james

I’ve just brought John from West Springfield to Miravista, the behavioral health clinic in Holyoke, where he worked as a counselor. John seemed pleasant. I told him my son was training to be a therapist and how stressful and gratifying he was finding it. John was sympathetic and emphasized how important his clients were to him. We’ve just pulled to a stop at the front door, where he is still gathering his briefcase and lunch box, when the backdoor swings open, and a bald head with a lipstick kiss tattooed on the front dips into the door frame. John jolts back in alarm. The bald head’s mouth opens and says, “Oh, sorry.”

“Hang on one quick second,” I say. The bald head withdraws from the door frame, and John nervously grabs his briefcase and lunchbox and, now suddenly all awkward, hustles out of the car without saying goodbye or greeting the bald-headed man standing by the open door.

A duffel bag flies across the back seat, landing on my box of candy and poems, followed by a thick leg and the top of the bald head, with its lipstick kiss mark. 

“Sorry about that man. I didn’t see the dude.”

“No worries. You James?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Hi James, I’m Santiago. That other passenger works as a counselor here, I guess.”

James just laughs. 

“Good luck.” He laughs again. I laugh, too. As nice as John was, his panic at the sudden appearance of one of the people he is supposed to be helping outside the controlled environment of a clinical setting strikes me as comical and has me rethinking his credentials, his credibility, or at least the scope of his self-awareness. By now, I’ve started the ride on the app and see that we’re going to Worcester.

“Alright, James, so we’re going to Worcester!” I say. “There’s a phone charger in front of you and water, and there’s candy and poems in the box under your duffel bag there.” James moves the bag.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see that when I threw my bag in there. I was just in such a hurry to get out of there.”

“That makes 100 percent of the passengers I’ve picked up at this address.”

“I bet.” He laughs. “What a shithole. But I needed it. I needed to get clean, and I did.”

“Good for you! That’s impressive.” But before I can elaborate, I hear a mechanical voice from his phone’s speaker.

“Thank you for calling CVS Pharmacy. If you’re a health care provider…” I see James in the rearview mirror. Like me, he is familiar with this menu, even if their options have changed. He starts jabbing the number pad on his screen, explaining that one of the doctors at Miravista was to have called in several prescriptions for his medication, and he’s trying to ensure they will be ready to be picked up by the time we get to Worcester. This takes four different calls to the same CVS. In between the calls, James fills me in.

He’s done time in state prison, not for drugs but for assault charges stemming from a bar brawl. Before that, he’d been a family man, a building contractor, and a functioning alcoholic. 

“But the prison time knocked me on my ass. When I got out, I couldn’t find any work. And it wasn’t like I was too proud or thought I was too good for any job. Fuck, I’d have cleaned toilets, washed dishes. But with my record, I couldn’t get anything. Fuck, I can operate heavy equipment. I’ve got skills. I can make a contribution. Fuck, right?”

“Then my son got in a fight, too. Just like me. A bar fight. Unbelievable, right? But the other guy had a knife. My son got it away, and in the fight, he accidentally stabbed and killed the man. He got manslaughter. Fifteen years.” 

Now James suddenly collapses against the seat back. His freight train of adversity and complaint, derailed by the magnitude of this fact, skids to a stop. It is as though he hadn’t meant for this to be part of the litany, and when it slips out, it hits him as though he’s just heard the news for the first time himself. His eyes fill with tears. His voice cracks and crumbles to a halt.

“I’m sorry, man. It’s just that’s my boy.” 

I think of my boys. I think of his boy. I think of someone, somewhere else, who is  else is mourning their boy, killed, however inadvertently, by James’s boy. There is loss and tragedy in every direction. It makes no sense even to add the modifier senseless. What loss is not senseless? What tragedy is not senseless? 

“You’re good, James. I’m really sorry. I have a son as well—two of them. I can’t imagine going through what you are going through as a father. It sounds stupid, maybe, but I just think that nobody who becomes a parent imagines that future for their newborn child. What a fucking tragedy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, man, I know. There’s nothing to say.”

Indeed, there is not. We back away from the train wreck, entertaining one another with less weighty revelations and anecdotes for most of the ride. Finally, we approach Worcester, and I’m getting ready to exit the highway when he leans forward to correct me. We want the next exit. I double check the GPS to see what address Miravista arranged. James shakes his head.

“Jesus, no. I’ve got no reason to go there. I gotta get to CVS to get these meds. I can’t be without these meds. Can you just take me to CVS?”

“Sure, man. But you’ll have to direct me. I don’t know this area.”

“Yeah, no problem. Just take the next exit. It’ll be quicker for you than where they wanted you to take me.”

“Okay, sure. But what about after CVS? Don’t you need to get home or something?”

James looks at me in the mirror. I have seen this look often enough to have identified it. It is the look passengers give me when they can’t tell whether I’m seriously as naive as I appear to be.

“I don’t have no home, man. But the CVS is just by my old corner. I’ll be fine there. Let’s just get to CVS. You don’t need to worry about me after that.”

“Okay, James, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. The thing is, one of these meds is controlled, and my ID is expired. I need someone to show an ID to pick it up.”

“Sorry, are you asking me if I’ll do that?” 

“Yeah. Well no. I mean, I can ask somebody at the store.”

“No, no. It’s fine, I can do it. No problem. I don’t want you to have to ask someone else. I just didn’t understand at first.”

“Really? That’s great. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Sure, it’s no problem.” I adjust the app so that it won’t give me another ride request. 

When we get to CVS, things are more complicated than we expect. Things at CVS are somehow always more complicated than I expect. I never did understand all of James’s CVS issues well enough to be able to reconstruct them. The good news was there was no issue with my showing my ID. However, there was some issue with the address they had for James on file. There was another issue with how much of one med they had in stock—at least with the dosage prescribed, which James insisted was more than the dosage he usually takes. 

Then there is another issue. There’s a problem with his insurance because of course. This is America. There is a problem with everyone’s insurance. The meds will cost $20. James gets nervous. I wonder if he is going to cry. I ask him if he has it. He shakes his head. He looks down. He mumbles that he had planned to get cash by begging on that nearby street corner he’d told me about. I tell him not to worry. I got him.

 The lipstick kiss tattoo on his head is puckered up and looking back at me.

“Really? No way. I can’t ask you…”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

So with that settled, the pharmacist goes to fill the meds, James and I step away from the counter, and I make my way to the front of the store to get $40 out of the ATM: $20 for the meds and $20 so he can get something to eat later. When I get back, I see James is helping an elderly woman follow the unclear instructions the icy pharmacy tech gave her to locate some product. 

James and I make small talk, joking about CVS, while we wait for his prescriptions to be filled. We get them and head out to the parking lot, where we get his duffel bag out of the car, and he begins to load his paper bags with meds into it. I offer him a couple of waters to take with him, which he takes gratefully. Then I offer him the other $20 bill from the cash machine. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“I don’t know Santiago.”

“Look James, I know it’s weird and it’s hard. But this world is so hard. We at least need to help each other out when we can, you know? That’s all.” James nods. Now, his posture is erect. He looks me in the eyes as he takes the $20.

“Thank you. And you saw it in the store. I help people, too, when I get the chance.”

“You do, James. I see that.”

I take my meditation beads off my wrist and ask James if he would accept them, not because he needs them, not for himself, but for me. That it will make me feel better knowing they is in his hands.

Now, James smiles broadly. 

“Absolutely, I will accept. I will do that for you. I will be honored.” He slips the beads over his wrist.

Without asking if it’s okay, we spontaneously kind of crash into a bro hug together, and then James slings the duffel bag across his shoulder and starts walking out to the street corner.

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