Don't Leave Me
The couple beside me love each other, it’s plain to see. Not that they are overt in their affection, but more because they are depending on each other, counting on the presence of the other to stabilize the world. I can see this just by watching, by noticing how they interact.
She tries to eat, but soon slumps, forehead in hand. He coaxes her to eat just a little more, but she can’t do it. He offers to get her one of the containers they keep by the door for leftovers so she can eat later. She groans. He tries to give her his bread.
“Just drink some milk,” he urges.
The man beside me is husky, and I lean forward a bit to make eye contact with woman on his other side. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?”
She shakes her head. Her hair is cut bluntly, chopped unevenly, and dyed in shades of purple and teal. “I’ve got a peptic ulcer,” she informs me. “I’m not supposed to eat pineapple, but it looked so good.” She stabs at her casserole. “I’m not supposed to eat tomatoes, either. Nothing acidic.”
“Milk will help,” her companion offers.
“That’s terrible,” I say. “I had an ulcer once. It’s awful.”
She sits up at this. “It doesn’t help that I have Crohn’s Disease, too.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to be dealing with,” I say.
“That’s why we’re so glad we finally got into an apartment,” the man tells me. “We’re hoping she can get her diet straight so she can get better.”
The food at St. Ben’s is good, and there’s a variety of offerings, but if you have to avoid gluten or tomatoes or pineapple, it won’t be possible if they are your dinner site every evening. “Are you taking any medications to help?” I ask.
“Can’t afford them,” the woman says in a matter-of-fact tone. She’s not looking for sympathy. A quiet exchange passes between them as she decides to wait in the car for him. After checking to be sure he has his phone, that it’s charged and turned on, the woman pushes up from the table and leaves.
The man beside me looks sad, worried. He eats in silence for a moment or two, then abruptly says, “Up until six weeks ago, we were living in a tent under the freeway.”
I do the math. That would be about the time the Polar Vortex hit the city, dropping temperatures so low that schools and government offices were closed for several days, causing conditions so harsh that even mail delivery was canceled. The police and social service agencies worked tirelessly to clear that particular tent city and others, finding temporary shelter for the people camping in the cold.
“It’s been a harsh winter,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re in an apartment now. Are you in St. Anthony’s?”
“No, we have a place on 28th and Highland. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s all right.” He isn’t making much progress on his food. The phone lights up, and he checks it. “My girl’s in the car now. She needs some quiet.” He rubs his eyes. “I get so worried about her.”
The phone rings. He answers. “Yeah, I’ll be done soon. Do you want me to bring you some food in a box? You sure? Okay. You’re not gonna leave me, are you? I don’t want you to leave me. You sure? You mean that? I will.” He hangs up.
I’m thinking he means she might drive home without him because she needs to go to bed, but that’s not what’s happening. He turns, scooting his chair out so he can face me, ignoring his food.
His blue eyes are clear. He tugs at the bandana tied around his forehead as he says, “Up until three weeks ago, I was using heroin. I couldn’t do this without her.”
He stares at his lap, collects his thoughts.
“I’m glad you have each other,” I offer. “I can see you take care of her, too.”
“I don’t know why she stays with me, after all the stuff I put her through. I try to get a job, but I’ve got a warrant. We were living in Bayfield for a while, and that was nice. It was beautiful up there, really beautiful.” A far-away look in his eyes, he pauses.
To bring him back, I say, “I’ve been to Bayfield. It is beautiful up there.” A small town on the northernmost boundary of the state on the shore of Lake Superior, famous for ice caves in the winter and outdoor recreation in the summer. A vacation town.
“We lived in a tent there, too. You can sleep right on the ice. It was beautiful.” He shakes his head. “I had a job in a grocery store; I was a dime a dozen, worth less than that.” He extends a hand. “I’m Chad.”
I shake his hand, introduce myself.
“Hope I’m not talking your ear off,” Chad says.
“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “It sounds like you might need somebody to talk to.”
The phone flashes again. He checks it. Sets it aside. “When I heard this big factory was hiring in Milwaukee, we came here. I’m a certified machinist.” He launches into some technical talk that I don’t understand, about the finer points of his work. It’s clear he’s intelligent, and most likely has skills. “But, I’ve got that warrant. People don’t want to rent to you or hire you when you’ve got a warrant. That’s how we ended up homeless.”
The man across from us suddenly joins the conversation. This is a social phenomenon at St. Ben’s. The people around you seem not to be listening, but they are, closely. They’ll jump in when they have something to say. “Try Staffing Partners, bro. They hire you no matter what.”
Chad asks the man, “Is that the place on Lincoln?”
“Yeah, by the river.”
“But,” Chad says, “Is that one of those places where you get down there, and they might hire you in a few days?”
“No, no,” the man says. “They always have jobs. They’ll put you to work every day.”
I think about Samuel, who I haven’t see in nearly four months now. He listed Staffing Partners as his employer on his applications, and on his Facebook profile. I remember some things he told me about his work.
I put in my two cents worth. “I know they can give you steady, long term work on some sites, too. But you have to pay eight dollars a day for transit out to the suburbs.”
The man across the table says, “Giving up some of your pay to end up with money in your pocket at the end of the week is worth it.”
Chad leans in. “They hire you if you have a warrant?”
I nod. Samuel is a felon. I know they hired him. And that he was a good, reliable worker on the night shift at Quad Graphics, picking up a pay differential. He had just cleared fifteen dollars an hour the last time I saw him, and I told him he was making more than I am, not counting my pension. And Samuel had just turned 62, so he was collecting Social Security. Things were on the up and up for him the last time I saw him. He was in an apartment with very little furniture. I gave him a good blanket, some bath towels, a rug. We were supposed to have lunch together when he disappeared.
I miss Samuel every time I go to St. Ben’s because he was my friend, and always had a place for me at the table. There’s an envelope from the Social Security Administration waiting for him in Brother Rob’s office, one that will be sent back if he doesn’t claim it by next week. Nobody knows how to contact Samuel, or what happened to him. One day, he just stopped showing up. For the hundredth time, I pray he’s all right.
“The trouble with looking for a job,” Chad is saying, “is that it takes money to do it. You’ve got to have a car to make it to appointments, and gas to put in it.”
“Try Staffing Partners, brother. It’ll get you through until you find something else.” The man across from us stuffs in a set of earbuds and taps the screen on his phone.
Chad’s phone lights up again. He picks it up, reads a message. “I’ve got to go soon. My girl needs me.” But he makes no move to leave. I picture her leaning back in the car, purple hair mashed against a window, trying to rest. Waiting. Hungry and sick.
“It got so bad when I was on heroin that I didn’t know what to do. I was messing up our lives. She wanted me to get off it, and I just kept using.” Chad locks eyes with me. “I tell you, Jonnie, one night I climbed up on the 16th Street viaduct and thought about jumping. I wanted to kill myself for what I was doing to her.” He exhales, wipes at his eyes, as if to rub the image away. “I hope I never get like that again.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.” I touch his arm. “Maybe now that you’re in an apartment, you’ll be able to stay clean. If you have a place to live, you can start to get everything else together.”
He nods. “You got that right. Living in a tent, it was all right. This city is full of good people. Street Angels would stop by all the time and give us food and clothes. And people just driving by would give us food or money. There are a lot of good people in Milwaukee. There’s some bad people, but there are a lot of good people. Like right now.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating St. Ben’s. “This place is keeping us alive.”
The phone rings again. He answers it. “Yeah, I’m done. Let me just box up the rest.” He listens. “Yeah, I’m coming. You’re not gonna leave me are you? Don’t leave. Don’t leave me. I’m coming.”
She tries to eat, but soon slumps, forehead in hand. He coaxes her to eat just a little more, but she can’t do it. He offers to get her one of the containers they keep by the door for leftovers so she can eat later. She groans. He tries to give her his bread.
“Just drink some milk,” he urges.
The man beside me is husky, and I lean forward a bit to make eye contact with woman on his other side. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?”
She shakes her head. Her hair is cut bluntly, chopped unevenly, and dyed in shades of purple and teal. “I’ve got a peptic ulcer,” she informs me. “I’m not supposed to eat pineapple, but it looked so good.” She stabs at her casserole. “I’m not supposed to eat tomatoes, either. Nothing acidic.”
“Milk will help,” her companion offers.
“That’s terrible,” I say. “I had an ulcer once. It’s awful.”
She sits up at this. “It doesn’t help that I have Crohn’s Disease, too.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to be dealing with,” I say.
“That’s why we’re so glad we finally got into an apartment,” the man tells me. “We’re hoping she can get her diet straight so she can get better.”
The food at St. Ben’s is good, and there’s a variety of offerings, but if you have to avoid gluten or tomatoes or pineapple, it won’t be possible if they are your dinner site every evening. “Are you taking any medications to help?” I ask.
“Can’t afford them,” the woman says in a matter-of-fact tone. She’s not looking for sympathy. A quiet exchange passes between them as she decides to wait in the car for him. After checking to be sure he has his phone, that it’s charged and turned on, the woman pushes up from the table and leaves.
The man beside me looks sad, worried. He eats in silence for a moment or two, then abruptly says, “Up until six weeks ago, we were living in a tent under the freeway.”
I do the math. That would be about the time the Polar Vortex hit the city, dropping temperatures so low that schools and government offices were closed for several days, causing conditions so harsh that even mail delivery was canceled. The police and social service agencies worked tirelessly to clear that particular tent city and others, finding temporary shelter for the people camping in the cold.
“It’s been a harsh winter,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re in an apartment now. Are you in St. Anthony’s?”
“No, we have a place on 28th and Highland. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s all right.” He isn’t making much progress on his food. The phone lights up, and he checks it. “My girl’s in the car now. She needs some quiet.” He rubs his eyes. “I get so worried about her.”
The phone rings. He answers. “Yeah, I’ll be done soon. Do you want me to bring you some food in a box? You sure? Okay. You’re not gonna leave me, are you? I don’t want you to leave me. You sure? You mean that? I will.” He hangs up.
I’m thinking he means she might drive home without him because she needs to go to bed, but that’s not what’s happening. He turns, scooting his chair out so he can face me, ignoring his food.
His blue eyes are clear. He tugs at the bandana tied around his forehead as he says, “Up until three weeks ago, I was using heroin. I couldn’t do this without her.”
He stares at his lap, collects his thoughts.
“I’m glad you have each other,” I offer. “I can see you take care of her, too.”
“I don’t know why she stays with me, after all the stuff I put her through. I try to get a job, but I’ve got a warrant. We were living in Bayfield for a while, and that was nice. It was beautiful up there, really beautiful.” A far-away look in his eyes, he pauses.
To bring him back, I say, “I’ve been to Bayfield. It is beautiful up there.” A small town on the northernmost boundary of the state on the shore of Lake Superior, famous for ice caves in the winter and outdoor recreation in the summer. A vacation town.
“We lived in a tent there, too. You can sleep right on the ice. It was beautiful.” He shakes his head. “I had a job in a grocery store; I was a dime a dozen, worth less than that.” He extends a hand. “I’m Chad.”
I shake his hand, introduce myself.
“Hope I’m not talking your ear off,” Chad says.
“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “It sounds like you might need somebody to talk to.”
The phone flashes again. He checks it. Sets it aside. “When I heard this big factory was hiring in Milwaukee, we came here. I’m a certified machinist.” He launches into some technical talk that I don’t understand, about the finer points of his work. It’s clear he’s intelligent, and most likely has skills. “But, I’ve got that warrant. People don’t want to rent to you or hire you when you’ve got a warrant. That’s how we ended up homeless.”
The man across from us suddenly joins the conversation. This is a social phenomenon at St. Ben’s. The people around you seem not to be listening, but they are, closely. They’ll jump in when they have something to say. “Try Staffing Partners, bro. They hire you no matter what.”
Chad asks the man, “Is that the place on Lincoln?”
“Yeah, by the river.”
“But,” Chad says, “Is that one of those places where you get down there, and they might hire you in a few days?”
“No, no,” the man says. “They always have jobs. They’ll put you to work every day.”
I think about Samuel, who I haven’t see in nearly four months now. He listed Staffing Partners as his employer on his applications, and on his Facebook profile. I remember some things he told me about his work.
I put in my two cents worth. “I know they can give you steady, long term work on some sites, too. But you have to pay eight dollars a day for transit out to the suburbs.”
The man across the table says, “Giving up some of your pay to end up with money in your pocket at the end of the week is worth it.”
Chad leans in. “They hire you if you have a warrant?”
I nod. Samuel is a felon. I know they hired him. And that he was a good, reliable worker on the night shift at Quad Graphics, picking up a pay differential. He had just cleared fifteen dollars an hour the last time I saw him, and I told him he was making more than I am, not counting my pension. And Samuel had just turned 62, so he was collecting Social Security. Things were on the up and up for him the last time I saw him. He was in an apartment with very little furniture. I gave him a good blanket, some bath towels, a rug. We were supposed to have lunch together when he disappeared.
I miss Samuel every time I go to St. Ben’s because he was my friend, and always had a place for me at the table. There’s an envelope from the Social Security Administration waiting for him in Brother Rob’s office, one that will be sent back if he doesn’t claim it by next week. Nobody knows how to contact Samuel, or what happened to him. One day, he just stopped showing up. For the hundredth time, I pray he’s all right.
“The trouble with looking for a job,” Chad is saying, “is that it takes money to do it. You’ve got to have a car to make it to appointments, and gas to put in it.”
“Try Staffing Partners, brother. It’ll get you through until you find something else.” The man across from us stuffs in a set of earbuds and taps the screen on his phone.
Chad’s phone lights up again. He picks it up, reads a message. “I’ve got to go soon. My girl needs me.” But he makes no move to leave. I picture her leaning back in the car, purple hair mashed against a window, trying to rest. Waiting. Hungry and sick.
“It got so bad when I was on heroin that I didn’t know what to do. I was messing up our lives. She wanted me to get off it, and I just kept using.” Chad locks eyes with me. “I tell you, Jonnie, one night I climbed up on the 16th Street viaduct and thought about jumping. I wanted to kill myself for what I was doing to her.” He exhales, wipes at his eyes, as if to rub the image away. “I hope I never get like that again.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.” I touch his arm. “Maybe now that you’re in an apartment, you’ll be able to stay clean. If you have a place to live, you can start to get everything else together.”
He nods. “You got that right. Living in a tent, it was all right. This city is full of good people. Street Angels would stop by all the time and give us food and clothes. And people just driving by would give us food or money. There are a lot of good people in Milwaukee. There’s some bad people, but there are a lot of good people. Like right now.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating St. Ben’s. “This place is keeping us alive.”
The phone rings again. He answers it. “Yeah, I’m done. Let me just box up the rest.” He listens. “Yeah, I’m coming. You’re not gonna leave me are you? Don’t leave. Don’t leave me. I’m coming.”