Knuckles layered thick with charcoal soot, Gary’s hands grip a too hot cup of coffee. Cradling it in his hands, absorbing the heat, he looks chilled. It’s only fourty degrees and there are still deep pockets of snow from our October blizzard. Leaves like curry, orange against an electric, acid blue sky, dirty snow drifts along the roadway clashing with the autumn green grass. Sunlight spots across the sky and Gary & Tamara squat somewhere beside the Mobil station, stranded.
I wonder how Gary & Tamara got here, to this curb, wandering into a corner of life that can’t be turned. So, I ask. Gary says he can’t get steady work, his back problems prevent it, and although unsaid, I suspect the obvious. I know where they’ve been. Tamara’s eyes trace through pages and pages of perhaps and might-have-beens, divulging all the nitty-gritty, teeny-tiny details, secrets that only fellow drug addicts can read. Creases wrinkle her face, and a tangled tuft of silver hair weaves through the radiant orange curls tucked under a brown winter hat. Her cheeks are rosy. Crows feet pleat the folds around her eyes. Resigned and comfortably destitute, she seems to have accepted her fate, evicted and misplaced. A runaway, chasing freedom but lost amidst a crowd of strangers, I just want to give her a warm hug and let her know everything will be alright.
Corners bent and worn, fraying, a red hardcover Bible rests on Tamara’s lap. She says she’s been making her way through Matthew. I’m reminded of the hours spent pouring through Scripture, searching for answers, yet all the while not knowing any way to freedom. Delicately, I share fragments of my story, heroin, misery, hope, and of course, the answer. I tell them that I know a place that could help them, to start over, learn how to live again. “Would that ever be of interest?” I ask. Pausing to think, “Sure,” she answers while looking at Gary, seeking his approval.
Left hand grasping my camera, my right hand rummages through the debris in my pocket. Through a mishmash of folded gum wrappers, handwritten notes, and discarded receipts, my fingertips scramble to locate my wallet. Bingo. Clasping the folded black edges, peeling open the fold, I shuffle through dozens of business cards I don’t need. Tucked neatly away, I locate the dog-eared card and pass it to Tamara. “If you ever want to get some help, call.”
I pray she picks up the phone.
