Open mic 1

10/25

Leviticus plays the sax

A day completely consumed with ongoing conversations with A in a very drunk state. And uncertainty as to what to do.

Tonight’s surprise for open mic’s a jazz sax player named Leviticus. Even though he’s usually a subway player, he dropped by on his way to a gig at Lincoln Center with Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center All Stars. On his way back to Harlem, he stops by West-Park. Like something out of a time machine back to 1950’s Village, Joel does his beat rap and then Leviticus gets up and tears us apart with his soprano sax.

 I’ve got my own set. Drawn from the week I’ve been living. Two very carefully selected songs and then maybe my best Lonesome I could cry ever. There’s a lot on my heart. A lot on my mind. Irish Pat tells me I was particularly poignant tonight. He looks at me as if he knows what I’ve been singing about. The beauty about music is you can tell the whole truth without having to get dragged down into details, into facts. And the people who need to know, know.

RL has Alex on fiddle and Marc on guitar. Time for his Stay awhile...

The night ends with a question as to whether we need to take an hour subway ride or a $40 cab ride to an outer borough to rescue A. It’s not the money or time. It’s my emotional exhaustion. But I speak to A on the phone. Would you come? A asks. Would you really come? 

Of course I would.

Then it’s OK. I’ll be OK. You don’t need to.....

I breathe a sigh of relief. 
Time to head home.

Alex, Marc and RL

For awhile

10/22

I stand on the steps  with A. It’s a cool October  morning. And I’m missing fall back home in southwestern  Pennsylvania. The taste of  air crisp as a bite into a fall apple. The smell of cinnamon  and nutmeg in outdoor cider pots over fire. The last ears of fresh corn before winter at  roadside stands. We enjoy a moment together before  A heads off for work.

Before the day is over, there are more and more messages from A. Increasingly incoherent.

As Jamie and I are waiting to meet mayoral candidate Bill DiBlasio, seemingly an actual progressive candidate, concerned about people on the margins, I get the worst call yet.  A is in a park somewhere. With homies, A says. Missing keys. And shoes. I determine that the park is across the street from A’s apartment. I tell A to forget the keys. Just go home. Just go home.

I feel a deep sadness coming over me. All that work yesterday…..  Yes, it works. But I hear the in my head the two words at the end of Leonard Cohen’s Tonight Will Be Fine that always hit you like a punch to the stomach:  …….for awhile.

Yes it works. For awhile.

It works

The new angelito

In the chapel, voices are raised.  There is an argument, to say the least, in process. A is demanding that B go to Harlem and buy drugs. A is saying  that B had kept A high for 4 to 5days running and now has cut off the supply. That B knows what A needs just to taper off.  That this is deliberate, intentional action on B’s part to hurt, to control, to have power over. A is increasingly agitated. B is stoic, or perhaps just numb. There is disagreement over who made the purchase of drugs they both have been using. How could B do this to A after

all A has done for B? How could B claim to love A and not give just a hit to taper down?

In the midst of this, Angelo the artist walks in. With a woman. Ella esta una artista muy famosa de Argentina, says Angelo. Bienvenidos,  I  say. The artista has picked up on the vibe in the chaole. So she asks, Hay una reunion aqui? And I respond, No hay una reunion aqui. Por favor a mirar las pinturas. They are measurably short in their visit. On their way out, Angelo gives me a new angelito, this time on a key chain, to watch over me.

This negotiation will continue throughout the afternoon. I leave to host  a meeting of the executive committee of the Interfaith Assembly  on Housing and Homelessness. Like every other group I’m involved with, the Assembly has its back against the wall financially, as it has for its whole existence. Only now is worse. The population of homeless has increased by 20,000 in the last year alone. We can no longer depend on denominational hierarchies for support. The answer, for all of us, is old school community organizing, grass roots up. Build strong local networks that are not dependent on outside funding. As IAF says, serious money locally raised.

The meeting has ended. Meanwhile, stakes are being raised. A and B are now in the sanctuary. A is arguing that if B will not buy drugs, then A will need to go drinking, just to take edge off. Just to be able  to make it to work tomorrow. A has not slept in 4 days. A offers to jump B’s bones if B will only buy the drugs. Or at least turn over a phone number. (How does this relate to the contentions  about who bought the drugs? If A knew how to get them why is A asking only for  a phone  number? Why not just go buy the drugs?) The pleading, the desperation is painful. Never experienced anything quite like this before. I have no idea what to do. I can’t condone sending B out to but drugs. Can’t tell A to go drinking. I suggest the emergency room. A rejects that out of hand.  They’ll put me in triage. Say this is drug procuring behavior. I only want to just taper off, you know. 

Yes, that will work, I think. Sardonically.

A ready to walk out. No idea what to do. I ask A to come onto my office. A needs a guarantee that I won’t contact 9-11. I agree. A says its either/or. I say, I don’t know anything about this. Why not just choose not to? Like day by day? A says, you just don’t understand.

So if you go out drinking, I’ll be very sad, I say. So now I can’t disappoint you says  

NO , I say, I will be sad. But you will always be welcome here.

The sense of what I do has been growing in me for awhile. I remind A that I am not a psychiatrist or a psych farm.  I’m  only a minister. And I ask if we can pray.

I start and A says that A is just not able to focus. So I take A by the hands and start again.  Say aloud all I believe is good about A. Invoke A’s favorite saints. Ask for strength. Comfort. Protection. I take out my water from the River Jordan. Make the sign of the cross on A’s forehead. Take the angelito I carry with me daily out of my wallet and give it to A.

And I look. The tension is gone from A’s face. The anxiety relaxed to almost nothing. The manic behavior stilled. Desperation quieted. A asks to sit alone awhile.

In the middle of all this, I get a text from Amanda. I respond,  Can’t right now. Am casting out demons. No. Seriously.

I go visit with a friend. Tell the story of my day. The friend asks what I did. I say, I used my holy water. The laying on of hands. And I prayed. 

My friend says, You’re putting me on.

I say, no I’m not. Seriously. And you know what? It works.

My friend  looks at me. Laughs. Says, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said to me. Of course it does. It works. Ha!

When I g back, A is sound asleep. First time in days.

And I think, it works.

No champagne today

7/2

Walking down 86th, I see a familiar form. Sean tucked under the railing against the wall again. As I approach, I see he’s asleep. Flies buzzing. This time I don’t feel anger. Just defeat. I wake him, Sean, you can’t be here. 

I know. 

You have to go. Don’t make it hard for me, OK?

I have to stay here until dark....accident...don’t know why....until dark...

Sean, that’s like 8 hours. You can’t lie here for 8 hours....

OK, OK just give me a few...do me a solid...

OK, I have an appointment. I’ll be back in a hour or so. Help me out, OK?

Call Reachout. They’ve already been here. Sent a doctor. Says it’s not an emergency. So....they’ve done their bit for the day. I also talk about Rob. His desire for a solution, a plan. They’ll keep their eye out.

I’m thinking about madness. How when you enter into that world, it’s hard to get out. You feel the earth has shifted, nothing stable. Unsettling. But equally shaking is the world of addiction. Some of my best counselor /therapist friends won't go near it. All he has to do is accept the help that is being offered. But he can’t. Why? That’s a mystery. My tradition doesn’t allow me to judge. Jesus didn't give me the gift of casting out demons. But I also have to set boundaries.

When I come back, Danielle is here. Just as Stephen comes in, he and Danielle tell me Sean is still there. But a young couple has come in to talk about getting married. Interfaith. Catholic and Jewish. The young man is a lineman for Con Ed. A pole climber. Sounds pretty exciting to me. I explain how I, like a rabbi, am not a mediator (between the couple and God, like a priest) but a facilitator, like a rabbi.It is the couple who marry each each other. And friends, family, people who love you can carry the Jewish parts of the ceremony. The young woman seems to be relieved.

Back to the reality at hand. Stephen explains the NO. I still don’t get it. Not his time. But NO it was.  And is. And shall remain. Can we get a plan B? Yes, but time running short. The existential realities are closing in. As we are talking, a woman walks in. Excuse me, I live down the street. There’s a terrible smell wafting down the street. I saw a man....there’s a terrible smell...

I shake my head. Yes, I know. We’ll take care of it. I know what happens next.

Time for the yellow gloves. Stephen heads out to get bleach. I get the gloves. Damarius comes with us. We get to the site. Damarius says, You think he’s coming back for his clothes? 

Not these, I respond. No one else is making a move. So it’s me gathering the soaked cardboard, blasted clothes, Damarius opens the large black bag. I carry it off. Stephen follows  quickly behind with the bleach.

I look at Damarius. So anything I ask you to do now, you gotta do, right?

Shakes his head yes. He looks somewhat amazed. I say to Stephen and Damarius, lifting up my hands, That’s the boundary, right there. When we get to yellow gloves time.

So that’s that part of the equation for the day. But no champagne on the horizon. Not today.

Most of the bad stuff we do to ourselves

9/19

One of my periodic visitors comes in. One who’s speech is almost unintelligible. I always hate the part where he rolls up his pant leg to show swollen leg and its bandage. It is only ever going to be what I have in my pocket, nothing more. It’s a common ritual, a bad idea.

My friend Rick Ufford-Chase, fresh from his victory at the Presbyterian Mission Agency Board Meeting in Louisville, where the Stony Point Center (http://www.stonypointcenter.org/) was given a chance to take control of its own property, has come down for a visit. With him are Allan and Todd, representatives of a Birmingham based non-profit, Hope Manifest, (http://www.hopemanifest.org/home.html) which has been created to help other non-profits develop financial plans and funding. And Shannon, from the Presbyterian Peace Fellowship and the Columbia Accompaniment Program (http://presbypeacefellowship.org/colombia) where volunteers walk side by side with vulnerable people in Columbia, to provide safety and witness. 

I give them the social history tour of the church, especially pointing out the picture of Jan Orr-Harter, one of the founders of the PPF, and the Peacemonger Press,  with the support of Pastor Bob Davidson and the organizing that led to the March Against Nuclear Proliferation, planned at West-Park and bringing a million people to New York City. 

Then we head to Popovers for a longer discussion. Part of what is at stake is the relationship of the Columbia Accompaniment Program with New York City Presbytery’s Social Witness Council, CWSW,  which I formerly chaired. I explained that with the current state of chaos at Presbytery, it’s hard to read. Issues include:

• Dwindling funds which have led to:
• Reduction of staff, including Annie who was an amazing organizer for CWSW
• Reduction of available money for grants

It’s all part of the death, or radical reshaping of our historic mainline denominations. No more available staff to plan programs and conduct ministries. Energy and time absorbed in internal squabbling, shrinking membership, funding bases. The strategy that excites Rick and I is a emphasis on building strong ministry fro the ground up. Grassroots based. If we focus there, do good work there, the rest will follow.  SO part of the discussion is how in a time with no assigned staff, PPF can help Presbytery and its congregations organize to do good work on the ground. It’s exactly what we’re committed to doing at West-Park. And we’re still working to see what our relationship could be.

Later, Paul for Spaceworks, comes with representatives from the Department of Cultural Affairs. Mim and Jamie have come representing the Center. We do the whole tour. The hope is to work with them to develop affordable rehearsal and performance spaces for emerging artists in the city.  

After I return from a late  lunch with Jamie, things begin to get crazy. Lynnea of Frog & Peach wants to talk but there's  an intense man wanting to talk to me. Says his name is Danny. Short with a tight t-shirt, muscular arms, a buzz cut, almost skinhead short and a beard.  jeans and work boots. And burning eyes with a furrowed brow.

An incident has upset him. Walking down Amsterdam Avenue, he saw two men at an outdoor cafe having lunch. He asked a question, as he put it,  a guy responded. Next thing Danny is calling him out and the manger is coming out and telling him to get out before he calls the police. Was that right?

It was his restaurant and you were threatening his customer.

Was I just supposed to take it? I got to stand up for myself.Wouldn’t you? Would you just walk away?

Yes.

I called him a fucking faggot. A fruit. Are you gay?

No. But....

I don’t like these guys. I like women. And tells me a story of  being picked up by  guy last night, being paid for all night, drinks, drugs, I danced my ass off...and then not staying wit the guy He was pissed off. Is that right?

I shrug my shoulders. Seems like you set it up.

We watched the Wrestler with Mickey Roarke. I love that movie. He says the world don’t give a shit about me..remember that?

Circles back to the street incident again. I just don’t feel good. About myself. Be on the streets for 3 years. An all too familiar story follows of someone who’s been a lower level janitor, custodian, then laid off in downsizing. 

So how do you keep it together?

Alcohol. Dope. Cocaine. Specailly crack....love that crack....prostitutes with no protection, no condoms, probably get AIDS or somethin....then back to the cafe scene again. What does this mean?

Sounds like you’re dealing with a lot of pain. An danger. 

Anger? My mom died when I was 3. Why? Why did that happen?  He looks at the statue of Jesus on my desk. Why does he hate me? Why did he do that? Why? To me?

He doesn’t hate you. And he didn’t kill your mother...I don’t have an answer.

I like sex. I like masturbation. Is that wrong?.

Not necessarily. 

He thinks it is, he says, looking at Jesus.

Actually he didn’t say anything about it. 

Why does he do this to me?

He doesn’t. I think most of the bad things we do to ourselves. 

Back to last night again. To the guy.  He lived in a SRO.... Cause he’s got HIV. They say you have to have HIV to get an SRO...Is that right?

Not true. Westside Federation has all kinds of  buildings...AIDS, mental illness, senor citizens, addiction....

Rehab never fuckin works...

Not if you don’t follow up. Not what i’m talking about. I give him the number of the Goddard -Riverside, our neighborhood settlement house. The home of our  friends at  Project Reachout. Go talk to these guys. They’ll know what you're  eligibe for....

He takes the card. Starts back through the cafe incident again. If I see that motherfucker again, I’ll smash him. I’ll fuck him up, I’ll...what does that mean?

It takes a big man to walk away, quiet.

Then back to the Wrestler one more time. The world doesn’t give a shit about me...What does tha mean?

That means you identify wth Mickey Roarke. Think no one cares.  And maybe no one does. You have to start with yorself...Look, it’s geeting late.

Lynnea has peeked in a couple of times. And ultimately let.

Just five more minutes, Can I have your number? Can I call you? Just to talk?

So I give him the church number. He squints. Furrows his borw. Walks out.  

Didn’t get the calls doen ai wanted to do. I have people I  need to visit. I am not dismissive of Danny. Not that I don’t care. Just really worn out by addiction right now.  Just wears me out.

If you want to do something about  it, we’ll walk with you...if not, I’ll listen. Within limits. I know they are there. Finding what they are is hard.