Rick Ross Fell into the Bottle

Just walk away I kept repeating to myself as I watched him staggering backward, surrounded. The three assailing youths kept forming a semi circle in front him. The one in the middle would occasionally lift up his right arm and punch him in the face in what looked like slow motion. Then he would drop, hard, right on his ass.

I’m across the street having my Friday afternoon cigar, killing time before the film starts at the local independent cinema, located in an old church.

Just walk away. Quietly, through gritted teeth. But he keeps standing up and facing them, arms down, not intimidating. Was he trying to talk with them? Wham. He’s down again.

I got up. This is bullshit. I start trotting down the sidewalk toward them. I pass two deli guys standing outside the supermarket and watching the proceedings. Two parking attendants are standing outside the garage doing the same thing. I turned to cross the street, jogging straight toward them.

I got there right as the three assailants stopped pursuing him. The man finally turned away from them and started walking down the sidewalk in my direction. All of a sudden we were face to face. The inside of his mouth was a ring of blood. His lower teeth coated in red as he began to speak. “Those guys beat the shit out of me.” he slurred, clearly drunk, homeless, destitute, hopeless all presenting themselves at once. He looked at me with eyes barely wide enough to see his pupils.

I flung my right arm around his shoulder and started walking him briskly away from the scene. “Yes they did. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” I didn’t want them to get any ideas and come after me, obviously.

“What the hell? Why would they do that?” he sobbed. Blood was oozing from his left ear, seeping down his lobe in drips, already crusting.

“Are you okay, man? Do you have somewhere you can go?”

“I’m homeless. I don’t know anybody. I’m from New Jersey.” he whimpered. His hands were big thick working mans hands. He clearly had years of blue collar labor somewhere in his past. But now he was skinny, his face red and puffy from too much booze.

He was still under my arm, walking with me. I led him to a ledge in front of the parking garage, straight across from the cigar bar. “Do you smoke?” he asked. He must have smelled the tobacco on me.

“No, do you have any cigarettes?” I asked him. He said no, so I asked him if he wanted any.

“Please.”

“Stay right here, I’ll get some. What do you smoke?”

“503s. The cheap ones.”

I walked back into the cigar bar and asked if they had any cigarettes. They didn’t, but said the supermarket did. So I walked to the corner and found the brand he was looking for, buying them along with a vitamin water.

I brought them to him. He took the pack and opened the plastic wrapper with his blood stained teeth, dropping the packaging to the ground. He took one out and lit it, thanking me profusely.

“Do you have anyone you can talk to? A paster or anyone who can get you in a home, or get you some direction?”

“No, I have nobody man,” he said looking down. ‘’I fell into the bottle.”

He looked out at me desperately from his slit eyes, from the seemingly intractable damnation that was his life. “I’m at rock bottom.” he sobbed, starting to cry.

I sat down next to him and again put my right arm around his bony shoulders, hugging him close. I took one of his big rough paws in my left hand and staring at him assured him that he’s a good guy, I can tell. He’s going to get through this. “I hope so.” he let out in sobs. “I don’t know what to do.”

I asked him his name. “Rick Ross. From New Jersey.”

“Can I pray for you?”

“Please.” he replied nodding sincerely. So I did all I knew how to do in situations like this. I prayed to God that he would lead Rick to someone who would get him off the street, someone who could help get a roof over his head, and help him find a job. “Amen. Please God.” he added. We pleaded together for a break, for God to break in.

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Thank you man, Thank you.” he said, grabbing me and pulling me into a hug. I could tell he was self conscious about it, not sure how I would respond. I hugged him back, thinking his bloody ear would probably get on my clean white boating shirt, but not being bothered. We hugged it out briefly on the sunny Fort Lauderdale boulevard, and when we pulled away I handed him some money and said “God bless you.” He repeated them same.

I returned back to the bar and took my seat at the outdoor table, directly across the wide avenue from him. As I re-lit my cigar, and started sipping my fresh draft beer, both of which were barely touched, I considered the contrast in our situations. This man, seated by himself across from me smoking a cigarette, small patches of blood now turned to barely noticeable crust on his mouth and ear. No longer signs of a fresh fight, but reconciling back to typical homeless ensemble. The divide between us was so impenetrable it was baffling. Just as baffling was thinking about how to help in any meaningful way.

“Rick Ross!” I heard a woman’s voice say jovially from across the street. Another probably homeless woman appeared by his side, appearing to start to care for him. I could hear him explaining the encounter, and pointing across the street at me. She didn’t look, but he and I met eyes and waved.

Pounding the rest of my beer (this had all put me behind schedule), I got up and walked off, huge chunky cigar in hand. A cigar on the sidewalk is very Florida, I thought to myself. When I got to the street corner a small spry black woman maybe in her 40’s passed me. “Hey man, do you have five bucks? I just came out of court and they took all my money!” She said patting down her pockets.

“Yeah, they’re $4.50 right there at the supermarket. You smoke 503s?” I said handing her the exact amount. She took the money in hand and rubbed the two quarters together humorously, doing a little hop. Laughing she said “what are you, man?” I smiled and cigar in hand, kept making my way to the movie theater.

I should have said “I’m a tobacco shop.”