Public Service Announcement

So, "Left Like Yesterday" is taking a hiatus as I finish a piece that has pretty much dominated my mind. I promise I'll come back to it.

Left Like Yesterday, Pt. 5

"Did I ever tell you the story of my friend Damien?"

"Is it going to make me feel like shit? Because I don't think I can take anymore, man."

"It might, I don't know."

"I'm not sure if I want to hear it then."

"Just give it a shot." Wes turns on the lights to the car. There is a sliver of blue on the horizon, as rays of orange seemingly blend into violets and blacks, and stars attack and punctuate the sky where the sun was once opaque in a blue sea.

I sigh as I stare at the profile of my reflection in the passenger seat window. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

"What else do we have to do other than kill some time." I just snort my reply. Wes doesn't look at me, but I have the feeling that he's testing me somehow. "I met Damien when I was a freshman in high school. He was an orphan like me, that worked his way through the system."

"The system?"

"The foster system. Living from house to house. I was living at the last house I was to live at, in a nice neighborhood in Manhattan, and living with a decent family. When I mean a decent family, I mean these were good people. By this time, I was very jaded.:

"What do mean, jaded?"

"God, for someone who wasn't sure he wanted to hear this story, you sure do ask a lot of questions."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry. I was jaded. I just got done jumping from house to house with abusive fathers, drunks, mothers that adopted for the government payoffs, living on the edge in the Bronx, all that stuff. I had problems making friends at this new school where, to me, everyone had these perfect lives, with happy homes, with the multiple bedrooms, and the constantly paid electricity bill, and all that shit. I had this parents that were treating me like a human being, and in the back of my mind, in some sick form or fashion, I was wondering what their payoff was- what they were trying to gain. I couldn't trust them- or anyone for that matter.

"Anyway. Some of the teachers at school noticed my behavior, and having a copy of my record or something, I don't know really what, I got called into the counselor's office one day mid-way into my first semester. He sits me down, and does the whole, 'How are you liking the new school?' business, trying to be all nice, slowing segwaying into the, 'The reason I called into this office...' bit. So he tells me about this support group for teenagers that have run through the wringer, like I have. A 'Foster Care Group' he called it- he thought he was being witty. I didn't laugh. Of course, I rejected the idea at first. I told him I was fine, and that I didn't need help. He argued, said it wasn't about giving me help, but about helping me find friends. That helped a little in swaying me, but I didn't want to admit to that either."

"So how'd you end up going?"

"I didn't go at first. I left the office, and I said I'd think about it. Then, about a month and a half later, I was walking to class, and this guy was making fun of me, giving some shit, like a ignorant rich high school kid only would, about being an orphan, and I lost it. In the following fight, I broke his arm, and knocked out two of his teeth, and was almost sentenced to time in juvi. In the trial that I went to, because of course his parents wouldn't believe that their son would ever say 'Such mean things,' insisted that I go do some time. That same counselor, who now, I think about every day, he's a good man..."

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Corvino. Anyway, Mr. Corvino, went and spoke to the judge, and testified that I'm just a troubled foster kid in need of help. Litigation went on, and I don't know if was because I had a sympathetic judge, or if because I was only fourteen, but I ended up being scheduled to go to counseling once a week, and the support group that Mr. Corvino told me about earlier in the year."

"You got pretty lucky."

"Yeah, but not really. Do you really think that they were going to lock up a fourteen year old in New York for a high school fight?"

I could see his point. "Yeah, probably not."

He turns his head to me slightly, so he could keep his peripheral on the road, and smiles a bit, before he speaks again. "The support group was different that I expected it to be. I expected it to people like me, put through shitty homes, with ungrateful or abusive parents, but instead it was filled with these kids who had parents that had infertility problems, and raised them since they could remember, the only problem they really had was that they had no idea who their real parents were. While now I can respect that, seeing the trauma and anger that can lead to the world, back then, I resented every single one of them. Except Damien. Damien was the person leading the group. He just graduated college, from NYU, got a degree in sociology, and was social worker in the foster system. He was a foster kid himself. Everything I'm telling you now, I learned later. At first, I just thought he was like everyone else, so I guess at first, I hated him too. But, I learned to love him, just like everyone else- but it was him who to taught me to do so, I guess."

"Is that why you're telling me this story?"

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Then why are you telling me this story?"

"Just shut up and listen."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, just shut up. Damien, anyway, was like me. He jumped from house to house. Parents dying for the tax payoff, or the welfare check- shit like that. Alcoholic parents- not the silver spoon. Somehow, he survived though, went to college, and decided he wanted to help foster kids, do something to improve the system. He ran this group, and one thing he told me, later on in our friendship was that he was sad that they only people that had the courage to come to the support group were those that were raised in the house holds that really wanted the children for the aspect of raising them, not using them like Damien and myself- or myself until my last house. I should've resented myself for my last four years. Damien never even had one year in a house like I did in high school. They really were good people."

"Do you still talk to them?"

Wes holds his breath. His eyes close for a second. "No. I probably did one of the dumbest things of my life when I graduated high school."

"What did you do?"

"Don't worry about it," he said flatly. The muscles in his cheeks were clenched, and his face seemed to be flushed. I decided not to press on. We sat in silence, and finally, I turned to him, and was about to speak, ask him to go on with his story, but it was like he read my mind, and he just went on himself. "So, this support group, I sat week after week for about half a year, and I was counting down the days until I wouldn't have to come to it anymore..."

"How long were you supposed to go?"

"Half a year."

"So, you didn't say anything the whole time you were there?"

"Until the second to last week I was there. I was listening to this girl cry, telling a story about how she spent the night at one of her friend's house, and how she had to go back home because she 'Couldn't stand to watch the love' between her and her biological dad. And, this being God knows how many weeks of me listening to the same shit, I couldn't stand it. I was listening to Damien talk to her, asking her to express her feelings, you know, trying to be the good moderator, and finally I interrupted him. I went on this ill-reputed rambling of self- righteousness about how these people have it good, and they don't know what it means to 'work the foster system.' The beatings. Coming home to no electricity. Not having food. Living in the not so nice parts of the Bronx. All that shit. By the time I was done, I was almost in tears, out of breath, and almost everyone was staring at me with an open mouth, except for Damien, who just looked at me with a cold expression on his face, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back into his chair. Until this point, they never heard me speak, and I just went off. I don't blame them, but at realizing what I just did, I ran the fuck out of the room.

"I ran out of the building, and outside to the curb of the street. I shivered in the cold air, and I felt lost in the only city I have ever been in- I never left New York, you see. But all I could do was stare around me in the afternoon bustle of Manhattan with the taxi's and people and snowfall. And then behind me, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and it's Damien, and he doesn't say anything, he just throws his head in one direction, indicating to follow him, and I was so beat at that moment. I gave in. We walk about ten minutes or so, and he turns me into a little, whole in the wall Noodle Bar. He asks me if I was hungry, not even giving me time to answer, as he pretty much shoved me inside and sat down. Sitting at the table, I got my first real good look at this person. I realized how enigmatic he was, in the way he spoke. The stories he told, and how good he was in making you forget about yourself, and how humble he was about himself, while at the same time he took over the situation. It was like his presence was the only star visible in a night sky. While it was so small, it was all you wanted to look at. He was good looking, groomed well, in a nice sweater, slacks, short hair cut, and brown eyes that looked right at you, and seemed to really only look at you honestly, not like they were trained to look at you in respect, because someone told him that's what he should do. He seemed to show a true interest in you, and you wanted to keep that interest. He'd tell these stories- crazy college parties, some insane ex-girlfriend, warning me 'high school, don't ever get into a relationship, because you'll think that it'll be the same when you get into college. But I promise you, something happens to women when they turn eighteen.' He said, 'I can't explain it, but they go fucking crazy. If you think you can't understand them now, just wait. I promise you that. Don't set any precedents.' I almost died laughing at that one. He tells me of bands he likes, and asks me about music I like. He tells me that you can learn almost everything about someone else in the art, and he meant all the art, that they like. He said, 'You'll know the dynamic and degree you'll get along with someone by the qualities you share and don't share with that person.' While I didn't understand that comment back then, almost everyday, it makes more sense to me.

"He told me to order whatever I wanted, and we both ended up eating some Vietnamese Pho. He showed me how to put together the soup and everything, how eat it with their weird little spoon and chopsticks. And then, out of nowhere, when we had a break from his amazing dialogue, and we're eating, and my spirits are high, and I have forgotten about the previous events, I notice him watching me with these very curious eyes. It stopped me dead in my tracks, you know? Finally, when the silence was unbearable, I asked him why he was looking at me, and he asked me why I went off like that. His specific words were, and I'll never forget them, 'Do you feel like you have a monopoly on misery?' he asked me. I told him my commiseration over the group and he told me I had no right for that polemic attack. I was shocked. I was beginning to storm out, when in a stern voice he told me to sit down. That's when he told me his life story. 'You and me are brothers,' he started. He described how he went from house to house, being beaten and abused. Mothers wanted that big government check. Drunken dads kicking his ass. It was sad. Straight out of a movie, and I could relate to almost every word, because he described the nuances that the movies will never capture.

"By the time he was done, I felt very close to him. It's like a bonding experience, that only two people that fought the same battle can have. And think he felt it, too. We sat in silence for a while, sipping on green tea, as he let me soak in what he just told me. Finally, I asked him, 'How come you don't get resentful to the silver spooned?' He said that he used too, and then he realized one day that they had their own battle. One day, after graduating high school, in college, he was talking to someone in college about his life, looking for that pity, and at the same time the gratification of making it through all the crap he made, when the person he was talking to started telling him of his life, and how his real father beat the ever living shit out of him, and how he could relate. That's when Damien had one of those 'aha!' moments, he said. He realized that he wasn't here to judge people's pain. But he can instead try to ease it. Show love, use his experience to ease others in pain. He was a good man. One of those people that would make you believe in God just by knowing him."

Wes stops for a second as rain starts to pour on the car. As I listened to him talk, I didn't realized how dark it got outside, and as the rain poured on the windshield, and the wipers rhythmically provided a circular procession of clarity, a river of white poured over my eyes as cars passed us by. Then, I don't know, something just didn't feel right. "What happened to Damien?" I asked.

Wes laughed quietly to himself and shook his slightly like he always does when he's being dramatic, but at the same time vulnerable. "I'm getting to that." He pauses again and lights a cigarette. He cracks the window slightly, and the smoke streams smoothly through the gap as small pellets of water land on the interior of the door. "Damien became my rock. While he had his slew of friends in college, he somehow found time to hang out with me. Sometimes, he even invited me to go out with his buddies. My sophomore and junior year, my life was more stable. I continued to go to the 'Foster Care Group' even without the court order, and was starting to make friends in school. I became more social, and Damien helped me with girlfriend's, and I went and saw him play with his band and he got me into bars. Everything was going well, until the summer before my senior of high school."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you later."

"Why?"

"We're here."

I look out my window as Wes parked the car. The orange flag, that looked like a street cone, blew dramatically in the wind, and the bright lights stood out among the rain. "Emergency Room." The red cross next to it should have been an omen. The checkered teal and white striped lights that extended in either direction that lined the awing where the ambulances parked in their semi-circle drives, only seemed to draw me in, and make me hesitate more. I inhaled deep, and exhaled slowly. "Shit." That's all I could say.

"Are you ready?" Wes whispers.

I look at him. He's looking at me with soft eyes- his eyebrows up-tucked at the center, his mouth trying to smile in comfort, but failing- yet, I was comforted in the act. "Yeah, let's go."

It took us a moment to find my family. I didn't really know who to ask, and what to ask for. When I finally did find them, I didn't know if should've been relived or in despair. They waited in, well, a waiting room, my mother sitting on a block cushioned black chair, her elbows resting on her knees, which were clenched together in her black skirt, her eyes crushed in her palms. My father paced back and forth on the other side of the room, scratching under his chin, where stubble was growing, his red collared shirt wrinkled like he slept in it (which he most certainly did), and his jeans covered with paint, as if he rushed to get here and didn't look to see which pants he picked to wear (which, also, he most certainly did). My father was the first one to notice me. He stopped pacing and just looked at me. "Steven," he said mechanically.

My mother's head shot up like a rocket. Her eyes were red, and the space below them were black and shiny. She began to say something to me, but instead extended her palms outward to me, and her lips began to quiver. I walk over to her and clasp my hands in her. "Ma, you okay?" She tilts her head away from me, and I can tell she is crying. Her breathing is heavy and broken. "How is he?" I ask. "Ma?" When I realize she won't answer, I stand up, and walk over to my dad. "Hey," I say.

"Hello," he says soberly.

"How is he?"

"They don't know. He's still in surgery. The truck hit him pretty hard. Cracked his skull real good, broke some ribs, both legs. Shattered the left side of his face. Going to need reconstructive surgery." I almost marveled at how my father could speak about Todd like this with such little emotion. But I could see the thousand yard stare in his eyes. I could see the bottle waiting for him at home. I could see the vale of tears and the lonely pillow where he'll shed his grievance later. For now, he's going to do the only thing he can do- try to be the good father and keep everyone together. "They just don't know. Things aren't looking good, son. Just be prepared for the worst." As he said that, my mother burst into loudly into sobs.

I glance behind me, and I see Wes crouched by her whispering. I turn back to my father. "What happened?"

"Well, I don't really know. From what Candice tells me, she put Todd in a home, and Todd tried to run from it, and got hit by a truck. That's the plain and simple version."

My gut hit rock bottom. I felt nauseated as I began to think of the conversation my mother and I had over the summer. "She put him in a home?"

"Yeah. Decided it was time to move on. Not a terrible decision." He's whispering now, as we begin to walk away from my mother's hearing range. "How was she supposed to know he didn't want to go to a home?" I just nod my head slowly. I'm spinning. "Are you okay? You don't look so good." I don't say anything. "Of course you don't look good, you're brother's in ICU, what am I thinking." That's when I realize we're at the pop machine and my dad's pointing at it. "Want something to drink?" I shake my head no. "You know, something like this could've happened even without the home, I don't know why she's blaming herself," he says cracking open a Dr. Pepper and taking a sip. "In fact, I should've taken more responsibility in that boy's life, you know what I mean?"

"I don't think it's anyone's fault, pa."

"That's for damn sure. It's just one of those unfortunate things that happen, you know? If we can only get your mother to see that."

"How about you, are you okay?"

I look at him, and he's smiling. But, I see water build in his eyes. "I'm okay. I'm not great, but I'll make it. It's my son, too, you know? But, for now, all I can do is pray that God has mercy on either his life, or on my soul. One or the other. Whatever God chooses, will be what I have to accept."

"You don't actually believe that, do you?" I ask incredulously.

My father's brow gets tight as he looks to the ground. "Yes, I do," he says sternly as he brushes passed me. I watch his back as he walks towards my mother. I stare in disbelief for a moment before I walk over there too. Not in disbelief in my father's cold heartedness, that's just the way he is- his grieving process is very lonely. No, I've just never heard him ever display one intonation in a belief in a will of God. Furthermore, that will of God taking precedence over his.

We sat in that waiting room for a couple of hours or so. Every tick of the clock, I could sense the air grow thicker, the tension surmounting to the almost impossible, and I never knew doing nothing could be so tiring. I stared at the linoleum walls- grew a familiarity with them, with the other families that once laid their heads against the very same walls and wondered how their loved ones would make out. How this conquest of life or death bears such a burden and how long would they have to wait for a yes or no. I philosophized over the concept that since cognition, I knew I would die, and my family would die, and yet it still hurts. I flipped through magazines, looking a pictures, imagining myself as a movie star, traveling coast to coast, a slew of woman hoarding a small hallway for my autograph. I looked at my watch. Big block letters and numbers- "Oct. 15- 2:36 am." I watched a woman walk down the hallway slowly with another elderly woman, the younger woman with one arm around the elder's shoulders, and a hand pressed upon the other shoulder, giving her balance. I watched her as she whispered and smiled, trying to brink light to the bleak elder. I tried to find joy in this humanity, but in the end, everything kept me looking at the double plastic blue doors, with the yellow and black checkered stripe, and the sign saying, "No Unauthorized Access," waiting for a doctor with blood all over his scrubs to tell me my brother is dead.

Instead, a doctor came out in a clean white doctor's outfit, with pens lined neatly in the left breast pocket, a stethoscope around his neck, and he told us my brother is dead. Solemnly he approached us. Mr. and Mrs. Rosen? My mother's already beginning to cry again. I have some unfortunate news. My mother collapses to the ground. She's bawling. My father goes to his knees, wraps an arm around her, he's crying too, but softly, trying to console. The doctor follows as well. I stand a few feet away. I feel the walls close in on me. There are no words I can say to console your grievance. My mother sobs harder. I see Wes walk up to me. He tries to put his hand on my shoulder, but I push it away- I don't want to be touched. Sir, if you don't mind, I need you to come fill out some paperwork. My father nods. Wipes his eyes, looks at me for a few somber seconds, stands up, and follows the doctor down the hallway. My mother pushes herself up, walks to the chair where she was sitting, picks up her purse, walks to the elevator, hits the down button, and goes away. I still haven't moved. Everything has happened too fast. I still can't process it all. I hear Wes behind me. I don't understand what he's saying. I turn. I want to cry. I want to cry, but I can't. I want to say something. I want to break something. I want to hurt something. I want to hurt myself. I want to cry, but I can't. Do you want a cigarette? I just nod, and follow Wes down the elevator.

As we passed the front lobby, and went out the automatic doors, I see my mother's car drive off. The rain has died, but water falls from the roof, and the wind blows hard and stings our faces. The air is cool, and the clouds are beginning to part, showing a half moon, opaquely illuminating the sky. We sit on a bench, under the awing, the lights of the entrance making everything very bright where we were as compared to the parking lot, where soulless men and women walked out of the doors, and gingerly went home. Our seats are blessedly dry. It's late at night, and almost no one is about. I almost feel like Wes and I own this hospital. It is ours. Come in and you belong to me. I am a burning man, and you will become my victim.

Wes leaned back as he smoked, his arm outstretched along rise of the bench. I leaned forward, swaying with the wind, watching my cherry burn. "Will you finish your story now?" I ask him.

He leans forward and looks at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Please. I need anything but this."

He takes a long drag off of his cigarette, and flicks it away. "Where was I?"

I laugh a little. "Being dramatic."

He laughs. "Fuck you. The summer before my senior came, and everything was going well, but Damien started getting very sick, and we didn't know what it was. It's progression was very rapid. He started losing weight, coughing up blood- just nasty, nasty shit. And I got very worried, and so did the rest of his friends. So, he goes to a doctor, and it turns out that he has cancer. Well advanced, and it doesn't look like there's a chance of stopping it. To make the story short, he's fucked. He's going to die. At this point, I fall into a depression. Angry at God kind of shit. I wondered how a person can over and over have life handed to him on the worst side of the stick, and finally make it out, experience the nice side, and then, you know, be dealt the king of hearts. Hey, buddy, I'm glad you made it through the shit and succeeded, here's your reward, death. I got doubly angry at the 'assholes' [Wes does the actual apostrophe thing with his fingers] that make it out there with a silver spoon shoved right up their asses.

"I became very resentful. At everything. At life, at people, at school, at my foster family, even at Damien."

"Why?" I ask looking at him.

"Well," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out his pack of smokes. He offers me one. I refuse. He lights one for himself, and continues. "Well, I don't really know. Maybe because subconsciously I felt like he was abandoning me. I don't know. It's hard, you know, when you're seventeen, jumped from home to home, and the first real friend, the first sense of family you have, dies in only a few years of you knowing them. I mean, this guy was my go to guy. If something happened, I called him up, and he'd talk me through it. If I needed help, he'd do it. If I needed money for a date, he'd lend it to me. You know, he played the big brother role I always wanted in life, and now, he's leaving me, and it's not like he's going on a trip, I mean, he's gone- forever. I think I was afraid. I didn't know what laid ahead of me. I didn't know what I'd do without him. Overall, I was being a selfish little prick.

"So I started pulling away from him. I started ignoring his phone calls. Or when he did call, I made excuses why we couldn't hang out. I told myself that I was preparing for the inevitable. I started drinking a lot, partying, sleeping around with girls at my high school. The funny thing is, people started liking me less. In the past, I never had a problem getting invited to parties, but that period of time, after a while, no one wanted me around. In the end, I was avoiding Damien, and everyone was avoiding me. I was miserable, and depressed. I even stopped going to the 'Foster Care Group' that I was even beginning to lead sometimes.

"Mind you, I didn't stop hanging out with him entirely. Just, it wasn't frequent. It was few and far between, and when we did hang out, it wasn't the same. We barely talked. We hung out at his apartment, because he didn't have the strength to go out after a while. We'd watch a movie, eat, and I'd go home. I don't know. It was odd.

"But then, one day, we were hanging out, and this was close to his death, a strange thing happened. Well, I don't know if it was 'strange,' per se, I just don't know what else to call it. We were eating dinner, at his place, and he tells me how much he enjoys hanging out with me. Instantly I make some off the cuff remark about how it can't be as fun as hanging out with his older friends. When I didn't get a response to this, I look up, and he's got this weird look on his face. Then, he tells me that ever since he's been sick, they don't hang out with him anymore. They say they're too busy, or something. Pretty much making excuses. He said I'm the only person that makes it up to his place. I almost dropped my fork. I broke down right there. I told him how sorry I was. How I lied to him about having shit to do, how I was scared and being selfish. How I just don't understand, and how it's not fair, blah blah blah. You know, I apologized for being an asshole. When I was done, he was smiling so big, and he tells me that it's going to be alright. Everything is cool, he says. And after I'm done crying, just sobbing to myself, he says, 'Funny. I'm the one dying, but you're the one that needs to be consoled.' We just started laughing.

"I hung out with him every day for the rest of his life from that day forward. And on his dying day, I sat next to him. He had no family, no one else there. No other friends. No one from the 'Foster Care Group.' No one except me. And I held his limp hand. His breathing soft. He was pale. So fucking pale." Wes pauses, and coughs awkwardly and looks away. He shakes his head vigorously, and then starts talking again, still looking away. "I'm crying my ass off, and the doctors have given up trying to get me to leave. He says to me, between short breaths, 'Wes, I don't want you to cry. I don't want you to think that God is taking me away from you. I don't want you to think that you've ever had anything ever taken away from you. No, you've only had them put in your life in the first place. If you can remember that, then you can really live your life, instead of just remembering what your life used to be. If you live in memories you're like a photograph, you can be beautiful, but that's all you are, something to look at. Become something useful. Use the privileges that God, or if you don't believe in God, life has put before you. Use them to benefit yourself, and moreover, don't forget that there are many that suffer worse than you and I will ever know, and there are those that will know no suffering, but in the end, remember that there is something to learn from everyone and everything, and there is something we can give to everyone and everything. I have been privileged to know you.' Those weren't his exact words... well, except that photograph part, I thought that was real poetic, so I kept it to memory. But, that was the gist of what he said to me. I'll never forget it."

He stopped right there and looked at me. His eyes were solemn and searching. I broke away from his gaze and looked at the ground. "You got another cigarette?" I ask, finally.

He sighs and leans forward also. "Yeah," he pulls a couple out of the pack from his pocket. He lights both of them at once, and hands one to me. "You know, maybe what Damien said to me held more depth and weight because of the way I lived my younger years, and because I knew the man, but I hope maybe you can see the parallels in what he said."

I shake my head as I blow out a drag. "I see what you're saying, man. It's just hard for me to... I don't know, react to anything right now."

"Don't react." I look up at him, searching his face. "Damien wouldn't want you to react. What he would want you to do, is to find your father and tell him it's okay to cry. It's okay to show that he's hurting. Damien would want you to go to your mother's house and hold her hand. Damien would want you to realize even though you can't cry now, you've already cried, and maybe you will later. What he'd want you to do is to maybe realize that you got to stop thinking so much about your pain and remember you're not the only person affected by Todd dying. Only when you do that, can you really appreciate what Todd did for you in your life, your parents life. Remember Todd. See how he's affecting everyone about you. Think about that." He taps his head. "Think about that. Why is Todd affecting your parents so? Because they loved him just like you. So remember him. Remember what he meant to you, and remember what he meant to your parents, and go to them instead of sitting out here with me smoking cigarettes." For a moment, I didn't know what to say. I just stared at him as he watched me. I'm sure he could see the change of emotions float about my face. Have I been so selfish this long?

I started to cry.