GUERILLA NURSING

ABRAHAM AND ARTHUR

2010-04-16T07:39:00.000-07:00

Abraham Maslow always sneaks into my head at times like these.

He inevitably enters when I am sitting among a dozen or so people who are gathered in a circle. We are in a high-ceilinged room, perched atop blonde wooden floors, drenched in natural light. Just outside the huge windows is a field that sports a single stunning oak tree. It’s CEU time and we are learning about the Mind-Body connection, how we, our patients, the human race, can control the body by harnessing the power of the mind.

We are all white, employed, our employers are paying for this, and we are just about to eat a big healthy lunch. This is where I get stuck. This is when Abe comes knocking on my grey matter and whispers: “Hey smarty pants, ask this guy from California how your patients are going to get the biofeedback thing when their O2 SAT is 84, when the rent is due, when they are worried about their grandchildren who can’t go outside for fear of getting shot? Ask him that, go ahead.”

“Excuse me, I have a question about all of this.”

It turns out the presenter actually had done his doctoral thesis on Maslow, and has a pretty good explanation. He does not deny the hierarchy of needs, but he does leave room for people’s ability to leap from lower rungs to higher rungs, skipping the intermediate ones. His exact explanation is a bit mysterious. But he is from California. It reminds me of my Physiology professor’s explanation of renal function to a roomful of blank-faced freshman nursing students. She finally said in an exasperating puff, “Well, let’s just say, if you were half as smart as one of your kidneys, you girls would probably pass this course.”

On the third day, the California Buddhist/Scientist (who nonchalantly threw around words like hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis as if he were explaining how to make tuna salad) lands on the subject of dealing with depression.

“Sometimes, you just have to be with it,” he says, his face placid and understanding.

This time Abe bursts through the double doors into my head as if were trying to stop me from killing myself. An old black woman, whose hands look like the gnarled winter vestiges of a climbing vine, quietly follows him. She shuffles in holding her walker, her head wrapped in a purple scarf. I recognize her immediately. It’s Myrtle Tucker.

I visited Myrtle a few years ago to fill her medication boxes with a myriad of colorful tablets and capsules. I’ll never forget those hands. Every joint that articulated in Myrtle’s body hurt. She was at least ninety years old, if I remember correctly, but she cackled and laughed as if an invisible prankster were tickling her incessantly.

“Does the medicine work for the pain?” I asked dutifully.

“It works a little bit, hardly worth talkin’ about,” she said.

“How do live with it?”

“Oh child, you got to make friends with Mr. Arthur Itis,” she said seriously.

As our mind/body, amygdale explaining, California presenter continued, he clarified what he meant by his words “be with it.” As he did, Myrtle shuffled up to Mr. Maslow, whose veins were pulsing in his temples, and whispered into his ear.

“Oh baby, you got to calm down, ‘cause all that worrying is going to kill you,” she said.

Then she laughed.

MOTHERS

2010-03-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

She is rail thin.

A coffee-colored woman in her seventies.

She sits amidst scatterings of mail and newspapers, bottles of pills, and a few glucometers that are piled on her kitchen table. Her husband, the owner of the evidence of this illness, sits quietly, removed, unshaven, a shadow of himself. I did not know him when he worked 100 hours a week. Now she is the caregiver, and she slumps a bit in her chair, looking exhausted. Her grandchildren, quadruplets, will be arriving soon. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the mix of joy and apprehension that shows in her eyes. The television, bolted high up on the wall, drones with a dull background noise.

I’m not sure how I came to know the following information. My guess is that it was after an exchange like this:

“Are you married?” she may have asked.

“Yes,”

“Any children?”

“Yes, three. Two boys and a girl.”

“Good number.”

How many do you have?”

“Ten. Nine now. My Jimmy died when he was eighteen.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“He was murdered, not far from here. Shot.”

Awkward silence.

“That’s so awful. How did you carry on after that?”

“Well,” she says matter-of-factly, “I had nine more at home. What was I going to do? I had to carry on.”

She opens up a little note book and shows me her findings - all her husband’s blood sugars, blood pressures, weights, and the amount of insulin he has received, all neatly recorded in an elegant script.

*****************

It is a terribly hot and humid day, an unmistakable urban closeness that makes everything stick.

Marcus is stretched out on the white sheets, uncovered. He looks polished, shining like a piece of highly worked ebony. He wears only crisp white boxer shorts. His skinny legs are withered. His arms are stick-like and contracted. His eyes are wide open, white discs staring awkwardly up and back at the wall behind him. Or at nothing. It is impossible to know.

Marcus is in is thirties now. Ten years ago he was in an accident. The type of accident is irrelevant here, really. What’s relevant is the pristine condition of this handsome young man’s skin, the place he occupies in the house’s dining room, the only room in the small house that could accommodate all the trappings of his fate. The neatness and orderliness of his surroundings all speak of an unyielding dedication and respect. This young man has been cared for so tenderly and meticulously that love and tenderness emanate from him like warmth from a fire.

His mother, a woman who long ago should have retired to enjoy the fruits of her lifetime of labor, walks around the bed calmly. She adjusts Marcus’s legs, the pillow between his knees, the lamb’s wool protectors on his heels.

“You know,” I say, “I have to tell you that I really admire what you are doing here.”

She looks at me with a little smile, one of appreciation and puzzlement at once.

“Well, he’s my boy isn’t he? Of course I am going to take care of him. What else could I do?”

It seems so simple to her.

But I know it is hardly that.

SLAP YO' MAMA!

2010-02-10T12:39:00.000-08:00

Pearl lived on the fourth floor.

She was just one character among a stack of characters piled atop one another like theatrical cordwood. They were far more interesting than their medical diagnoses.

Frankie Bustamonte’s “dolls,” which leapt into life when you opened his door (James Brown, Rodney Dangerfield, Dean Martin), were infinitely more entertaining than his ulcers that wept like Italian fountains. Angel Martinez’s kitchen chair, which exploded in a cloud of nesting roaches when I knocked it over, was far more heart stopping than his diabetes. The little “casitas” that Jorge Pimental built, shrines to the Blessed Mother wired with blinking lights, far outshone the troubles he had managing his cardiac medications. And the three-story speakers that Julian Johnson had hooked up to his TV (I always arranged my visits around Soul Train) rattled my gut much more dramatically that Julian’s super-pubic catheter ever did.

But I remember Pearl more for her stories, and for that one sentence she said to me one day. And maybe for her wigs. They were fabulous.

I was dressing the wounds to her right foot. The apartment smelled of cake baking in the oven. This foot was very important to Pearl, because, well, because it was the only one she had. The other had been unceremoniously sawed off a number of years ago. A fine scar ran from in between her toes and along the top of her foot.

“How’d you get that Pearl,” I asked, as I began to wrap her foot in white gauze.

“Oh baby, that happened a long time ago, but I’ll never forget it as long as I live,” Pearl said, leaning back in her chair.

“My brother was chopping wood and he went inside for something. When he walked past me he said, ‘Girl, don’t you go touching that axe.’”

“Now that was all he had to say to me, because then that axe was the onliest thing I could see in the whole yard. So I went up to it, took a big swing like I seen him doin’, and put that thing right into my foot.”

Pearl laughed a big hearty laugh and looked at me to make sure I was engaged.

“Well then my father, who knew a lot about healin’ things, took me on down to the river, washed it out, covered it in clay, and then wrapped it in some cloth. Look at how beautiful it healed. Ain’t that something.’”

As I was packing up my bag, Pearl went into the kitchen and came back with a big cake wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Take this with you now.”

We danced around for a second with the “No, I couldn’t,” and the “Yes, I want you to,” and the “I shouldn’t,” and then she sealed the deal with the sentence.

“Now girl you got to take this cake because the cake I make is so good it’ll make you want to slap yo mamma.”

I began to laugh as she put the big cake into my hands.

“Slap your mamma?” I said, practically choking on the words, “What’s that mean?”

“It’s just something we say,” Pearl said. “It means it’s real good.”

The cake was warm in my hands, and the smell rose into my face like wonderful memory.

It was fabulous.

If you don’t believe me...

GOING OUT WITH THE TIDE

2010-01-27T17:10:00.000-08:00

I met him twenty-six years ago.

Josiah Eldredge lived by himself in a shingled house that was built when James Monroe was President of the United States. When Josiah himself was born in this very same house, William McKinley defeated Williams Jennings Bryant and moved into the White House, pushing Grover Cleveland out into the January cold.

Josie, as everyone called him, used to fish for a living. As a very young man he walked the beaches as one of the early “surf men” of the U.S. Coast Guard, walking from station to station in foul weather on the lookout for ships grounded on the shoals.

When I entered his kitchen I could see that Josie was riding the outgoing tide. He was ninety-something now, and was dressed in his signature matching khaki pants and shirt. People said they never saw him wearing anything else. There were pens and pencils his pocket, a white t-shirt showed in the V of his open shirt, and a cluster of keys hung from his belt. His grey hair stood up in a short military crew cut.

His kitchen was more like a shop. His table more like a workbench, complete with a vice bolted to one end. There were jars of nails and screws next to the pepper and salt. Tide charts, a picture of him holding a fifty-pound bass, and another of his fishing boat, the “Vineyard Belle,” covered the walls. The clock was set into a lighthouse. It rang ship’s time.

“After my wife died in sixty-seven,” he said, his voiced tailing off, “Well, lets just say I’m not baking pies in here like she used to.”

Josie was dying. He didn’t know from what. No one did.

“Jesus, what difference does it make?” Josie said, shuffling around the kitchen, “I’m going to shit myself to death, that’s all I know. You want some tea?”

He was thin, ashen, and looked as worn down as a man can look.

Josie had said “no” to all tests and treatments. He didn’t seem at all frightened by the prospect. The prospect, of course, was death, and Josie didn’t dance around that word like many of us do.

We talked about tackling the problem of the diarrhea, and I agreed to bring him some adult diapers that we had in the office. He wasn’t happy about that idea, but he knew the alternative. He had a bucket of soiled clothing and sheets in the bathroom.

“Bring ‘em over,” was all he said.

He spoke like a captain who just got word that his big marine diesel engine was blown and needed replacing. It was equipment that he couldn’t afford to buy. However, it was also equipment that he couldn’t afford not to buy. A captain needed an engine to get to the fish. A captain needed fish to pay the bills.

Simple.

Yankee logic.

In the middle of my visit, somewhere between taking Josie’s blood pressure, calling the doctor, and looking at his swollen legs, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small coil of dark string. He held it out, reaching across the distance between us.

“Here, take this,” he said, “It’s twine for mending nets. I always keep some in my stern pocket. Comes in mighty handy.”

He placed it in my hand. At once I noted its smoky odor, like pine tar soap. The twine was coated and smooth, like candlewick, and had a chocolate color. It seemed to possess an inherent strength.

It was such a touching offering. Perhaps Josie did not have the skills to speak gracefully about his feelings. I can imagine Josie did not travel in Jungian circles. I assume he was not in touch with his inner child. A teary-eyed “thank you” was probably as far from Josie’s repertoire as the sun is from the earth.

Net mending twine was Josie’s simple offering. I have kept it on my desk for all these years, and it still speaks to me as powerfully as any eloquent, perfectly put together bouquet of words ever could.

A HAITIAN WOMAN AND THE LADY IN THE SILK PAJAMAS

2010-01-19T13:34:00.000-08:00

The doorman took my keys. The concierge asked me to sign in. She called up to the tenth floor condominium and then guided me to the elevator. Everything gleamed. A black Jamaican woman answered the door and led me down a long hallway, through a heavily decorated living room, a dining room, and then into the bedroom. The woman I had come to visit was in bed, buried under mounds of down and 800 count cotton sheets. She wore tailored stylish pajamas that probably cost more than my first car. Her skin was polished, more pink than white.

I mention her only as a point of reference. The patient I saw next was the one who really made me stop and think. The woman with the silk pajamas was as sick as anyone I have seen. But if it was discovered that eating caviar could cure her cancer, this woman could have had cases delivered in an hour, and her personal attendant could scoop it out with a silver teaspoon.

Marie Jean Baptiste, on the other hand, came out from her bedroom dressed in a loose fitting stained dress. She was a stocky Haitian woman who avoided eye contact, only stealing furtive glances at me when I asked her questions. She was a diabetic, her sugar out of control, and the doctor had adjusted her medications. The apartment was stark, naked, and all around us were stacks of boxes. Her daughter was sprawled on a couch in the next room, and four or five small children kept popping out of the bedrooms, dancing and laughing.

“It’s a mess in here, I know,” said her daughter, her eyes closed, “They just got finished spraying the apartment for bugs. We had to move out for a couple of days. We’re trying to put it back together, but I’m sick too, diabetes like my mother, I can’t see.”

I checked Marie’s blood sugar – over three hundred.

I asked her what she had for breakfast this morning.

She answered in a heavy Creole accent, covering her eyes with a leathery hand as she spoke.

“Bread, coffee, spaghetti.”

I began my spiel.

“Carbohydrates are like sugar,” blah, blah, “You should eat more fresh vegetables,” blah, blah, “Buy chicken without the skin,” blah, blah.

Then it struck me as I was talking. This woman, and the entire family that was stuffed into this freshly fumigated apartment, probably could not afford to buy fresh vegetables and skinless chicken. The closest supermarket was a Whole Foods supermarket. Closer, there were two convenience stores, a Chinese fast food take out, and a pizza joint.

I stopped talking and watched Marie wipe her wrinkled hand over her face. She looked drawn, defeated. He daughter was reclining now on the couch, a pillow over her head. A smiling two-year old came running out of a bedroom, stopped in front of me, giggled, and then ran away. I noticed the huge cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator.

Back in the downtown condo the woman in the silk pajamas might have been eating a chicken salad sandwich on thinly sliced white bread. The crusts would have been cut off.

SPELUNKING 5 MAYNARD

2010-01-13T10:42:00.000-08:00

People might call it installation art, something like Christo wrapping the Reichstag in cloth.

Making the piece would first involve creating a colossal detrital mountain of newspaper, mail, plastic, shoes, forks, car parts, and then letting it sit and settle for thirty years. Maybe you would have to compress it somehow, water it, and turn it into a solid sedimentary mass. Then you would tunnel through it like a West Virginia coal miner, creating tiny caverns as you went, connecting them with a maze of narrow arteries. Your shoulders would brush the walls as you wandered through, and as you looked right and left, the stratified walls would tell a story, like growth rings of a downed oak, or the walls of the Grand Canyon.

Or you could visit Ralph Bennett at 5 Maynard Street. Lucky for me, I had official business. You’d need official business. I’ll bet not too many people except Ralph have been in here for thirty years. No one else could fit.

When the door opened, there was Ralph, bent sharply from the waist, dressed in layers of frayed sweatshirts and sweatpants. In his right hand he held a rough walking stick. His left hand was held out to steady himself against the wall.

The wall.

My eyes were drawn past Ralph down into a hallway, a tunnel really, that ended in darkness not to far away. All I could see behind Ralph see were layers of “junk” (debatable) piled from floor to ceiling. A narrow footpath cut neatly through it all, as if the walls had been sliced with a huge knife. I thought of lasagna.

“Come on in,” Ralph said, as he executed a shuffling turn within the confines of the tunnel. He walked toward the darkness and called back to me.

“Just close the door behind you,” he said, his both palms were held out now, brushing the walls, the cane hung from his wrist.

Then after a second he added, “Not much room in here.”

This he added, not apologetically, but more like a Park Ranger at Carlsbad Caverns. In retrospect I wonder if he was letting me know that my visit should be brief and to the point.

There was one anemic bulb hanging above us. It shed a buttery light, enough to make a cursory inspection of the strata. It was an amazing layering of newspaper, scrap metal, books, radios, mail, paint cans, boxes. They all fit together with a kind of precision, the rounded car alternator tucked perfectly against the concave shape of copper flashing, the cigar boxes of various shapes, all knit together like mosaics. When the tunnel turned to the left, and Ralph turned with it, the walls did not make hard angles, but rather bent softy like they might in a natural cave.

The only open space was the path through which we walked. Ever other literal cubic inch was filled with Ralph’s collected world. A trash compactor could not have done a better job

Ralph’s bed had been carved into a wall somewhere along the way. I say “along the way” because I had quickly lost any sense of being in a standard square roomed apartment. I could not say that Ralph’s bed was in a bedroom, or that it was next to the kitchen or across the hall from the bathroom, or that the walls were yellow or the floor was tiled. I now felt as if I was in a Grecian cave, and Ralph was some monk who had stumbled upon it and had taken refuge.

It was Ralph’s nest, however, with its few but eccentric touches, that put me entirely over the edge. The gently curving walls and their content might be dismissed as a display of some sort of pathology. But Ralph’s walls were not just flat expanses of sheetrock, they were three-dimensional masses of depth and character. The walls, however, are but a mere peek into Ralph Bennett’s mind.

For example…

A dozen or more guitars hung down from the ceiling, above and around the recessed niche that held Ralph’s narrow mattress. Some were half shattered. Some were fairly exploded, pounded into the floorboards by some deranged rocker. Most had the varnish worn off. More than a few were painted red and orange. The entire guitar curtain somehow made me think of those plastic beaded ones. But Ralph is not the beaded curtain type of guy.

“I used to repair ‘em,” Ralph told me, “but I can’t get to it like I used to do. It was the only thing I really enjoyed doin’ back then.” He became very quiet.

I never did find out much more about Ralph. I wanted to know about the things Ralph did “back then,” what makes him tick now, how did this masterpiece come to happen. But that wasn’t to be.

I had no sooner put the last piece of tape on Ralph’s stomach than he swung his feet down from the mattress and grabbed his cane.

“You go ahead,” he told me, pointing with the tip of his cane.

On my way out I noticed a few more alternators, a number of computer keyboards, an eight-track player, phonebooks and a George Foreman grill. The thousands of pieces of paper, the mail, the odd piece of cloth, wove through it all, binding it like mortar.

When I opened the door onto Maynard Street the light struck me like some sort of atomic flash. The visual expanse seemed incredibly open and endless compared to Ralph’s tight cavern.

When I turned back, Ralph was folded over in that arthritic jackknifed posture, looking at the ground. He had one hand on the doorknob and the other on his stick.

“Thank you,” he said, and then he closed the door.

MY MANAGER AND MARILYN'S DILDO

2010-01-05T09:06:00.000-08:00

Marilyn was being interviewed by a transvestite.

In the video they sat across a small cocktail table from one another in So-Ho. The interviewer was long and gorgeous, perfectly prepared, the kind of woman that would turn a man’s head, the kind of woman that a man might indeed take home, only to find out the ultimate unalterable truth.

Marilyn was dressed in her signature attire – ridiculous flipped blonde wig, six-inch long eyelashes, makeup that seemed to have been painted on with a two-inch sash brush, a number of rings the size of baseballs. Her ample 80 year-old body was stuffed into a tight sequined gown, bulging and erupting like an over-yeasted mass of dough.

I am exaggerating, but not by much.

These were two generations of performers. The younger was oozing city sophistication and style. The elder was simply oozing, regaling the younger with tales of the outrageous, the indecent, the off color, and the barely repeatable moments in her career as a nightclub performer.

Marilyn gave me this video, along with a wonderful signed promotion photo of her dressed in all her glory. I was seeing her for a bothersome diabetic ulcer, visiting her in her fourth floor apartment that had not been cleaned since the Mets won the World Series. I gave up attempting to wash my hands at the kitchen sink after one visit. Racks of ridiculous gowns hung in an overstuffed closet. Her room was accessed by parting a heavy purple velvet curtain. That very gesture was a dramatic moment, like entering a chamber to visit the Queen. Boxes were stacked everywhere, like three- dimensional bar graphs surrounding a large rumpled bed.

In it reclined Marilyn, a bizarre Cleopatra, who without her costume and wig looked more like a large retired Jewish tailor you might see on the boardwalk in Rockaway. She never missed an opportunity to tell a story that was meant to shock and embarrass. The challenge, when in the presence of this ribald member of royalty, was to appear totally unfazed, as if her world were yours, as if she were talking of the quality of bagels.

This was indeed, a difficult task.

For example:

Case #1

“Oh girl,” she said as I washed her feet, “You should have seen the faces in the audience. It was absolutely marvelous. I remember it like it was yesterday. I had taken my panties and melted a bar of chocolate on them, then I pulled them out and…”

Case #2

“Girl, why don’t you get into bed with me. You know I give the best head in the City.”

Case #3

I parted the velvet curtain, announcing my presence. My supervisor, Kathleen Kelly, followed me. Kathy was a very attractive middle-aged Catholic woman whose mother probably had a first communion picture of Kathy on the wall of her apartment in Greenpoint. This would be the picture where Kathy, dressed in frilly white, had her hands folded piously at her breast. I had called Marilyn to let her know that my supervisor was accompanying me for a routine evaluation visit. Although this was a polite and necessary thing to do, I sensed potential danger.

I held the velvet curtain open for Kathy as I turned away from Marilyn, and at once I saw them both in my peripheral vision.

Marilyn, reclining amidst her hundreds of pillows and mountains of down, lifted an enormous, but otherwise very realistic dildo. The ridiculous plastic penis pointed skyward in an instant three-foot erection. Simultaneously I watched as Kathy’s eyes and mouth rounded like three huge O’s, taking over her face like three donuts on a flat plate.

“Welcome darling,” Marilyn said, her voice dripping with Hollywood drama, “Has D told you all about me?”

The rubber dildo bounced in the air between us, like a fishing pole with a nibble. Marilyn measured the reactions. I tried to stay as impassive as possible, but I shook my head in a gesture of wonder.

“Marilyn,” I simply said.

Kathleen Kelly, herself a wily veteran of this world behind the doors, also tried to remain implacable. But I knew that Marilyn had seen what I had seen in Kathy’s eyes. Marilyn had succeeded once again, if but for an instant, to peek into someone’s naked soul and see the unvarnished astonishment, disgust, embarrassment that lies within us all.

I admired her for that.

I changed the dressing and Marilyn put down the dildo.

IMPALED

2009-12-28T11:35:00.000-08:00

What a loaded word, impaled.

When I read it I jumped up from the swivel chair in my office. I began to hop around and make little pained noises as if I had just stubbed my bare toe against a brick. The hospital referral said matter-of-factly:

“25 year old female who fell from second story window and was impaled on wrought iron fence.”

Ahhhh!

It went on – ”…into throat and chest and abdomen… ahhhh… feeding tube… ahhhh … collapsed lung… ahhh… needs teaching…”

Needs teaching? What, about reducing falls prevention risks by not climbing out on a window ledge, or by removing iron spears from below your living room?

I drove there but could not keep myself from repeatedly visualizing the event. Despite my attempts to turn it off, it kept looping through my internal youtube brain site with horrifying detail. However, when I got to the street, and then to the particular door, I could not even look at the aforementioned fence. I averted my eyes and began to whistle, looking down Myrtle Street like some lame shoplifter about to pinch a porterhouse. I rang the bell and slipped into the lobby with a palpable feeling of relief.

Upstairs, Louise was standing inside the room waiting for me. She was Olive Oil tall, and looked even longer because she wore a large flesh colored hard plastic collar. She was loosely dressed like an WNBA player, baggy shorts and shirt, with the bulge of a feeding tube noticeable beneath her silky, purple Lakers jersey.

She was remarkably well, despite the fact that a few weeks ago she had climbed out on a stone window ledge to wash her windows, lost her balance, tumbled through the air for about twenty feet, and then was found by folks on the street, speared like a beast waiting for the rotisserie.

She was fine!

Of course, fine is a relative term.

I mean she will need to be fed through a tube for a while, and will have to wear this bothersome collar, but the fact that Louise was standing there talking to me, and could pour her Ensure and hit the bulls-eye opening in the tube, was a bizarre miracle. But these miracles happen. The opposite is, of course, sadly true.

Louise told me she was not lit the day of her flight, only hung over. I wasn’t buying it. But what does my opinion matter? It seemed my job there was redundant, because I felt Louise was already being shadowed by some benevolent force of nature. Nonetheless, I taught her how to operate the little pump that could deliver her supplements. However, she was not really interested in walking around with a cute little L.L. Bean backpack and a machine humming in her ear. This was just not Louise. Louise preferred the idea of dumping in a few cans at a time, like a college freshman pounding down a couple of Budweisers. She was not at all interested in going outside with tubes mysteriously snaking from a backpack and disappearing under her shirt.

I didn’t argue with Louise.

I left, wishing her good luck, and immediately thought how ridiculous that sounded. Louise needed good luck like the Pope needed another set of rosary beads.

When I walked out the front door I looked to the left at the fence, then up to Louise’s window. She was standing there, framed perfectly within the rectangular sash. I noticed that the glass was very clean. Louise waved and smiled.

I walked away, down Myrtle Street, past rows of wrought iron fences.

WHAT YOU WON'T SEE IN A SUPER BOWL COMMERCIAL

2009-12-18T10:30:00.000-08:00

Richie says something, but all that comes out is whisper, like wind blowing through a fence.

He frowns, and then he puts his index finger up to the plastic tube that pokes out from his neck.

“I’m just having a beer. Hope you don’t mind,” he says, his voice now sounding like gravel rattling in a can.

It isn’t a request for permission.

Richie lives in a basement. He has lost much to a handful of not so subtle medical interventions – his larynx, his teeth, part of his stomach, his pancreas, one of his legs, his ability to swallow, his comfort, and probably a large part of his self-respect. Viet Nam, alcohol, drugs, abandonment, all have a way of doing that I guess.

I am not going to solve any of that today. I sit in awe, actually. What enfolds in the next few minutes is dark testimony to the fact that man can conquer many obstacles. And that addiction is more powerful than I have before understood.

Richie reaches down to the floor where a thirty-pack of beer is torn open, the silvery cans spilling out like coins from a slot machine. He puts one of them on the dirty kitchen table, pushing a scattering of envelopes and newspapers out of the way. He pulls the tab and the can hisses. A bit of white foam escapes. Richie then pours the golden liquid in a waiting glass, making a beautiful two-inch head that spills perfectly over the rim.

Richie adjusts his greasy cap as if he is readying himself for an important and tricky task. He lifts his sweatshirt to reveal the cream-colored tube that emerges from the center of his caved abdomen. On the table there is a big piston syringe, the size of a toilet paper roll. It has no needle attached, no piston inside. It’s not meant for that. It’s actually more of a funnel, the kind through which men and women (who are fed through tubes) can pour their meals, their supplements, their water, their meds. Richie pours his Labatt’s.

He carefully inserts the tip of the syringe into the end of the tube and clicks open the clamp that crimps the tube when it is not in use. Richie then lifts the glass from the table with his free hand, and like some skilled Bladerunner bartender, pours the beer perfectly into the fat syringe, filling it to the brim. The amber colored nectar drains slowly as Richie watches quietly, almost meditatively. He repeats this twice and then sets the glass on the sticky table.

I hear a little belch as Richie turns to me and smiles.

“Can you taste it?” I ask.

“Hell yes,” he tells me.

He’ll finish the thirty-pack before the day is out.

SOMALIA COMES TO ME

2009-12-10T12:43:00.000-08:00

The little vestibule is dark, chocolate colored, the wood paneling hinting of a grander time. “PIZZA!” “WINGS’!” “DIM SUM!” shout from the papers scattered on the check-tiled floor. It smells of my grandparents’ home in Brooklyn – a mix of polish and roasting chicken. When the door closes behind me I am caught in a small capsule full of dull echo. Three white marble steps are discolored with age, and the dark mail-slots in the six small brass doors line up like some ominous I-Ching hexagram. The names taped on the little doors could qualify as a six-word short-story:

Ngyen – Morales – Johnson – Gnecco – Mohammed – Murphy

I press the button under Mohammed as I am thinking distractedly of the strings on my tennis racket, the gunshot wound, the stain on my pants… then the buzz makes me jump, rattling the lock in the heavy oak door in front of me. Never having been here before, I am not sure if this is the type of person who buzzes for what seems to be an eternity, or one who seems bent on testing reaction times. I lunge, open, climb, and knock on the raised panel door at Apartment 6. I hear the soft shuffle of feet within, then the door cracks open and I see a bearded man with a fine nose, high forehead, thin lips. He smiles.

“Come in. Come in,” he says.

Shoes are lined up neatly beside the door. I slip mine off, and the man protests.

“No. No. You don’t have to do that.”

My shoes are off, and he shrugs as if to say, “If you wish.”

“In here,” he says, and walks down a hallway.

The apartment is huge, a grand expanse of yesteryear. I pass four closed doors as we walk down the dark hall. The fifth is not quite closed, and I can see the glow of a dim lamp sitting on the floor. I slow and peer within. Women wrapped in multicolored cloth are sitting on the floor around the lamp. I see no furniture, only dark faces in a circle, and an impression of orange and red.

The hall opens into a living room with a defunct but elaborate gas fireplace, and an impressive array of finely crafted built-in drawers and glass cabinets. The paint is chipped, the doors askew. It all has the same feeling as in the hall below, the feeling of a place abandoned and now reoccupied.

Couches and threadbare chairs line the living room walls. A dozen men, old and young, occupy every seat, and some sit on the floor. Children hide behind a half-wall that separates us from what was perhaps an adjoining dining room, when apartment dwellers indeed had dining rooms. A man lies stretched out on the long couch, his right leg raised on pillows.

I’ve read of the war in Somalia. The killings, torture, rapes. Somalia has come to me. An entire family fleeing the madness.

The gunshot wound is through the knee. Ugly. But what’s memorable here is not the wound. The wonder here is that these displaced people have recreated northern African in a place as foreign to them as a tent in Somalia would be to me.

The patriarch sits white haired in the largest chair. All the men have watched me change the dressing, surrounding me as if I were performing surgery in an amphitheater. There is one translator and I am curious and inquisitive.

I learn that the patriarch owns a store in Somalia, and it is his son who has been shot. The entire family fled and now they are making their way here in the United States.

“There are only men here in this room?” I ask.

They all laugh, but offer no explanation, as if laughter is enough to dismiss the question as an American wonder in itself.

The old white haired man in the big chair addresses me in Somali. His eyes are gray-green and I see now that his beard and hair are dyed a shade of red.

“He wants to know if you would like some tea,” the translator tells me.

When I say, “Thank you, that would be nice,” all the men stir, and the old man calls down the dark hallway in Somali.

Soon the door of the darkened room opens and seven women and several young girls, all beautifully swathed head to toe in colored and patterned cloth, cross the edge of the living room and cram into a small kitchen. There is at once laughter and chatter and the sound of gas hissing. The men interrogate me through the single translator. Where do I live? Am I married? How many children do I have? How much money do I make? The children, like puppets, poke their heads above the wall and retreat giggling.

Soon two of the women, both swathed in orange, serve the tea. It is sweet and flavored with cardamom and clove. Just the patriarch and me drink. We continue to talk as the women busy themselves in the kitchen. I can easily see that they have gathered at the doorway and are listening intently.

I feel wildly transported, as if I am in some tent, the crazy dry heat within the apartment mimicking an African afternoon.

We talk on, but soon I must go.

I am reminded of a story within Kazantzaki’s “Zorba the Greek.” An old man is chided for never leaving the confines of his remote village. Yet it was this man who always threw his doors open to travelers.

“Talk, talk,” he would command them.

He would not let them leave until they had told him everything about their journey – where they had been, what they had eaten, where they had slept, what languages they had heard – and on and on until the travelers were exhausted.

“Why should I leave my home,” the old man would ask, “when all the world comes to me?”

That’s the way I feel as I descend the stairs, the taste of cardamom and clove still in my mouth.

QUICK VISIT: ON THE WRONG SIDE OF A LOCKED GATE

2009-12-04T17:46:00.000-08:00

It’s a stunning autumn day. Unfortunately, on Fifth Street, there are no trees that have turned electric yellow or bright orange, or even dull brown. On Fifth there is only grey concrete and black asphalt.

I come to a gate that is wrapped with a padlock and chain. The large linked chain looks as if it could haul the anchor of the Queen Elizabeth. Signs are wired haphazardly to the rusting fence, tacked to a battered door, nailed to a post that holds up a porch that angles dangerously. The porch looks like it is a kilo from collapse.

“Beware of Dog,” “Beware of Dog.” “Beware of Dog.”

The door, and any hope of knocking, lies across a wasteland, a concrete moat of cold, urban nothingness.

I call Mr. Murphy on my cell phone.

“It’s D, the Visiting Nurse. I’m at the gate.”

“Jimmy will come an get you.”

“Where’s the dog?”.

“There ain’t no dog.”

Jimmy opens the door to the house and squints into the daylight. He’s wearing a leather jacket and black pants. His frame is stick-like, and he walks loosely, like his joints are barely connected. A key jangles from his right hand and he reaches for the lock, inserts the key, and I watch the lock pop apart. Jimmy holds the gate, looks down Fifth Street, and I walk through into this middle earth, a limbo that exists between the seen and the unseen. Jimmy starts locking the padlock behind me.

“You lock it behind you?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s bad out here.”

I check the height of the fence and figure I can get over it if I have to. This is feeling a little too weird already, and I am still only in this concrete limbo. I don’t mind locking a door behind me, if the latch is on the inside, the key accessible. But Jimmy’s holding the keys. And who’s Jimmy? And look at the size of that chain.

“He’s upstairs,” Jimmy says to the chain.

“Are you his son?”

“Nah, I just live here, help him out.”

Mr. Murphy lives in a smoke stained room on the second floor. The stairs creak as I climb. The walls are laced with an assortment of cracks and holes. Lathe is exposed like bones in an x-ray, and plaster dust crunches under my feet. The house smells of cheap incense and fuel oil.

He sits on the edge of his bed as I do my various assessments. A picture of him as a young GI hangs at the head of the bed. Across the room there is a framed portrait of Martin Luther King. Otherwise the walls are bare. A sheet covers the window, and filters the incoming light, giving the room a sepia wash. When we get to the part about Mr. Murphy’s medications, he pulls a battered attaché case from beneath the bed, flops it on the crumpled red blanket, and begins to scroll through the tumbler of numbers near the handle. He lines up the correct combination of digits and the lid pops open. Inside, rolling around, are an assortment of brown prescription bottles.

“You keep all your pills locked up?”

“Got to.”

Mr. Murphy begins to show me all his medications, as I check them against the hospital paperwork.

“Jimmy,” Mr. Murphy yells, and I jump.

Jimmy comes to the door, and he looks sheepish now, smaller and thinner than he did in the light of day.

“Not all my pills are here.”

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

Mr. Murphy is scattering the bottles, picking them up, shaking each one, listening to the various rattles as if he can identify them by the noise they make.

“I’m going to kill the motherfucker that took my pills.”

I’m thinking now about the lock on the gate, the key, the height of the fence, and about Jimmy, who may or may not may have reason to worry, My thoughts are careening along like protons in a particle accelerator. They consist of questions that are not answered in the hospital referral. They go something like this:

1. Who is Mr. Murphy, really?
2. Has Jimmy’s been picking the lock?
3. Does Mr. Murphy’s have a gun?
4. Does Jimmy’s have a legitimate reason to worry?
5. If he does, then I certainly do, because I am in between Mr. Murphy and skinny Jimmy.
6. People get shot in this neighborhood.

The argument continues, heatedly, and I am interjecting at every expletive, which is to say, very often.

“I need to go now Mr. Murphy. Jimmy I need you to open the gate for me."

It seems I am being ignored, but then I see clearly how frightened Jimmy seems. He’s not really hearing me. Mr. Murphy pokes around again in his attaché case.

“They all ain’t in here.”

“If you don’t let me out now I’m going to call 911.”

“Where the fuck are the rest of my pills?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone.

Jimmy looks at me, at Mr. Murphy, then plunges his hand into his pocket, and turns toward the stairs.

“Someone will call you tomorrow Mr. Murphy. Someone from the Visiting Nurses.”

“That motherfucker stole my pills.”

“Uh, maybe you should call the cops.”

“Shit.”

Jimmy opens the lock and pulls at the gate. He is looking down at the cracks in the concrete, and I am at a loss for words. It’s a relief to be across that concrete moat, on the other side of the fence and into the openness of Fifth Street. I start to say something and stumble over my words.

“It’s cool,” Jimmy says as he locks himself in.