JOHN
The cops looked at me like I was nuts
"No, really" I said "he wants to go to
detox. I called the Mobile Assistance
van. It's coming."
The cops looked at me not only like
I was nuts but a traitor
as well, faintly distasteful,
as if I had declared myself a Red
to a hall full of Republicans
Then all the cops looked at their shoes
and I said: "He'll be fine. I'll
wait with him."
So they moved on, let him
lay there blacked out on the
floor of the bus station
where I work as a security guard.
John was a Greyhound regular.
We had gotten
acquainted night
after night, he
told me about himself:
hailed from Champagne, Illinois
Used to train bird dogs
in Mississippi and Louisiana
Had a daughter, Mary Beth, down in Florida
who told him: "Daddy, I know
you're drinking yourself to death.
Why don't you at least come home
down here to do
yourself in with the family
who loves you. Please
come home
You've never seen your
grandchild"
"But she knows I won't do
that," he'd smile with
bitter pride, his blue eyes
hard set in a sideways look
"She knows her daddy too
well. I'd never go down
there in the shape I'm in
I'd never let them see me like this"
and I couldn't really blame him
He was a mess
Tonight he stumbled up to my post
showed me a pint of vodka, gulped
down about half, sank to
the ground next to the turnstiles and
groaned: "Take me to detox! I can't
do this anymore. I'm too old for
this shit" and I guess he meant
for laying down in his own filth
on bus station floors
getting booted out by cold cops
and, gently, I agreed: "You're too
nice a feller, John. You
deserve better"
and could tell by a faint glimmer
in his eyes that he thought so too
So I called the MAP van
got a tape recording, left a message:
"This is Security Officer
in the Greyhound bus
depot; I've got a man
down here name of John who wants
detox. We're by the turnstiles
Please come"
"Did'ja call? Are they comin?"
he drawled, stirring on the ground
"On their way, John" I smiled
And the wait began
By now, my shift had ended
and it was late
Foot patrols of cops shuffled
by in twos, saw him on
the ground and barked
"Front and center, John!
On your feet!"
and I called out sadly, not
to antagonize "We're still
waiting for that van, officers"
and they smiled stiffly
and sized me up and found me
strange
and every twenty minutes or so
just to reassure him, I called
the tape machine and left
my message in a loud voice
The minutes ticked past and John
dozed and woke and I kept
thinking all the while of his
daughter Mary Beth, of her
child whom John had never seen
and of how strangely miraculous
life is, me a non-relation
with her daddy lying dead drunk
and close to death at my feet
and she in her home somewhere in Florida
aching to see her father
and for him to see her baby
and not even know that all
this was going on
that the love in her heart
had set all this into motion
among men, strangers
to each other many thousands
of miles away
After an hour
I began to fret
knowing how drunks are
apt to change their minds
at the snap of fingers
and I'd say "John, hold on
They're coming" and he'd say
"I'm a man of my word.
I said I'm quittin and I'm quittin
Besides, I'm too good a person
to die like this. Right?"
And grinned and I winked
"That's right" and could tell that he
was holding tight to my regard
for him, and to the love of Mary Beth
sometimes that's all it needs to
divert a soul from destruction
the love of a child
the esteem of a neighbor
but to complicate matters
the relief on my shift
came by to gripe about
some pay check problem
he was having, and he
kept tugging at John's
jacket, and prodding him
with his toe to get up
and nothing I'd say stopped him
and I thought John'd
stumble to his feet, stagger
off into the night but
he only came to, stood up
walked ten feet over to the
pay phones on the wall
and laid down, and he said
"I told you, I'm a man
of my word. I said I'm going
and I'm going. I want to see
Mary Beth for it's too late"
and took out his vodka bottle
"This stuff's
killing me. I'm gonna finish it
off before it finishes me off"
and he finished it off, down
his throat, with a great shudder that
passed up and down his body
dimming his blue eyes
I kept the pressure on. Every
ten minutes left a message
Time crawled through the station
a lazy snake. And a crazy old man
with a wax cup gripped in his hand
spun in slow circles by
the ticket agent's
empty booth
John watched me
through the one-way
mirrors of his eyes
the blue magnifying
his hurt - he was all wounded
inside his scabrous skin -
and to their glassiness
clung a fragile film of hope
that a fly's feet could have torn-
at one point, he seemed to sink
like a boy drowning in a pond, so I
calmly reached down with
a smile, pulled him up
said : "I've got a feeling
Stay here, with me. Help is
coming" and he croaked
"You're good…good man
My friend. I wanna go
Can't take this…no more"
And sick, rolled on his side
and passed out
And another half hour blacked out
John whimpered, coughed
the turning man turned
I didn't think they'd show
when a brawny guy with a
shaved head boomed: "You
called us?"
I sure as hell had!
"Man, O man, I'm glad you
came. Here's John right here"
The man knew him
Reached down with his big hand
grabbed a bunch of filth
tugged and shouted
"You want detox you
gotta get on your feet
You gotta help. Otherwise, you
stay!"
John made an amazing effort
"He's not trying" the MAP man
growled
"John! Remember what I said
People love you John. You're a good
man John. You gotta find your legs!"
And John found them
Enough that we could drag him
with a long long string of drool
hanging from his chin
up the escalator
to the van, where we
laid him out in back
like a rug, and John
smiled up at me framed
by a windshield filled with streetlights
and said: "Thank you"
and what could I say?
I put my arms around him.
"Goodbye my friend. Goodbye. Good
luck. I love you, guy"
and the MAP man said
"John, we're gonna let
you sleep six hours and then give
you a bowl of soup
and then you sit in a chair
Right?"
"O.K." said John
The van doors slammed
The rooflight spun and pulled away
The city wept
Peace to you, my brother
I hope you are rescued
I see you
on your way to
Mary Beth, on a bus
proud and scared
of your hope
and best of all, you
don't even remember
my name
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