old bill

When I was 28 I ended a long term relationship. Looking back, it was either that or get married, and while the man was a very good man, he wasn't the man for me. Or better said, I simply wasn't ready for a good man yet. I could have handled it better, so as when it was over I was the one who needed to leave.

Problem was, I was working in a homeless shelter in one of the most expensive counties in the nation. I could not afford to rent my own place, not even a studio.

A co-worker came to my rescue. Bill was a Vietnam veteran, a former drug addict, and had lived on the streets. He cleaned up his act years ago and was my mentor and co-worker. He had a small one-bedroom walk up smack in the middle of downtown and offered to let me "rent" his couch for $100 a month. I had no other options, so I gratefully accepted. Ok, warily, but gratefully.

I gave up almost all of my belongings in the transition. Everything I owned fit into the back of my car, and most of that was books and clothes. Bill gave me one drawer and part of the closet for my clothes. Everything fit. I kind of liked only needing a drawer.

We were a strange pair - an old black man and a young white woman breaking bread and sharing a bathroom. At night I would watch the hookers earn their money in the alley below his apartment. It was vastly different from my living environment for the past four years, and I was happy and scared simultaneously. I felt small and big all at once, alone and everywhere at the same time.

Every once in a while I'd get a voice message from Bill asking me not to come home for awhile. That was one of our arrangements early on; that he'd entertain a lady friend (by the hour) from time to time and he wanted his privacy. We all need a little warmth sometimes, and if you can't come by it naturally, I'd imagine it would get lonely after awhile.

Sundays Bill would go to the neighborhood park and look for former friends from the streets. He'd round up three or four of these cats and bring them back for chicken dinner, because everyone deserves chicken dinner on sundays. I'd often come in to a group of guys playing chess or cards, drinking beer, listening to jazz. I liked those afternoons quite a bit.

After a few months I'd saved up enough to be able to rent a tiny studio in a rough part of town. We shared a last Sunday dinner and I moved out. Bill quit work the following year and I lost touch with him after that. A few years ago I heard things got rough for him; rumors of crack pipes and the streets. I could and couldn't believe it. I knew how lonely he was, but I didn't think he'd give up what he'd worked so hard to keep. I still don't really know. Some demons are too much for this world, and the old sly ones rooted in southeast asian wartime are especially tough to shake.

I will always love him, old Bill, for offering a girl a place to stay when she had nowhere else to go. His kindness allowed me to close one chapter and start another.

And I still think of those hookers in the alley and smile at the absurdity of it, working girls doing their best for most certainly not enough.