To Clothe the Naked
A True Story
There he was, dressed to the nines in his birthday suit, my neighbor Joe. Sitting on the curb with his eyes closed and his face turned toward the sun. The sun danced over his rich black skin, bringing out blue and golden highlights. With his regal pose and easy nudity, he reminded me of the artist model work I did a while back. However, this wasn’t art class. I was out walking my dog Skip, turned the corner and saw him —innocently skyclad as Adam before the fall. I thought of the recent murder of Trayvon Martin and knew this could end badly. What would I want if I were in his position? I pondered a bit, then approached and asked if he was ok.
“I’m alright,” he said. “I’m just enjoying the sun.”
“I see that,” I replied. “It’s a nice day for sure. But some people might be upset seeing you out here in your birthday suit. You’re my neighbor and I don’t want to see you get hurt. You look about my size, how about I run over to my place and get you a pair of shorts?”
He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he was looking at Skip, an elderly chihuahua, my emotional support animal for autism.
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chihuahua_portrait.jpg photo by Robert Simmons https://www.flickr.com/photos/65844741@N00
Joe reached out and stroked Skip’s head, while Skip licked his hand.
“Why don’t you feed this dog?” he said. “He’s skin and bones!”
Actually, Skip was a bit on the pudgy side. The vet had said that the extra weight would aggravate his arthritis, weaken his heart, and shorten his life. She had recommended that I refrain from giving him “people food” and that I take him on extra walks.
Joe deftly undid the clip holding Skip to the leash, and pulled him onto his lap. Then he touched his manhood, placed it near Skip’s face, and said, “You see this? That’s my dog. It’s a dog just like you.”
Skip sniffed at Joe’s member and took a tentative lick. He probably took a cue from my actions and figured Joe was a friend …
“No, Skip!” I shouted. “Bad dog! Stop it!”
“Look at that!” Joe said. “you’re starving him! Look, he’s so hungry he’s trying to eat my dog! I’m taking him.” He rose in a swift graceful motion, cradling Skip easily in his arms. “You‘ll have to take lessons with the State,” he continued. “Maybe they’ll let you have him back when you pass your class.”
What was going on here? Was Joe having a flashback to when CPS took him — or a sibling — away from his family? With the talk about lessons with the State and passing a class, likely so. I jumped up and followed him across the courtyard toward his apartment.
As I followed him, I kept hollering “Gimmie back my dog!” This didn’t seem to work so I started hollering “FIRE!”
Joe laughed grimly and held Skip tighter. “Fire?” he said. “Don’t lie on me, there’s no fire.”
I don’t know what got into me — but next thing I knew, I was hanging piggyback on Joe, trying to take Skip out of his arms. Skip yelped in pain and Joe said, “See? You don’t deserve this dog! You’re hurting him!”
I glanced around the courtyard. We were kindling an audience. Many of the neighbors stood motionless on their porches and balconies, watching like it was a movie or something.
Joe kept walking, Skip in his arms, me on his back, walking strong and steady as if I were a lightweight daypack and Skip was his own dog. He walked up the stairs to his apartment, not missing a beat. I got off his back about halfway up the stairs, and followed him in. I felt bad about entering Joe’s place without an invitation but Skip was all I had and I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight.
Joe went to his refrigerator and set Skip firmly between his feet. Then he opened his refrigerator, took out a rotisserie chicken, and broke off several big chunks of meat. He put one piece in his mouth, and offered me the next piece. I took it and ate it even though my stomach was in knots. I was in his house and I knew it was rude to refuse hospitality-food. Then he put the last piece in a bowl, which he set on the floor in front of Skip. Skip dove in and chowed down.
“See how hungry he is?” Joe said again.
“Skip, stop that! Come! Right now!” I hollered.
Skip ignored me. That chicken was just too good. And everyone knows chihuahuas are stubborn and food-driven. And wasn’t this food-offering man a friend?
Just then a neighbor knocked on the door. “The cops are coming,” she said.
“Did you hear that?” I said to Joe. “The cops are coming. And you know they like to use excessive force on Black guys. Power trips and fog of war and all that. So how about you give me back my dog and maybe it might go better for you.”
Joe looked at me as if for the first time and a change came over his face. He handed Skip over without a word.
“Thank you,” I said, and left. Skip, in my arms, was licking his lips and looking back toward Joe’s door.
The cops passed me on the stairs.
“Did he hurt you?” one asked.
“No, I’m fine,” I replied. “And please go easy on Joe. He’s my neighbor and he never bothers anyone.”
“We’ll see about that…” said the cop as he pushed past me.
A few minutes later I heard yelling and thumping. Then I saw Joe coming down the stairs shackled between two cops. He wore a white canvas restraint jacket and a rough grey blanket draped over his shoulders down to his knees. He was hollering “Don’t hurt me!” His face was wet with tears or sweat or both.
“I’m sorry Joe” I shouted as they passed me in the courtyard. Sorry for what they did and for my part in it. Sorry especially because I broke my promise. I had told him that if he gave my dog back things would go better. And there he was, getting hauled off anyway, wearing nothing but a straitjacket and a horse blanket. Even though he gave my dog back.
I kicked myself hard. Maybe I should have let Joe keep Skip. That way, the cops wouldn’t have come and taken him away. I shouldn’t have made such a fuss. I should have walked away as soon as Skip agreed to let Joe carry him away. That would have been tough though. As an autist, I live in the uncanny valley. No friends, no family. Skip was all I had. Even so, he was old and dogs don’t live forever. I could have sacrificed him to keep Joe out of trouble. Reparations. I could have gotten another dog…
I am such a hypocrite, saying Black Lives Matter but valuing my dog over Joe’s life liberty and pursuit of happiness.
I stood in the courtyard, holding Skip in my arms, my face turned up toward the sun, swaying as I watched the patterns behind my closed eyelids. Even cried, a bit. White tears. Futile, for once.
After a while the manager came out to see about me. “Are you ok?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “Just feeling bad about what happened to Joe and about breaking my promise.”
I wonder if the manager ever asked Joe if he was ok.
“Why did you approach him? We all saw him sitting out there naked, that’s when we called the cops. Didn’t you see him naked? Don’t you know he is disturbed?
“Yada yada yada,” I replied. “He’s disturbed, I’m disturbed, we’re all disturbed. Or at least we all should be. And we’re all naked under our clothes. Just the way God made us. And what about Joe? Will he be ok?”
“He’ll be fine once they shoot him up with happy juice,” replied the manager with a snarky grin. “Happens all the time,” he added, shaking his head. Then he walked away.
Joe came back a month or so later, smartly dressed in a polo shirt and fresh jeans. He apologized, said he’d been off his meds. I replied, nevermind, I’m the one who owes you an apology. He lowered his head, let out a little chuckle, and said, “whatever …”
Then he said, is your dog ok?
He’s fine, I replied.
We friends? He asked and stretched out his arms like Jesus.
I nodded and we hugged for a moment, right out there in the courtyard. AFAIK, no one called the cops.
Or if someone did, they never came.
