Hitting the Windsheild
Another evening at St. Ben’s is winding down. Just as I am gathering up my tray and leaving, I spot a familiar face partially obscured by a hood pulled over a baseball cap. The profile is surely him, even though I can’t see those green eyes of his. “Lamar?” I say.
He smiles up at me in his shy way. “I saw you there Jonnie, but I didn’t want to interrupt. You were talking to someone.”
I pull out the chair beside him, arranging it so I can sit facing him and settle in. “Well, now I’m talking to you.”
He grins. “That’s nice.”
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks, Lamar. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, things been happening.”
Now that I’m sitting, I can see that he wears a knit cap pulled over his eyebrows under the baseball cap that is under the hood. I blurt, “Lamar, why are you wearing so many hats?”
He leans back to show me his leg under the table. A black brace stretches from his ankle to his upper thigh.
I gasp. “What happened to you?”
“I got hit by a car.”
“What? Oh, my God. Are you all right? Where were you? When did this happen?”
“Crossing the street one night.” Lamar lifts the knit cap carefully to show me a row of black stitches where his eyebrow should be. “I got hurt here. They had to sew me up. And I got a concussion. They told me I have blood on the brain. That’s what scares me the most. I might have seizures. Everybody tells me I’m never gonna be the same.” He shakes his head sadly. “That’s what they keep saying. I’m never gonna be the same.”
Lamar is young, maybe thirty, if that.
“Tell me what happened. Where were you?”
“Up on 12th and Walnut. I was crossing the street to go see about cleaning out a bar.” Lamar told me a while ago that this is his job. After closing time, he goes from bar to bar, night after night, asking if he can clean, and they pay him $20. “When he hit me, I flew up onto the hood, hit the windshield and landed in the street.”
“Did the driver stop? What happened?”
“After he hit me, he stopped. But I think he only did that ‘cause there were people around. I was hurt real bad, so I don’t remember too much. Somebody called an ambulance. That was strange, being in an ambulance. I was up in Sinai Samaritan for two weeks. My foot was all bent in the wrong direction. They did two surgeries on my leg, and I might need more.”
“Are you getting physical therapy?”
“Yeah. I got to go twice a week. Plus they’re checking the blood on my brain. I’m really scared about that.”
“Did they give you medication? For the seizures?”
He nods. “But I can’t fill the prescription. There’s a copay.”
Lamar has been living in a box for three years. He just got into an apartment at St. Anthony’s. He was most likely just in the process of applying for SSI when he moved in. I tell him, “They have advocates at Sinai to help with that. Do you have insurance yet?”
He waves a hand in front of his face, as if to move some fog away. “Yeah, they’re working on that. I don’t really get it.”
“Don’t worry about all that. You just have to concentrate on getting better now.”
“They keep talking to me about insurance and making payments. I’m real nervous.”
Lamar has been smiling the whole time he’s been describing his ordeal. Just a soft smile, perhaps intended to lessen the blow.
“What about the driver?” I ask. “I hope to God he at least got a ticket.”
“Oh, yeah. He was lighting a cigarette, or something, talking on his cell phone, maybe.” Lamar moves his tray out of the way, draws the scene on the table. “I was in the crosswalk, and he was turning.” Following the movements of Lamar’s finger, I gather that the driver was making a left turn. “He was going real fast, blew right through the stop sign. Next thing, I’m hitting the windshield and flying through the air.” He makes a large arc in the air to show how he flew.
“My God, Lamar. Did anyone stop to help you?”
“Yeah. There were people around. I don’t remember anything much because I was like-” he goes limp, acts dazed.
“Did they catch the driver? Did any witnesses talk to the police?”
He nods. “They caught him. I guess some people stood in front of the car so he couldn’t drive off.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares all the time. Every time I close my eyes-” he pretends to sleep, then startles up, eyes wide- “I keep hitting that windshield and flying through the air, over and over. I can’t get any sleep. And my head hurts all the time.” He focuses his green eyes on me. “But I got a lawyer.” He smiles a bit sheepishly and recites a slogan familiar to anyone from Milwaukee. “One call, that’s all.” A law firm specializing in settlements for people injured in car accidents.* I hope he’s not about to get entangled in legal matters he doesn’t understand.
“Well, I hope everything will be all right for you,” I say, keeping my thoughts to myself. No need to add to his worries.
He drops his chin, gazing at his lap. “Everybody tells me, ‘Just remember me when you get all that money.’ I don’t know what I would do with all that money.”
“You just worry about that when the time comes. And if it comes, you take care of yourself first, that’s what you do.”
Lamar seems unconvinced.
“It’s okay to think of yourself sometimes, Lamar.”
He nods.
“You’re still in your apartment at St. Anthony’s, right?”
“Oh, yeah. They don’t kick you out for stuff like this.”
I didn’t think so. “At least you have a safe place to heal.”
Lamar folds his hands across his chest and closes his eyes. “It’s so peaceful and quiet. I was sleeping real good until this.” His eyes open again. “Now the nightmares are keeping me up.”
“That will go away in time. You’ve been through a trauma.”
“A trauma.” He tilts his head, puzzled. “I thought a trauma was like child abuse, or PTSD from the war or something. I never thought about that.”
“Flying through the air and ending up in the hospital with so many injuries would traumatize anyone.” Not to mention coping with life in a box for three years.
“I thought it was just me, messed up in the head. Maybe from the blood on my brain.” He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I was already kinda messed up before the accident. Now I’m more messed up.”
“The difference now is, you’re in a place where people can help you, Lamar. Don’t be afraid to tell people what you need.”
“I hate to be bothering people,” he says quietly.
“Trust me. You aren’t bothering anyone.” I stand. “I’ll be back next week. I’ll look for you. If you see me, come and sit with me.”
He grins. “I don’t know. You’re pretty popular around here. There might not be room for me.”
“Cut it out,” I say. At least this time he didn’t offer to marry me.
*I learned a few weeks later that the case was dropped because the driver had no insurance.
He smiles up at me in his shy way. “I saw you there Jonnie, but I didn’t want to interrupt. You were talking to someone.”
I pull out the chair beside him, arranging it so I can sit facing him and settle in. “Well, now I’m talking to you.”
He grins. “That’s nice.”
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks, Lamar. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, things been happening.”
Now that I’m sitting, I can see that he wears a knit cap pulled over his eyebrows under the baseball cap that is under the hood. I blurt, “Lamar, why are you wearing so many hats?”
He leans back to show me his leg under the table. A black brace stretches from his ankle to his upper thigh.
I gasp. “What happened to you?”
“I got hit by a car.”
“What? Oh, my God. Are you all right? Where were you? When did this happen?”
“Crossing the street one night.” Lamar lifts the knit cap carefully to show me a row of black stitches where his eyebrow should be. “I got hurt here. They had to sew me up. And I got a concussion. They told me I have blood on the brain. That’s what scares me the most. I might have seizures. Everybody tells me I’m never gonna be the same.” He shakes his head sadly. “That’s what they keep saying. I’m never gonna be the same.”
Lamar is young, maybe thirty, if that.
“Tell me what happened. Where were you?”
“Up on 12th and Walnut. I was crossing the street to go see about cleaning out a bar.” Lamar told me a while ago that this is his job. After closing time, he goes from bar to bar, night after night, asking if he can clean, and they pay him $20. “When he hit me, I flew up onto the hood, hit the windshield and landed in the street.”
“Did the driver stop? What happened?”
“After he hit me, he stopped. But I think he only did that ‘cause there were people around. I was hurt real bad, so I don’t remember too much. Somebody called an ambulance. That was strange, being in an ambulance. I was up in Sinai Samaritan for two weeks. My foot was all bent in the wrong direction. They did two surgeries on my leg, and I might need more.”
“Are you getting physical therapy?”
“Yeah. I got to go twice a week. Plus they’re checking the blood on my brain. I’m really scared about that.”
“Did they give you medication? For the seizures?”
He nods. “But I can’t fill the prescription. There’s a copay.”
Lamar has been living in a box for three years. He just got into an apartment at St. Anthony’s. He was most likely just in the process of applying for SSI when he moved in. I tell him, “They have advocates at Sinai to help with that. Do you have insurance yet?”
He waves a hand in front of his face, as if to move some fog away. “Yeah, they’re working on that. I don’t really get it.”
“Don’t worry about all that. You just have to concentrate on getting better now.”
“They keep talking to me about insurance and making payments. I’m real nervous.”
Lamar has been smiling the whole time he’s been describing his ordeal. Just a soft smile, perhaps intended to lessen the blow.
“What about the driver?” I ask. “I hope to God he at least got a ticket.”
“Oh, yeah. He was lighting a cigarette, or something, talking on his cell phone, maybe.” Lamar moves his tray out of the way, draws the scene on the table. “I was in the crosswalk, and he was turning.” Following the movements of Lamar’s finger, I gather that the driver was making a left turn. “He was going real fast, blew right through the stop sign. Next thing, I’m hitting the windshield and flying through the air.” He makes a large arc in the air to show how he flew.
“My God, Lamar. Did anyone stop to help you?”
“Yeah. There were people around. I don’t remember anything much because I was like-” he goes limp, acts dazed.
“Did they catch the driver? Did any witnesses talk to the police?”
He nods. “They caught him. I guess some people stood in front of the car so he couldn’t drive off.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares all the time. Every time I close my eyes-” he pretends to sleep, then startles up, eyes wide- “I keep hitting that windshield and flying through the air, over and over. I can’t get any sleep. And my head hurts all the time.” He focuses his green eyes on me. “But I got a lawyer.” He smiles a bit sheepishly and recites a slogan familiar to anyone from Milwaukee. “One call, that’s all.” A law firm specializing in settlements for people injured in car accidents.* I hope he’s not about to get entangled in legal matters he doesn’t understand.
“Well, I hope everything will be all right for you,” I say, keeping my thoughts to myself. No need to add to his worries.
He drops his chin, gazing at his lap. “Everybody tells me, ‘Just remember me when you get all that money.’ I don’t know what I would do with all that money.”
“You just worry about that when the time comes. And if it comes, you take care of yourself first, that’s what you do.”
Lamar seems unconvinced.
“It’s okay to think of yourself sometimes, Lamar.”
He nods.
“You’re still in your apartment at St. Anthony’s, right?”
“Oh, yeah. They don’t kick you out for stuff like this.”
I didn’t think so. “At least you have a safe place to heal.”
Lamar folds his hands across his chest and closes his eyes. “It’s so peaceful and quiet. I was sleeping real good until this.” His eyes open again. “Now the nightmares are keeping me up.”
“That will go away in time. You’ve been through a trauma.”
“A trauma.” He tilts his head, puzzled. “I thought a trauma was like child abuse, or PTSD from the war or something. I never thought about that.”
“Flying through the air and ending up in the hospital with so many injuries would traumatize anyone.” Not to mention coping with life in a box for three years.
“I thought it was just me, messed up in the head. Maybe from the blood on my brain.” He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I was already kinda messed up before the accident. Now I’m more messed up.”
“The difference now is, you’re in a place where people can help you, Lamar. Don’t be afraid to tell people what you need.”
“I hate to be bothering people,” he says quietly.
“Trust me. You aren’t bothering anyone.” I stand. “I’ll be back next week. I’ll look for you. If you see me, come and sit with me.”
He grins. “I don’t know. You’re pretty popular around here. There might not be room for me.”
“Cut it out,” I say. At least this time he didn’t offer to marry me.
*I learned a few weeks later that the case was dropped because the driver had no insurance.
