statement. I suppose the least I could do is find him a cheaper plan.

I am appalled to find that single-line monthly cell plans all seem to begin at $40; and knowing the way Mike uses his phone, a pay-as-you-go plan wouldn't be that much cheaper (edit: Virgin Mobile just might be). I don't have enough information to go on: I know Mike calls San Jose often to contact his old attorney, and I know he splits his time between Oakland, Berkeley and Sacramento. I don't know if he makes more long calls, short calls, daytime calls or nighttime calls. In short, I just really don't know.

I decide to just advise Mike to downgrade his MetroPCS plan to the $40 basic plan with voice mail, a step down from his $50 bill.

--

I meet him the next day at 10 at the food court. Aaliyah purrs through his boombox. He waves to me, bends over to shut off the stereo and slings it into the back seat. It's a silent drive to the phone store on Ashby, so I turn up Miles Davis on the car radio. We pass restaurants and car dealerships and thrift stores.

"You got class today, Drew?"

"Naw, but I gotta get back to school by 12."

Mike's boombox suddenly sputters to life, Aaliyah's smooth coos chopped up by a jammed tape deck: It's been too long- STOP and I'm lo- STOP -st without- STOP -you. "What the--" Mike cries, turning around to finger with knobs and switches and buttons before he finally puts Aaliyah to rest. "My cousin sold me this busted boombox last month."

"How much was it?"

"Fifteen dollars. I took it home and tried it out and the CD player was broken. Took it back to him and complained. He did something to fix it, but it busted itself up again when I got home."

We pull up to the curb and walk into the battered phone store. Various customers are impatiently waiting around as the cashier up front fumbles with a pack of phones. Mike finds a seat near the door and we wait. And wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the cashier finally figures out how to activate the phones. A woman walks up to the front counter, examines the phones, and asks to see the faceplates.

Mike looks a bit agitated. "You okay, Drew? We should go to Emeryville. They got a store there. Line's probably shorter."

But it's just a little longer, and soon enough it's our turn. We walk up to the counter, where we ask to downgrade Mike's plan.

The cashier gives us a quizzical look. "You're already on the $40 plan," he says.

"Then why's he getting charged fifty bucks?"

"Taxes and fees," the cashier replies, and swivels the computer monitor to show us the damning evidence.

Well that goes all out the window. I pay his month's bill and we walk out of the store. "Thanks Drew," Mike tells me as we get back into the car. I give him a grin, but don't let him know I'm silently fuming.

Later, I relate the story to Sarah. "Welcome to the world of institutional discrimination," she says. I wish it weren't so true.

--

Mike and I are eating lunch at Smart Alec's down the corner from the food court. The lunchtime crowd presses in on us like hot steam against a winter window. Mike cradles Aaliyah and his boombox in his lap. Two officers pass us by, and I notice Mike's eyes flicker and move downward, knowing he's out of place in the restaurant.

"You see them?" Mike gestures over at the officers, now mounting their bikes. "They like me. They know me." We still feel nervous, sitting there in the corner of Smart Alec's, chowing on burgers and garlic fries and sharing a Coke and sticking out like sore thumbs.

I ask him about how Belinda's doing. "She's doing okay" he tells me, and spends five minutes telling me a hair-raising story about how Belinda nearly got in a fight with her son's girlfriend's mother after the girlfriend had stolen Belinda's food stamps--or something like that. I can only loosely follow the story between Mike's mouthfuls of food.

Mike stops suddenly, a smile passing over his face. He dials a number. "Hey Belinda," he speaks to the voice on the other side, "how you doing? ... I'm here in Berkeley now just eating with Andrew ... yeah I'll tell him you say hi ... Hey, remember last week, how nice it was? I was just telling you how nice it would be if we got married." The voice on the line is speaking now, and Mike deep in his thoughts, smiling at an unknown stranger just past me. "Yeah, wouldn't that be nice, ha! Wouldn't that be something."

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"Hey, Andrew, it's Mike, I'm at Highland [hospital]. My heart give out last night, my arm start hurtin' and I had to go to the ER. They wanna admit me for a few days, but I'll get out though. They treat me like I'm dying or something, but I'm not gonna die. Anyways, go on ahead Drew, I'll see you in a bit."

With all these trips into and out from the hospital, it's easy to forget that Mike's condition is life-threatening. I whisper a silent prayer.

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I've collected our gifts for him--gloves, a scarf, AC Transit ride tickets, a Sony boombox, and a 12-pack of D batteries--into a corner of my apartment (thank you, all 9 of you, for contributing!) and tuck them into a Trader Joe's bag on the way out.

I find Mike walking out of the food court. He's lumbering towards me with a particularly strange grin on his face. He pauses right before he reaches me, cocks his head, leans over and gives me a particularly big hug.

"You okay man?" I half-jokingly ask. "Had anything to drink?"

"Naw, Drew," he replies. I'm not sure whether to believe him, but I let it drop.

Mike loves the gifts, and is particularly thrilled by the stereo. "I gotta thank you, Drew." I tell him it's a gift from all of us, which only makes his smile wider.

"Ya know, let me tell you something, Drew," he begins. "I just got outta the hospital last week. My arm started hurtin' real bad. Gotta go back in there and get my medication." He looks up, giving his attention to a man walking out of the food court.

The man holds out an open carton of Marlboros. Mike pulls one out and slaps the man on the back, then returns his attention to me. "Yeah, anyways Drew, I got outta the hospital and..."

"Mike, you can't be smoking now. It's gonna put you back in the hospital," I interject.

Mike doesn't hear me. Cigarette Man's lends Mike a lighter. "I just been real stressed," Mike continues as he lights up, "Belinda's son got caught stealing an' now he's in jail..."

He takes a long drag and the tip of the cigarette glows bright orange in the evening darkness. Mike looks up and shifts his footing around on the pavement.

"Wait, hold on," I tell him. "Belinda's got a son too?"

"Yeah, he thirty years old. Got caught for robbery and now he's all in the system. Got Belinda trippin..." he tells me. "And Belinda, don't let me get started on her."

Mike's rolling the cigarette between his hands, unsure whether to crush it or cradle it.

--

There is an woman, dirty, aging and obviously homeless, huddled in the corner of the food court. She drapes herself in a pea-green fleece blanket and stares into the Kingpin Donuts wall. Customers file in and out of the store, never seeing her. She is there for an hour before she leaves. She never makes eye contact with anybody; she just stares at the wall and shivers.

--

"So this is mine now, Drew?" Mike asks, pointing at the stereo. "Man, oh, man, ever since my last one got stolen..."

Mike's last stereo was stolen in the utility entrance to the Asian Ghetto food court. One day he locked it up in the alleyway on his way to work washing the outdoor court. An hour later he went back into the alley and it had been stolen.

Restrooms are scarce commodities on the street.

"I think my friend did it," Mike says. "Tell me, 'Hey Mike, I got to go to the bathroom' so I toss him the keys. I check it out later and it's gone. It's gotta be him, he hide it and sneak it away from me."

There are no such thing as friends on the street.

--

Mike's plugging in the batteries into the boombox and turns the dial to KBLX. Whitney Houston is on, and he turns it up so Whitney's singing loud enough to envelop us.

It startles me how fast he turns around and starts walking up the street. "Ma'am?" he's asking, "Ma'am!" I have to squint to see who he's talking to.

It's the homeless lady by the donut shop. She's stood up and walked up to the curb. As Mike walks up to her, I see her quickly part her legs, bend over and urinate all over the sidewalk. I turn away.

Mike spins around and walks right back. "Man!" There is a grimace on his face. "She's got to go. You can smell that from all the way here."

The woman's pulled her pants back up and has returned to shivering outside of Kingpin.

Restrooms are scarce commodities on the street.

"She has got to go," Mike repeats. He calls the Berkeley Police (how does he have their number?) and gets an operator on the line. "Hello? Berkeley Police? There's a homeless lady urinating on the streets in front of all the students... she's under a green blanket... middle-aged... yes I'll hold..."

There are no such things as friends on the street.

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Lana Choi was at Suitcase Clinic and snapped this photo of Mike. Psst, she's also an amazing wedding photographer!

Today is Mike's birthday. I last got a glimpse at his hospital records a month ago. If my memory serves me correctly, I spotted "12/23/1953" under the "DOB" field on the tattered Alta Bates release form. He'll be 54 today.

I'm thinking of getting Mike a bunch of 10-ride passes on AC Transit. That way, on the rainy days, he won't have to ride his bike everywhere and get soaking wet. I'm also thinking of getting him some simple winter-wear: gloves, a beanie and a scarf.

I'd like to invite you to bless Mike. If you'd like to help chip in for Mike's birthday present, click the "Chip In" link in the widget below--It'll send you over to a PayPal page (that's an electronic payment processor) so we can collect the funds online. A simple donation of a couple of bucks would be awe. some. If electronic isn't the way to go, feel free to find me when you next see me.

I called Mike today and left a message on his voice mail wishing him a happy birthday and telling him we were all saying a prayer for him (please do). He called me back and left a message. You can consider it a message for you as well.

"Thanks for calling, man. I'm up here in Berkeley trying to make some change. I'll make it through. Wish you a Merry Christmas. Love ya Drew, this is Mike."

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Mike's been applying for Social Security disability payments, but he keeps getting rejected because, according to the rejection letters, he's still in signs of good health. Mike would disagree. "My heart, Drew, my heart keep giving me pains."

True, he does look pretty able-bodied still, actively moving about the sidewalks and keeping in good spirits. "Why don't you get a job, Mike?"

A group of students walk out of the Ghetto; one peels away and fumbles with his wallet, finally dropping a dollar bill into Mike's cup. "Thank you, and good luck on finals," Mike calls out after him. The student smiles.

Mike turns back. "I try," he tells me, "but I can't do no heavy lifting. My last job with my brother-in-law, I had to lift and I keep getting chest pains. So I gotta apply for Social Security."

"Why don't you try to apply for a clerical position? Or some sort of easy job as a sales clerk or something?" I suggest. I don't know why, but it seems like a dumb question.

He just shrugs. "They don't hire me." And I know why; it's because he's had a history of heart problems. Nobody wants an employee with medical liabilities.

But his shrugging frustrates me. Is that it? Should you just give up, Mike? Why don't you keep trying?

A man tosses change into the cup while briskly walking by. "Good luck on finals," Mike calls out after him without really looking. The man turns around, and Mike does a double-take--it's a friend of his (obviously in middle age). "You don't have finals," Mike tells him, and they laugh it up a little.

Mike comes out to the Ghetto and makes consistent money shaking the cup. It's easier than searching for a job and getting rejected. I wonder if applying for Social Security disability is his way of avoiding the job search. Something about that doesn't sit right with me.

"But they'll give me Social Security disability the third time around," Mike turns and looks at me with a hopeful grin. "My lawyer tells me that's how it works."

I decide to let this drop for now. We clasp hands and say a prayer. Then I have to go study and we say goodbye.

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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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