Dead is Better (12 page)

Dinner is somber. Rose and I hover in a corner of the large kitchen area. She’s curled up, nose to tail, a few inches from the floor. I float next to her. A middle-aged woman wearing a silver crucifix greets each diner by name—the man with the blanket, John; the cigarette woman, Angela; the man with the Afro, Peace—and others, some of whom are people Rose and I saw in the dorms—and some who are new to us. The woman—her name is Wendy—joins the others as they eat spaghetti and meatballs, rolls and margarine, milk or water, and canned peaches off paper plates. Two women from the night we first saw Brian—the very fat woman and the woman with corn rows—wear white aprons and white paper caps and serve the meal.

Once the meal is over, the oilcloth-covered tables are pushed against one wall, and the chairs are arranged to form a loose circle. Wendy and the others sit down, while Peace and another man sweep the floor and take out trash.

“Welcome once again to Wings of Hope,” Wendy says and smiles. “God is love. All are welcome.” Her short brown hair is flecked with gray and the constellation of freckles extending across her nose and cheeks stands out because she wears no makeup. I guess she’s in her forties. “Thank you for being here and for participating once again in our Support Circle.”

Wendy’s smile seems genuine. She smiles with her eyes, her mouth, her face, her voice—her whole body. She bestows it upon each person in the circle, even the sleeping man who snores loudly and a woman who is busy tying a plastic trash bag into a pattern of knots, then looks toward Peace and nods to him.

In life did I ever receive such a warm and sincere welcome? Was anyone ever this truly glad to see me? No. The closest I’ve come to anything like this was my reunion with Rose.

“Would anyone like to speak? Or should we just go around the circle like always?” Wendy asks.

Peace sits down with the group. “I have something to say.” Peace shakes his head and his Afro bobs slightly in the direction opposite to the movement of his head. “I’m bummed. I’m angry.” Peace surveys the circle. “And when I feel this way, sometimes bad shit happens.”

Wendy looks directly at Peace. Her face is calm, full of sympathy and understanding. “I know we all feel the loss of Brian terribly,” Wendy says sadly. “He was an important and beloved part of the Wings of Hope community.”

“Yeah,” Peace says. “What the fuck happened? One minute Brian is here and then all of a sudden he’s dead.” But before Wendy can answer, Peace goes on, becoming more upset. “And what about just now, huh? I’m sick of this police bullshit. Bernard was just minding his own business. Waiting for his dinner. So what if he likes to pray? Who does that hurt? Can anybody tell me? Who does that hurt?”

Tuxedo Man has a name—Bernard.

Wendy looks sad. “What happened with Mr. Carter—Bernard—was very unfortunate. Mr. Sims is at the station now trying to see what can be done for him. But Bernard, as I understand it, threw a glass bottle at someone and that’s not okay. Not okay at all. When Bernard did that, he broke the law. “

Cigarette Woman speaks softly and I see that she is missing her bottom teeth, “He threw the bottle in the street. Not at anybody. Just at the street.”

Peace nods emphatically. “You saying he’s going to jail for littering? Or for throwing something in the street?”

Wendy sighs, but musters another smile. “I know it seems unfair. But it’s important to recognize that Bernard, even if he was just blowing off steam, did that in a destructive and illegal way. That’s why we’re here in our community. To support one another and to find constructive ways to express feelings, and to free ourselves of violence and from addictions.”

Wendy looks at Peace and waits.

He nods his understanding but his expression darkens. His jaw clenches and unclenches, he crosses his arms across his chest, and he begins to tap his foot against the linoleum floor.

Wendy continues, her voice and expression full of concern and sadness. “About Brian. It’s really important that everyone understands what happened. Brian was not feeling well and at the hospital they had to perform a test to make sure that his heart was working properly. Unfortunately there were complications after that test—and Brian died. It’s a tragedy, but it’s no one’s fault. We all must die and it was Brian’s time.”

“That which is so universal as death must be a benefit.”

—Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

***

Wendy’s a fucking saint. So kind, so generous, so selfless and so patient. Almost as kind and as patient as Rose.

I regret not knowing Wendy in life. I mourn the lack of courage and imagination that kept me far away San Julian Street. I could have helped Wendy or someone like her help these people. Not just my Happy Andy money—me. And helping them might have changed me, might have saved me from myself.

But even Wendy cannot soothe Peace’s growing and obvious agitation. She gets up from her chair and stands before him, then looks pleadingly into his angry eyes.

“Peace,” she asks quietly. “Will you lead the group in a prayer for Brian?”

Peace hugs himself more tightly, and taps his foot more loudly, which Wendy and I both take to be a no.

“That’s okay,” Wendy says, and stands. “Let’s join together in a moment of silent prayer for our friend Brian’s soul.”

Those among the assembled who are awake lower their heads, except for the woman knotting plastic bags. Some close their eyes. Peace unfolds his arms and stands up so abruptly that he knocks over his white plastic chair. “Bullshit,” he shouts, “Bullshit!” then he rushes angrily from the room.

Wendy doesn’t lift her head or open her eyes—her face remains serene, her lips continue to speak their silent words of prayer for Brian. But the others, their eyes open now, listen to the click of Peace’s footsteps in the hall, then to the sound of the door to San Julian Street being opened.

“All say, ‘How hard it is that we have to die’—a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.”

—Mark Twain,
The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson and the Comedy of the Extraordinary Twins

***

Rose and I follow Peace outside. It’s dark now and there are inert human shapes on the sidewalk, some in sleeping bags, some with only torn pieces of cardboard between them and the ground. Peace walks quickly past these forms, past the spot in the street where Bernard’s broken wine bottle glitters under the street lamp—the lamp, its light reflected in the glass, and the burning orange tips of cigarettes in shadowy doorways are the only bright things.

Peace turns the corner and then into the alley, illuminated by a few security lights installed at the back of the brick buildings. Rose and I turn with him and see a man urinate against a wall, then hurry away. Peace walks purposely to the Dumpster behind Wings of Hope. He opens the metal lid and rummages inside, then shuts it and moves a few doors down. He opens another trash can and feels around inside until he’s found something—two half-smoked cigarettes.

He lights one of them with a matchbook from his pocket, then carefully puts the other behind his ear where it disappears inside his Afro. Peace paces back and forth, inhaling the cigarette smoke deeply.

Rose stiffens as a dark figure appears at the opening of the alley—the shape of a man with large shoulders backlit by the light in the street.

“Peace,” the dark shape says, “is that you?”

Peace inhales, holding the smoke inside his lungs for a moment before answering and exhaling. “Who is it?”

The dark shape approaches. “It’s me, Peace. Mr. Sims.”

Peace keeps smoking, but he’s stopped pacing and faces the shape. The greenish security light behind Wings of Hope reveals the same white t-shirt we saw when this man spoke with Nilsson, but the shirt is partially covered now by a leather jacket.

So this is Mr. Sims.

Sims pats Peace’s shoulder. “I’m here because Wendy was worried about you. The community is worried about you. And I’m here because I’m your friend.”

Peace nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“Wendy says you’re angry about Bernard’s arrest,” Sims says, “and Brian.” Sims reaches into his pocket and produces two unopened packs of Marlboro cigarettes, which he gives to Peace.

“I understand. Wendy understands. But you—” and here Sims puts great emphasis on “you”—”must understand that you can’t risk your sobriety every time you get upset.”

Peace shakes his head, defeated. The tears that begin to roll down his smooth, dark cheeks seem greenish in this light.

“Bernard will be okay. He’s only being held for 72 hours on a 51-50. For observation. Not in jail but in the psych ward at County. He’ll be fine.”

Peace nods again, more vigorously. His beautiful hair nods too, and in the strange light looks like a frothy aura. Finally Peace says, “I just can’t take the bullshit, you know? I just can’t take it.”

“I understand,” Sims says kindly. “I get it.” Sims takes a slender leather wallet from the pocket of his leather jacket, counts out some bills, folds them in half, and presses them into Peace’s hand. “You need a little break. You really need a break from this place, Peace.”

Peace stuffs the bills into his pocket. “I got nothing, Mr. Sims. How can I ever pay you back?” Peace asks in a shaky voice.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sims says, “we’ll work it out. We’ll work something out.”

“Life was not a valuable gift, but death was. Life was a fever-dream made up of joys embittered by sorrows, pleasure poisoned by pain; a dream that was a nightmare-confusion of spasmodic and fleeting delights, ecstasies, exultations, happinesses, interspersed with long-drawn miseries, griefs, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats, humiliations, and despairs”—the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity; but death was sweet, death was gentle, death was kind; death healed the bruised spirit and the broken heart, and gave them rest and forgetfulness; death was man’s best friend; when man could endure life no longer, death came and set him free.”

—Mark Twain,
Letters from the Earth

***

The world of the living is weird. Not just strange, but weird in the Anglo Saxon sense—“wyrd.” “That which comes.” Fate. What is. Reality. Or as Wallace Stevens said in his poem, “The Man on the Dump,” “the the.”

Expressed another way, shit happens. Constantly. And keeps happening. Confusing. Intractable.

And death? Don’t ask. Death is another story altogether—you’ll see.

Rose has assumed her patient, watchful pose—seated, paws extended, chin on paws, watching me think, and waiting, waiting, always waiting for me to free that dog. If she could breathe, she’d sigh. Too bad there’s no dead squirrel here for her to chase up a big, dead tree, to distract her gaze—just for a little while—from me.

Rose, I know it doesn’t look like much, but I’m trying, I’m trying to figure things out.

What I know:

Peace disappeared into the night, or more precisely, checked into a residential hotel after a visit to a liquor store and a brief transaction with a gentleman standing on a street corner.

That little scene in the alley with Peace and Sims was really sad. Sad and weird.

Weird that Sims knew Brian and Sims knows Peace and Nilsson.

Nilsson. It’s weird that he knows Sims, but MMC must be a big donor to Wings of Hope.

What did Sims mean when he spoke to Nilsson about a “delivery”? Probably MMC brochures for clients of Wings of Hope. No. County Hospital is the closest medical facility to Skid Row. MMC is over in West Hollywood. And the delivery was to the hospital, not from the hospital.

Maybe it was Wings of Hope brochures for MMC? Maybe for a board meeting? Perhaps Sims is going to address the big shots there and make a pitch for money?

No. Didn’t he say there was a “problem” with the delivery?

What kind of delivery, then? And what went wrong?

I need to know more about Sims.

“And even if the wars didn’t keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death.”

—Kurt Vonnegut,
Slaughterhouse-Five

***

Has one night passed in the world of the living? Or two or three? Rose and I follow slowly above Peace as he makes his way unsteadily along San Julian Street, sometimes stopping to lean on a wall for balance, ignoring the greetings of acquaintances who mill about or huddle on the curb under tarps and blankets. The heat wave is over, but Peace wears the clothes he wore when we saw him with Sims in the alley—dark jeans, black boots, a long-sleeved black t-shirt with a picture of Bob Marley on the back. He slept in those clothes, I think, then correct myself.

Of course he slept in those clothes. This is Skid Row.

The shadows Rose and I circulate among tell me it must be close to noon when Peace arrives at Wings of Hope entrance. We follow him down the hall, where Wendy and the fat woman sort through boxes of donated clothing. The woman who knots plastic bags is here too, sitting in a white plastic chair, tying a yellow bag into an elaborate design.

“Peace,” Wendy says and smiles. “You’re back. Welcome.”

Peace is subdued. The whites of his eyes are red and the lids are heavy and puffy. “Yeah. I’m back. Mr. Sims? Is he around?” he asks. His voice is raspy.

“Upstairs,” Wendy says, “showing a new client around the men’s dorm. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

Peace nods and makes his way up the stairs so slowly that I begin to wonder if he’s hurt, but his pace quickens as he enters the men’s dormitory.

Mr. Sims talks to a young man who looks about eighteen. The man holds a filthy white laundry bag that appears stuffed with clothes. The young man’s greasy brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He wears tattered jeans and a jean jacket—but there is no shirt underneath.

“And these are the lockers,” Sims says. “When clients have checked in and completed our intake process—just like you, Manuel—they are given a key for the night for one of these lockers. The number on the key matches the locker—that way the client has a safe place to store belongings.”