With each step I took, my shirt got heavier, and my eyes burned a little stronger. I could see the fountain at the end of Queen Street, but the humidity stretched the walk by a few extra steps. Six o clock in early August was no time to head to the waterfront but I had been in the house the whole day paralyzed by procrastination.
On the edge of the harbor, there was a park with a pier. It was a high- traffic area for runners, street performers, tourist, and the homeless. There were sprinklers nearby where parents let their kids run wild, and a half mile pathway lined the harbor’s edge. I wasn’t going anywhere near those places.
Tucked in the back of the path were squares of benches, all facing each other, shaded by a canopy of trees. It was a place families could take a break from the sun and a place I enjoyed sitting.
I came here to daydream and think through the issues that every man faces. Sometimes I’d answer emails, or people watch. Writing in my spare time was a joy, and I have found watching how people interact, how they talk, how they move, offered chances for original ideas. Placing yourself in their shoes was a writer’s trick.
All the bench areas were taken except for the end square. From my experience that’s where the homeless usually camped and hung out, but all four of the benches were empty. I took the one facing the water. It was much cooler under the trees, and once I sat down, I felt so much better. I took my hat off and used the cloth outside to absorb the sweat off my face. Then I opened my notebook, placed my phone inside it to hide the screen, and give it a flat surface to rest on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man holding a guitar grab a bag from a group of benches and walk over to my square. He had long grey hair tucked behind his ears and a goatee surrounded by 5 o’ clock shadow. His teeth were brown, and a bottom one was missing. He wore a white shirt, with blue swimming shorts and flip-flops. “Hey man, you’re cool, but this is my bedroom for the night. You’re welcome to stay if you like.”
I looked up from my phone and smiled “It’s all good man. I won’t be here long.” He looked harmless; I was a much bigger man than him. I didn’t have any money on me, and I wasn’t about to let a homeless guy move me off my spot. There were no other open benches. We could have a standoff or cope with each other’s presence for a while.
He tucked his guitar under his legs, placed his bag under his head, and closed his eyes. I went back to reading my emails when he said, “You got to watch this stuff close. If I don’t have this guitar under me, will be at a pawn shop by this time tomorrow.”
“Oh, so they’re that good”
“They’re sneaky man,” He smiled.
I went back to finishing my emails and then I started going through notes with a pen. The man was restless, tossing from one side of the bench to the other. I kept raising my eyes to check on him.
He sat up from the bench and stretched his arms. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but what are you doing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I write in my free time.”
“Like books? Stories? Poems?”
“I just finished a book, but I think sellability is going to be an issue.”
“Is it any good. I mean, I’m sure it is.”
“Sellability and good aren’t the same things anymore.”
The man sat down on the bench to my left.
“I’m Willy Richards by the way.”
“Nick, nice to meet you man.”
He asked what my book was about. I hate talking about it, or even telling people I’m writing one, because it makes me feel like a pretentious douchebag. There are tons of hacks running around the world saying they’re writing a great book, only for them to be proven wrong. But he was homeless. What could hurt? I gave him a basic premise of the plot and talked the importance of writing about our present time. These days, books are written for TV and movie deals. Stories meant to entertain, but not open our eyes.
“Nick I couldn’t agree more. I go down to the library a couple of times a week – really depends on how clean my shirt is.”
“Why” I interrupted.
“Because they will throw my ass out. But I go in there, and I love to read. Camus might be my favorite. I read The Stranger – it dragged me deep into absurdism.”
I was taken aback and a little amused. I’d never in my life heard a homeless man go philosophical. “Do you agree with absurdism?” I asked.
“I think Camus said the meaning of life is to do things that stop you from committing suicide.”
“I agree. I left my comfortable job for that reason. I’ve never been suicidal, but I’ve written about it. It’s kind of fun to play characters when you write. Why would someone want to kill themselves? Or hurt another person? Why do people cheat? What drives mammonist to crush everyone beneath them? How do people reach the conclusion and decisions that shape their path?”
Willy leaned forward “It’s because they want to feel alive. They invent reasons to be miserable.”
I crossed my leg and sat back on the bench “Why do you think people do that?”
“Because life is suffering, Nick. We’re all here to suffer but we try so hard to be happy. It’s not our default.”
“So, Willy… you think we should just suffer.”
“No,” he said. “We should be grateful. I haven’t eaten today. I’ve got medical problems. My family is dead. I am homeless. But I am still grateful.”
Looking Willy in the eyes I could see his sincerity in what he just said.
“Are you a Christian?” I asked.
“Nick, I quit trying to figure it out. All I have is the here and now. I only control my decisions. I stopped wasting my time – it’s not worth it anymore. I do pray, though. But do you know why people pray?”
“Why?” Willy stood up, stretched his arms above his head, then sat back down. “People pray because it decompresses them. It gives them hope. It creates a sense of relief and comfort.”
“I think God answers prayers, Willy.”
“Nick I am not against God. You know why America is such a great country?”
I nodded.
“Because Christians are about love. The Old Testament is about repenting and sin. But the New Testament – it’s about love and redemption. Jesus showed mankind that through love, he would bear the pain to complete his mission. He will carry his cross. That’s why life is suffering. We’re here to complete a mission. To carry our cross.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat and listened to the man. At this point, I knew he didn’t really care what I had to say. He just needed someone to share these ideas with.
“Do you think you have a cross to carry, Willy?”
“No. I’m addicted to heroin. Maybe my cross is beating this addiction. Everyone in my family was on drugs. I just think it’s a disease. People stigmatize it, but I’ve been to rehab three times. I’ve been clean for 3 days now. I got some methadone from the clinic to help.”
He paused, then dipped his head into his lap before lifting it and running his fingers through his hair.
“Yeah man… I was clean for a year. I had a wife. We were going to have a baby. I was working at a grocery store in North Charleston. One day, I found a baggie on the ground. I went straight to the bathroom, checked to see if it was heroin or cocaine. It was cocaine. I dumped out the whole bag out and snorted it right there.
He let out a breath and wiped his eyes.
“Took two months for my wife to leave. Two months after that I was right back here.”
I always ignored the homeless. But hearing Willy’s story showed me what makes the difference between surviving failure and be destroyed by it is: a support system. I’ve stumbled plenty but I never had to face addiction. That alone kept my life from unraveling.
“I am sorry that happened man,” I said. “That one random moment, finding that baggie, changed everything for you.”
Willy dropped his head, then rubbed his hand over his face.
“I believe in free will.” he said, “but drugs do something to your brain. It’s like… you lose your free will after a certain point. You don’t get to choose anymore.”
I wanted to go over and comfort him, but I didn’t know him well enough to get that close.
“How do you make money?” I asked.
“I play guitar,” he said. “And there are some local charities that help out.” He slid his sandal off and lifted his foot. His toes were purplish, with a deep gash underneath. “I need to get my toes cut off. They hurt like hell, but I’m waiting to do it.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Poor circulation,” he said. “Doesn’t heal right.”
“That pain must be horrible.”
He nodded and slipped his flip-flops on. “You ever read Carl Young or Jung? I always mess that name up.”
“Yea, the shadow self,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, tapping his chest. “Drugs are my shadow self.”
I glanced at my watch. He asked what I was doing tonight. I lied and told him I was picking up my mom from church, just to avoid things going deeper.
“Willy, you’re a smart, well- read guy. I hope things get better for you man.”
“If they do, they do. If they don’t, I will still be grateful,” he smiled. “I love history and philosophy. I’ve read Kant, and Marcus… Aurelius? That Roman guy. Meditations is one of my favorites.”
“I’ve read “Meditations too but the way people treat stoicism like a religion turned me away.”
“I agree,” he smiled. “But Marcus Aurelius didn’t even want that book printed.”
“I didn’t know that” I said, standing and stretching.
“Well Nick, I think I am gonna go. Not sure where, but I got to find something to do.”
I smiled “If I don’t see you again, good luck on your journey. You seem to be genuine guy.”
He thanked me, grabbed his guitar, and walked towards the pier. I headed the opposite direction, back towards my car.
As I walked, I wasn’t sure how much of what he’d told me was true. But it didn’t matter. His knowledge alone was impressive for a man who lives on a park bench and he didn’t ask me for a dollar.
A few days passed, and I kept thinking about my conversation with Willy. I couldn’t decide if it had been a strange coincidence or synchronicity. I have spent so much of my time ignoring the ones who love me. Putting off important things. Crying because I am not as rich as I would like to be. When the whole time I should have been grateful for the things I have. It felt right to go back. I decided to bring him some canned goods and check if to see if he was still clean.
I stopped at a grocery store and bought noodles and canned meat, stuff he could eat without a stove. It was a cooler day, which I hoped would give me the patience to walk the park long enough to find him. I passed by the benches where we first met, but there was another homeless person sleeping. I walked to the pier. No sign of Willy.
I took the long way back to the car, following the waterfront path instead of Queen Street, hoping to spot him on one of the benches. I passed women feeding birds, picnics in the grass, and tourist posing at the pineapple fountain. Still no sign of Willy.
It didn’t seem like I’d find him today, so I headed back to the car. I walked through a neighborhood with cobblestone streets lined with attorneys’ offices. As I climbed a small hill, I saw those blue swimming shorts. He laid across the steps, his body limp, his eyes barely open, head nodding back and forward.
I decided to approach.
“Willy, what’s up man?”
He turned his head slowly in my direction, a puzzled look on his face.
“It’s Nick. We talked at the park the other day.”
He then turned his head away again and kept nodding. I didn’t see the guitar – just a worn-out backpack sitting by his leg.
I set the bag of groceries beside him.
“When you come back to earth here is some food for you. Don’t let anyone steal it.”
I gave his leg a soft tap and walked away.
Maybe Willy was right. Maybe really, he doesn’t have the free will to say no to drugs. As I walked back to my car, I thought about the people who have beaten addiction. You usually know within ten minutes of meeting them because they will tell you and then remind you every ten minutes after that.
I couldn’t help but think how they did it. Was it therapy? Support groups? A lot of addicts who have been to rehab know the script. They use it to convince people they’re clean, right up until they aren’t. Or maybe they found something better. A wife. A child. A God to worship – something to give their life too. Something that will replace the high.
That had to be it. But Willy didn’t believe in God. Finding him doesn’t seem likely at this point. And he already had a wife and wanted a baby, and that hadn’t saved him either. I guess all that’s left is for him to find something, anything, that gives him a reason to wake up. A purpose.
Maybe Willy failed to see the contradictions he presented to me that day. Camus said purpose keeps us from suicide. Jesus said carry the cross. Maybe, for Willy, they’re the same thing. Maybe his cross to carry is to beat the addiction. Maybe the only thing stopping him from suicide is heroin.
It’s almost like a battle of good and evil. A man possessed by a demon tempting him through thought twenty-four hours a day. Meanwhile the only way to win is to carry his cross and beat addiction. He can’t take up God’s task without letting go of what he currently lives for. Only accepting the mission can save him.
It hurt to walk away from him on those steps. But over-helping is a kind of sickness, too. One that steeps into your life and bleeds you dry. Willy has a good head on his shoulders and a mind full of demons. But he still smiles, still prays, still thanks the world – while we all complain for more.