God, not Again

Dialogues with the Mole People — Joe

“I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. I was working back then. I used to paint houses.”

“Here in New York?”

“Yeah. I had a delivery bike to haul my stuff.”

“How was it?”

“Biking?”

“Painting houses.”

“It was OK. Didn’t pay much. Had to use most of the money to buy clothes and food.”

“Did your mother have a job?”

“She was a clerk for an accounting company in Sheepshead Bay. But my brother had lung problems. Had to follow a special treatment at the hospital every once in a while. This plus the rent, plus my sister’s school. Money was tight.”

“Lung problems.”

“Cystic fibrosis. He was always waking coughing at night. It woke us up too, my sister and me. And my mother. One time he started coughing blood in his bed. Couldn’t catch his breath, you know. There was nothing we could do so we started screaming. A neighbor came to help and took us in his car to the ER. He drove ninety miles per hour on the expressway. Motherfucker blew so many red lights I don’t even know how we got there all alive. But he saved my brother.”

“How old is your brother?”

“We’re four years apart so he must be around fifty now. He had a few other crisis since then. Almost died. My mother prayed so much for him to get better. He had to take those enzymes to keep healthy. Doctors gave him ten years. Last I heard, he was still running in the park.”

“When was that?”

“Couple of years. I was in a 6 train and he entered the same car I was in. Didn’t recognize him at first but we got to spoke for a while. He got off at 59th Street.”

“What did he say?”

“Asked about me.”

“Was it a long time since you saw him before?”

“Fairly long. I was happy he was alive.”

“Didn’t you want to keep in touch?”

“There was no need for that. He has his life, I have mine. I don’t want to be a burden for no one. He already went through a lot of shit, he doesn’t deserve that on top of it.”

“Maybe he would like it.”

“For us to see each other more?”

“Maybe.”

“Look at me, man.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“Look at me.”

“I do.”

“I’m an old-ass motherfucker who has been living on the streets half of his life. I’m broken. I don’t pity myself, I just have come to accept it. I chose to live like that. I could have ended it all but I didn’t. I kept going because I chose that. Many of others didn’t.”

“They killed themselves.”

“Young and old. Jumped in front of trains, jumped from bridges, shoot themselves, overdosed. A lot of them.”

“Because it was too hard.”

“That. And because they had no purpose. One I knew, he climbed up the George Washington bridge and a gust of wind threw him right on the road when he jumped. He landed on a truck and died on the spot. I wonder what was his last thought, you know.”

“Probably something like ‘God, not again!’”

“Well the son of a bitch had never been able to control his life, I guess it’s no surprise he couldn’t even control his own death in the end.”

“Poor guy.”

“He’s the lucky one. He’s gone. We get to stay. We get to continue. We get to live in this shit.”

“So why didn’t you try?”

“Never had the guts.”

“So you get to stay.”

“I’m broken. Bad.”

“We all are, in our way.”

“Yeah. Some more than others. You’re talking to me because of that, right? Plus it’s trendy to have your own bum to talk to.”

“I don’t think I’m that trendy.”

“You’re right. You would have brought me one of those fancy coffees or some organic shit instead of this pie if you were.”

“Where are you heading?”

“Midtown. Going to pick up cans. Want to join?”

“Sure. It will be trendy.”