Walking to Bobolink
Standing near the door where the guests file in to the St. Ben’s meal hall, I spot Willy and greet him with a hug. He’s a bit stiff, keeps me at a distance, a little stand offish. Behind him in line is a small woman who might be the reason he is acting so reserved. I think back on when I saw her before.
Walking to Bobolink
Last week, the St. Ben’s meal program was so busy they had to open up the section reserved for overflow. I found Willy there, saving the seat beside him at the otherwise packed table for me. He moved his things so I could sit. As we talked, the table gradually cleared out, until only three people were left – myself, Willy, and on the other side of him, that same small woman. She nodded politely when Willy introduced me as a volunteer – that was a new one. He usually calls me his friend.
Willy had turned to me then, and lowered his voice. “Her name is Annie. I been helping her out.” This, from the man who sleeps outside the courthouse. I glanced over at her a few times. She had a soft smile on her face, a dreamy, lost expression. As Willy and I chatted, he turned to Annie a couple of times and spoke in a low voice. I wondered if they were dating, if he was reassuring her that I was just a friend. I’ve seen couples hook up occasionally. Sometimes this is a matter of joining forces to protect or comfort each other in a harsh world, or to share whatever resources they have. Other times it’s some kind of crazy love, because why not? People fall in love on the street just like anyone else. Sometimes it’s a guaranteed drug supply or some other nefarious thing that motivates these relationships. I squirmed inwardly with concern.
I leaned around Willy and peered at his companion. She seemed meek, harmless.
With his typical gentleman’s behavior, Willy gathered up all three of our trays and carried them to the cleaning station. I reached out to shake her hand; her grasp was limp in return. “I’m Jonnie,” I told her. “I’ve been friends with Willy for a while.
She stared somewhere behind my shoulder. “Oh. Uh-huh.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Annie studied the horizon, or something. “Mmm-humm.”
“So, is Willy a friend of yours?”
Eyes still focused on some distant thing, she replied, “Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap, a small woman in a flower print summer dress. Her black hair was braided and coiled over her head. I reckoned her to be perhaps in her fifties.
“Willy’s a good guy,” I told her. “Everybody around here seems to love him.”
She nodded in the way I’ve seen polite church ladies do when they’re not really interested in what you have to say. “Mmm-hmm.”
When Willy returned, she glanced up at him with a sort of lost puppy face, eyes alight with a childlike expression, as though waiting for guidance. He leaned close to speak softly in her ear. Then, he said goodbye to me without his usual hug.
One week later to the day, I’m back at St. Ben’s. Tonight, as soon as I can, I sit with Willy and ask, “Where’s your friend Annie?”
Willy gives me his characteristic wince, as though he’s been stung by a bee. I have grown to love this face, because it always means he’s about to relate an amazing story. I settle in, hand him my brownie (he loves his sweets), and tune into his words.
“Don’t you know, she seemed a little off,” he begins. “Seemed like something was wrong with her mind. I was worried about her being on the street, her being a woman alone and all, so I took her in. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”
“Are you still sleeping behind the courthouse? Did you take her there?” Willy has a hidden spot behind some construction fencing and the statue of Ghandi the city chose to put in a place where nobody sees it.
“Yeah, and I kept her with me during the day. She just didn’t seem like she could function on her own.” He finishes my brownie. “I took her to a social worker to get her some help. She acted like she never had gotten any services before, like she didn’t know anything about it. The social worker found something real strange. She had to call a very specific number and only talk to that specific person.” Here, he points to the table and scribes a mark as if underlining the word specific. He repeats, “Just one specific number, one specific person.”
Sometimes things don’t make sense, and I have to give it time before I can puzzle it out. I raise my eyebrows. “That seems odd.”
He nods emphatically. “Wouldn’t you know,” he continues, “when they got through to the right person, the woman said they have been searching for her for months! She lives in one of those- what is that called? Not a rehab center, but a place for people who have troubles.” He taps his temple.
“A mental health facility? Maybe a group home?”
“Yeah, like that. Way out on 76th and Bobolink. I took her out there on the bus. They were so glad I brought her back. They said she just wandered off one day and they had no idea where she was. For months!”
I tamp down my questions about why there wasn’t transit for this situation, why they let Willy take her home and where he got the bus tickets. “Wow. I wonder where she’s been.”
Willy shrugs. “Who knows? But there she was, a woman by herself staying outside – that’s not good. I noticed her for a couple of days.” He locks eyes with me. “I had to help her.”
“You always help people, Willy. That’s a gift you have.”
He gives me his best benevolent smile, holds my hand between both his palms. And then I once again wonder if he’s really some sort of angel. Sometimes I can smell wine on his breath, but I figure Jesus and the disciples drank wine, so who knows what angels drink? If nothing else, Willy does the best he can to make things better for his companions.
We smile at each other for a moment before he releases my hand.
“So thanks to you, she’s safe and sound now,” I say.
But Willy isn’t one to take credit for such a thing. He deflects my comment. “It’s a good thing she got back. She needs some kind of medicine for her heart. She wasn’t taking her medicine. She could’ve died out on the street.” His eyes tear up, and he loses his composure.
Nobody is serving coffee anymore, we have been talking so long. I go to the urn in the corner, choose the largest mug I can find, and fill it. When I set it in front of him, he says, “That’s why I like you. You’re nice to everybody.”
“So are you,” I tell him.
“Annie acted real scared when I left her. I’m not sure she knew where she was, and she kept saying, ‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,’ over and over, like a little child would say when they’re afraid. I felt so bad.” He sips his coffee. “I’m gonna go see her tomorrow, if I have to walk all the way.”
According to Google, walking to Bobolink will take him two hours and thirty-three minutes. Then he’ll have to walk back to the place he calls home.
Walking to Bobolink
Last week, the St. Ben’s meal program was so busy they had to open up the section reserved for overflow. I found Willy there, saving the seat beside him at the otherwise packed table for me. He moved his things so I could sit. As we talked, the table gradually cleared out, until only three people were left – myself, Willy, and on the other side of him, that same small woman. She nodded politely when Willy introduced me as a volunteer – that was a new one. He usually calls me his friend.
Willy had turned to me then, and lowered his voice. “Her name is Annie. I been helping her out.” This, from the man who sleeps outside the courthouse. I glanced over at her a few times. She had a soft smile on her face, a dreamy, lost expression. As Willy and I chatted, he turned to Annie a couple of times and spoke in a low voice. I wondered if they were dating, if he was reassuring her that I was just a friend. I’ve seen couples hook up occasionally. Sometimes this is a matter of joining forces to protect or comfort each other in a harsh world, or to share whatever resources they have. Other times it’s some kind of crazy love, because why not? People fall in love on the street just like anyone else. Sometimes it’s a guaranteed drug supply or some other nefarious thing that motivates these relationships. I squirmed inwardly with concern.
I leaned around Willy and peered at his companion. She seemed meek, harmless.
With his typical gentleman’s behavior, Willy gathered up all three of our trays and carried them to the cleaning station. I reached out to shake her hand; her grasp was limp in return. “I’m Jonnie,” I told her. “I’ve been friends with Willy for a while.
She stared somewhere behind my shoulder. “Oh. Uh-huh.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Annie studied the horizon, or something. “Mmm-humm.”
“So, is Willy a friend of yours?”
Eyes still focused on some distant thing, she replied, “Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap, a small woman in a flower print summer dress. Her black hair was braided and coiled over her head. I reckoned her to be perhaps in her fifties.
“Willy’s a good guy,” I told her. “Everybody around here seems to love him.”
She nodded in the way I’ve seen polite church ladies do when they’re not really interested in what you have to say. “Mmm-hmm.”
When Willy returned, she glanced up at him with a sort of lost puppy face, eyes alight with a childlike expression, as though waiting for guidance. He leaned close to speak softly in her ear. Then, he said goodbye to me without his usual hug.
One week later to the day, I’m back at St. Ben’s. Tonight, as soon as I can, I sit with Willy and ask, “Where’s your friend Annie?”
Willy gives me his characteristic wince, as though he’s been stung by a bee. I have grown to love this face, because it always means he’s about to relate an amazing story. I settle in, hand him my brownie (he loves his sweets), and tune into his words.
“Don’t you know, she seemed a little off,” he begins. “Seemed like something was wrong with her mind. I was worried about her being on the street, her being a woman alone and all, so I took her in. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”
“Are you still sleeping behind the courthouse? Did you take her there?” Willy has a hidden spot behind some construction fencing and the statue of Ghandi the city chose to put in a place where nobody sees it.
“Yeah, and I kept her with me during the day. She just didn’t seem like she could function on her own.” He finishes my brownie. “I took her to a social worker to get her some help. She acted like she never had gotten any services before, like she didn’t know anything about it. The social worker found something real strange. She had to call a very specific number and only talk to that specific person.” Here, he points to the table and scribes a mark as if underlining the word specific. He repeats, “Just one specific number, one specific person.”
Sometimes things don’t make sense, and I have to give it time before I can puzzle it out. I raise my eyebrows. “That seems odd.”
He nods emphatically. “Wouldn’t you know,” he continues, “when they got through to the right person, the woman said they have been searching for her for months! She lives in one of those- what is that called? Not a rehab center, but a place for people who have troubles.” He taps his temple.
“A mental health facility? Maybe a group home?”
“Yeah, like that. Way out on 76th and Bobolink. I took her out there on the bus. They were so glad I brought her back. They said she just wandered off one day and they had no idea where she was. For months!”
I tamp down my questions about why there wasn’t transit for this situation, why they let Willy take her home and where he got the bus tickets. “Wow. I wonder where she’s been.”
Willy shrugs. “Who knows? But there she was, a woman by herself staying outside – that’s not good. I noticed her for a couple of days.” He locks eyes with me. “I had to help her.”
“You always help people, Willy. That’s a gift you have.”
He gives me his best benevolent smile, holds my hand between both his palms. And then I once again wonder if he’s really some sort of angel. Sometimes I can smell wine on his breath, but I figure Jesus and the disciples drank wine, so who knows what angels drink? If nothing else, Willy does the best he can to make things better for his companions.
We smile at each other for a moment before he releases my hand.
“So thanks to you, she’s safe and sound now,” I say.
But Willy isn’t one to take credit for such a thing. He deflects my comment. “It’s a good thing she got back. She needs some kind of medicine for her heart. She wasn’t taking her medicine. She could’ve died out on the street.” His eyes tear up, and he loses his composure.
Nobody is serving coffee anymore, we have been talking so long. I go to the urn in the corner, choose the largest mug I can find, and fill it. When I set it in front of him, he says, “That’s why I like you. You’re nice to everybody.”
“So are you,” I tell him.
“Annie acted real scared when I left her. I’m not sure she knew where she was, and she kept saying, ‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,’ over and over, like a little child would say when they’re afraid. I felt so bad.” He sips his coffee. “I’m gonna go see her tomorrow, if I have to walk all the way.”
According to Google, walking to Bobolink will take him two hours and thirty-three minutes. Then he’ll have to walk back to the place he calls home.
