tim

Tim takes a poem and begins to read silently before I can even put the car in gear. “Man. I love this,” he says, “I like to do some reading of my own,” he says.

“That’s great. I love to hear that. So, how’s your day going today?”

“It’s getting better. Everything’s getting better every day.”

As I pull out of the parking lot of his apartment complex, I hear the pages of the guestbook turning, the Sharpie uncapped, its tip scratching on the paper. Tim explains that he’s writing on the last page of the book. He says it’s like his life.

“I like that,” I say. “People will flip through and maybe be surprised to see something on the last page.”

“Right. Maybe you can look at it too,” he says, a faint interrogative hope lifting the tail end of his statement.

“Definitely, Tim. I’m looking forward to seeing it when I get home! But how is writing on the last page like your life?”

“Oh, just I been through some challenges in the past two years. Some real struggles. Well, some challenges. But I’m starting to come out the other side of that. It’s like the end of something and the beginning of something new, you know.”

“I got you. Like the last page.”

“Yes. And just saying that, it feels really good. I got my two girls to take care of now. I’m responsible.”

“How old are they?”

“One and three.”

“Oh man, I remember those ages. Very exciting, very demanding, as I recall.”

“Yes! That’s it.”

“I wish I could say it gets easier. I mean, in some ways, it does. But in other ways, the challenges and rewards just seemed to change. I don’t know.” I glance up into the mirror. Tim is looking at me, nodding.

“I just want to protect them. I grew up in Holyoke, well, first Springfield but mostly Holyoke: near Sargent, bad area. Zombie City, I call it. And I’m gonna tell you something now. I’m gonna be the mayor there one day. Yes sir. I go back around my old hood now, and I talk to the dudes on the street, ask ’em what they need, help if I can, and then I tell ‘em remember my name ‘cause Imma be back to fix this place up.”

“That’s amazing! Whenever I drive in Holyoke I just get the feeling the whole town’s been punched in the head. People just seem dazed.”

“Right. Zombie City.”

Silence for a moment. Then Tim picks up again.

“My grandpa overdosed when my mom was 9. That wrecked her. I got family members have killed each other. My parents were 15 when they had me. My dad was military. He was in Iraq during the Gulf War. Went over there twice. I never saw him, but he called every other day. I’m not saying this to make excuses. I’m just saying this was the reality I stepped into. From there, I know now, I had choices to make and I didn’t make good ones. I grew up around some I don’t want to say bad people ‘cause they was doing bad things, dealing weed, coke, heroin, but I grew up around them and I was a good dude but I was doing bad things too. But I never quite felt right in there. I felt we was made for more than that” 

“That’s a powerful way to put it, Tim.”

We get to Tim’s first stop. It’s a quick one at an ATM. When he returns to the car, he presses a few crumpled bills into my hand and then continues.

“You know, how is it that people in other countries who got less than we do are so so… happy, well, no, not happy but …?”

“Grounded?”

“Yes! That’s it: grounded.”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Tim. I’ve traveled to many places in the world, mostly Europe and South America, a little bit in southeast and east Asia.”

“I’ve got my passport right here!” Tim holds his blue US passport up so I can see it.

“Oh! Cool, so what did you think when you traveled abroad?”

“Oh, I haven’t yet. But I’m going to. That’s why I got my passport. What’d you see?”

“What do you mean? Like, where did I go?”

“No, well, yeah, but more like, compared to here?”

“Oh, I gotcha. Well, I’ve seen some countries more or less as rich as us and others nowhere near. But I’ve never seen as much discontent as in the United States. In the richer countries I’ve been to, people seem more chill because they have basic health care and education. In the poorer places I’ve been to, people seem more chill, maybe because they’re not constantly looking at commercials for a supposedly perfect life they’ll never be able to have. I don’t know if that’s right. But you know what I mean? It’s like we don’t care for ourselves or each other in this country.”

“This country’s a flea market,” Tim says. “That’s why I love what you’re doing with these poems and things. Like you’re changing the game in your own way. I love that, man.”

“Thanks, Tim. It means a lot to me that you get it. So what’re you going to do when you’re mayor?”

“People ain’t gonna like it. I’m gonna fix it from the inside. But the people on the inside, I mean the people who are the problem ain’t gonna like it. I know that because I was one of ‘em. They can’t even imagine a different way. Anybody who comes and is like I can show you a better way but you gotta stop the bad shit you’re doing, they just laugh or run em out. But I’m from the inside so I can prove there’s a better way.”

“That sounds amazing, Tim. I believe you could convince them!”

“Maybe. I’m gonna try. You know who run Holyoke now? Little boys with money. These little boys coming up in the gangs. Well, the gangs not so much anymore. That was more when I was there. But it’s still the same: gangs or no gangs, it’s little boys with money. I know because I was one of ‘em boys. Or I was supposed to be, but it didn’t sit with me. I’m not a fighter, I felt something more.” We come to Tim’s second stop, a liquor store. He runs in and a few minutes later comes out with a two bottles of water: one still, one sparking. Back in the car, he continues.

“Like I said before. There should be something more. My boys’d talk shit to me when I’d say that. Or, especially, when I got with my Shorty. And I’ll be honest, I did fight people, fucked some dudes up. I’m ashamed of that now. I thought I had to do that. But now I think different, now I think I was just giving their opinions too much power. Now, since I moved up here to give the girls a better spot, they talk to me like ain’t you tired of the same girl? You always working or home with your girls. Don’t you get annoyed? And I just laugh now and say, nah bro, I’m straight. I work, my Shorty stay at home with our girls I make sure everyone got food and clothes and a place to stay and sometimes, if I can, money for nails and hair, and I’m straight. She happy. The girls happy. I’m happy. We all good.”

“That’s so great to hear. What an impressive and inspiring young man you are, Tim.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I’m just trying to be a good dude.”

“I’d say you’re succeeding at that. But I know, for me anyway, that’s a never-ending process, one step, one decision at a time.”

“Right, right. That’s it. Every moment.”

“Yes.”

“Hey,” Tim says, “I’ve got a book I want to give you. It’s called The Four Agreements. It’s by Don Miguel Ruiz. It’s like a Toltec book.”

“I’ve never heard of it. Sounds interesting. But I don’t want to take your copy, man.”

“No, no. It’s cool. It’s not expensive. I want to give it to you, if you’ll take it.”

“Of course, I’d be honored. Thank you so much.”

“Of course!”

We get to back to Tim’s house.

“Wait one second, I’ll be right out.”

Tim dashes into the apartment. A few minutes later, he comes out, holding a book. I step out of the car.

“Here you go.”

“Man, thank you so much.” I extend my arm toward him, leaning in with my shoulder. Tim clasps my hand and we exchange a warm hug. “It’s been an honor to meet you. I hope to see you again.”

“Thank you. Likewise. Likewise. And I hope so, too.”

I’m still standing by my open car door as Tim walks back toward the apartment, where two little figures have appeared behind the screen door.

“Daddy! Daddy!” They squeal and laugh. “Daddy!”

I laugh out loud. “There you go, man. Do your thing! ‘Daddy, Daddy!’” I echo the girls.

With a little hop, Tim’s walk becomes a jog toward his girls. More squeals.

Back home, opening the book that he gave me. I see that he’s underlined many passages, and near some of these underlined passages, he’s written very neatly in block capital letters, a little comment, or a gloss. At the top of one page: “Make yourself happy and don’t let anything change or make you otherwise. You need to make a loving start of the family movie for the girls to continue.” 

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