November Writing Challenge Day 9

No, you don’t.

This morning I had a conversation that has haunted me all day. I have the feeling it’s going to last a lot longer. I knew part of his story, but not all.

This is the story of a man who changed his life twice.

He was a young man with a good job, working as a team lead in the receiving department of a sizeable company. Benefits, decent wages, and a workable schedule. He had a girlfriend with a baby on the way. Not a glamorous life, but an honorable one.

And then, as things do, something happened. He met the wrong people, went to the wrong places, and began to do the wrong things. He started selling drugs, which led to doing drugs. He lost his job. He sold a sports car for eight pills. (The equivalent of $200). He lied. He stole his momma’s laptop to hock for drug money. She let him come back. He fleeced her for $350.00. She let him come home. He stole his daddy’s pistol, and that was the end of coming back home. He had changed his life. His path was no longer clear.

He lived under a bridge off Broadway, where the KMart used to be. His mother came every day and picked him up and took him to the Pilot to take a hot shower for $7.00. He got so cold at night he wrapped his feet in toilet paper then stuffed them in his shoes. He slept during the day so he could hit the streets at night with his girlfriend. He would do whatever drugs he could get his hands on, and used intravenously for six years out of ten total years of drug abuse. He was so destitute he would hunt discarded cigarette butts, shake the tobacco out, and roll them into a new cigarette. That’s pretty desperate for a smoke.

“Did you ever think about what you were doing?” I asked him as he just looked at me levelly, not ashamed, just matter of fact. The past is just that- the past.

“Yeah. The baby was three days old. He’d been taken from {my girlfriend} because she tested positive for drugs…so he did, too. It was suboxone, which is what they give pregnant women who are users, but she didn’t have a prescription for it, so they took him.”

“Who had him?” I pressed, imagining he was in custody of the state.

“My ole lady’s ex-boyfriends parents. They had the other kid too. And I just thought, ‘Who are you? Somebody else is raising your kid. You’re living under a bridge. You stole from your parents.

“So I called my momma to come get me.”

This is where our conversation ended for the time being.

The Junkyard Cat***, as I affectionately call him, has been clean, sober, and proud for just over three years. He’ll tell anyone his story, knowing that the more people who know, the more people who will keep him accountable. He also wants to help people. He wants everyone better, because it’s a dark, dark road. We had gotten started on the topic because he brought up this guy he knows who has relapsed again. “He had everything give to him. I didn’t have no help. I mean, I know I lived with my dad, but this guy–his parents bought him a brand new car when he got out of jail. They bought him a trailer. He was hanging out with his brother, his brother kept him occupied and out of trouble…he always only lasts three or four months. As soon as he quits hanging out with his brother, he finds trouble.”

“Do you still think about it?” I always wonder how difficult it is to break that kind of habit. I could never start, because I could never stop. I can barely quit Facebook for three months during Lent.

“Yeah, but not like I want to go back to it, just…I remember how it made me feel, you know?” He cocks his head and squints an eye like a junkyard cat would, and I nod, even though I don’t know.

He now has a better job than he had before, driving a company truck, and is a spokesperson and salesman for a family owned company. I applaud him, and I pray that he stays strong. I know he will. He’s in the light. It’s a “No, you don’t, Satan,” kind of story. A battle.

So he’s changed his life again.

I started to begin this by saying, “I know this guy who was homeless at one time.” But he’s not defined by that, and he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves his good job, and the love of the Lord, and his son in his arms at night. He deserves this better life.

***the Junkyard Cat nickname is derived from traits people share with animals. This man isn’t big enough in stature to be a junkyard dog. He’s pretty thin, and looks just a little bit mad all the time. Like an old tomcat who’s seen his share of hard living. The kind of cat who isn’t any particular color, but at one time may have been calico. He’s missing patches of fur here and there. He’s got scars from old injuries and fights, maybe a healing scab or two. His tail is kinda crooked and his eyes are permanently squinted from being suspicious his whole life. One ear is flicked in aggravation, the other is barely hanging on from a scrap years ago. He doesn’t scamper; he slinks, he skulks, he stalks. He saves his energy for when he needs it. His true pleasure is stretching out in the sun and making mice nervous. If a cat could have tattoos, he’d have a bunch, symbolizing where he’s been and how far he’s come.