Inside the convenience store buying a ginger ale about to head out to the idling truck parked in front on a chilled early morning during April at 4AM, the soda fountain spout sputtered and spewed ginger ale into my cup and the night clerk whom I know is at the coffee station behind me fixing coffee. Some one or two other folk are in the store by the coffee station.
"Oh. It's crazy man!"
"Hey Rick!"
"What do you mean, crazy man?"
"Oh. I call him crazy man."
"Nah. He's alright. Nothing wrong with him."
"Oh no?" I interject wearing a clown's hat over a baseball cap, an overcoat, jeans and black sneakers with a white stripe standing at the counter with my ginger ale waiting for the clerk at the coffee station to approach the back of the cash registers on a glass counter top displaying lottery scratch off tickets.
"No. There's nothing wrong with him," the other customer repeats to the convenience store clerk.
"You don't think so?" I ask the customer.
"No," the other customer replies turning back to the coffee counter for something.
"Well, I'm schizophrenic," I reply.
"Really!?! Diagnosed!?!"
"Yep. It's like yelling 'gun' in a crowded theater when you say that word out loud."
"Yeah."
The other customer and the second customer who was at the coffee station overhearing the conversation approach the front counter and line up while I pay.
"Forty-eight, ninety-four in gas."
I put down fifty dollars in gas and ginger ale.
"You see the fifty?"
"Yeah. I see it," the clerk responds picking up the fifty dollars off the glass encased counter.
"Good."
"You wanted forty-seven, ninety-four in gas?"
"Forty-eight, ninety-four."
I exit the store.
(A brief hiatus to eat a breakfast sandwich at 5AM, let the dog in the truck out at a waterfront park and drive back across town ...)
At the convenience store on Congress Street, my truck idles as I glance over a newspaper with a double ginger soda nestled in the groove by the middle console between the passenger seat and the driver's side.
I notice a man walk up to the convenience store in a T-shirt on a 25 degree morning at 6AM. The man covers his head with a white, hospital issue blanket and looks cold. I immediately think to myself that he had just been released from the hospital in his condition to walk the streets.
I put the truck in gear having sipped from ginger ale and reading the paper while listening to the news and drive off down the street to the tobacco store.
Parked and idling in front of the tobacco store a few minutes after 6AM, I await the store clerk to be ready for customers while the store clerk is busy inside the store stacking newspapers which were left at the door over night.
The man whom I had seen with the hospital issue, white blanket draped over his head calls out from across the street to me at the tobacconist sitting in my idling truck waiting for the store clerk to be ready for customers. The man in question had just walked down Congress St. in Portland, Maine across State St. to by Longfellow Square.
"Can you call the hospital?"
"The hospital? Why?"
"I'm cutting."
"You're cutting!?! What do you mean you're 'cutting?'"
"I mean I don't want to live anymore. Can you call someone to take me to the hospital?"
"I can't. I don't have a phone."
"You don't have a phone!? Well, can you take me to the hospital?"
"Dude. You don't want to go to the hospital."
"I have to. Will you at least give me a ride?"
"Alright. I'll give you a ride."
"Alright. I'm crossing the street now."
"Alright. Go ahead and cross the street."
The man with the white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head on a cold April 4, 2013 morning at 6AM when the tobacconist opens on Congress St. crosses the street to me sitting in my truck.
"So. Can you take me to the hospital?" the man asks hesitantly standing at my driver side window.
"Yeah. I can take you to the hospital. Let me just get my cigarettes first," I reply stepping out of my truck to the sidewalk with the man shuffling and shivering towards the sidewalk with a white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head.
"Can you get me a soda?"
"Yeah. Sure. What kind?"
"I'll have a Mountain Dew."
"OK. I'll get you a Mountain Dew. What's the problem anyway? The hospital is right down there. You can walk there."
"I can't. I'm not going to make it. I'm schizophrenic."
"Really!?! You're schizophrenic? So am I. I've been hospitalized eight times. How many times have you been hospitalized?"
"Five times."
"I got you beat. Eight times. Three times during the fall of 2002."
"Yeah. But, look at you now," the man retorts indicating the idling truck.
"That's all mom's. I get support from my family. All this is mom's," I say indicating my clothes, drawing the lapels of my coat aside. "Alright. Hold on a minute and I'll get you that Mountain Dew."
I enter the tobacconist store, walk to the back of the store by the coolers, pick out a six pack of beer and then a bottle of Mountain Dew and step to the front of the store to pay.
"JB!?! How many?"
"Two. What's your cheapest pack of cigarettes?" I ask the clerk as two or three customers meander into the store and wait in line behind me.
"Probably the Hi-Val."
"Alright. Let me have a pack of Hi-Val."
"Regular or 100's?"
"Regular. And let me have a pack of matches. Two packs of matches, if you don't mind."
"Sure."
"How much is all that?"
"Thirty-four, fifty-four."
"OK. Here you go ... thirty-five."
I palm the change, empty my coat pockets of a Zippo lighter and my cell phone, pocket the Jester tobacco I had bought and paid for out of thirty-five dollars, grab the six pack of beer and Hi-Val's with two books of matches and exit the store.
Outside, dawn is breaking over the eastern horizon and the sky is cerulean blue over head with orange tint above the five story buildings that line Congress Street. The man with the hospital issue, white blanket waits outside. He appears to be about my age with a scruffy beard like me, but taller than me at about six foot.
"Here you go," I say handing him the Mountain Dew. "And here. Take this and this," I continue handing him the two books of matches and the pack of Hi-Val cigarettes.
"Thank you. Thank you."
I step to my truck to put the two packs of Jester for myself and a six pack of beer in the passenger side of the truck opening the door to the passenger side.
"Hold on. I got something else for you," I tell the man taking off my coat. "There's some change in the pocket. And, I also got this for you. Here's my card. It's got my number on it. Don't go to the hospital. They suck."
"Thank you. Thank you."
"What's your name? And, where you from?"
"Nicholas. I'm from Michigan. I want to go back there."
"Really!? Yeah I hate this state. This state sucks. The people are assholes."
"Oh. I got nothing bad to say about this state. This state has been good to me."
"It hasn't been good to me. I want to go to Washington."
"Do you party or just take meds?"
"I just smoke a little weed and drink a little beer; smoke cigarettes and take meds."
"Dude. Do you have any weed? Can I have some?"
"No. I don't have any. I can't get it anyway. Alright. Listen. Don't go to the hospital. They suck. Just look how they sent you out into the cold with no clothes on. Just see a doctor and take meds."
"OK. I'm going to a meeting."
"Good. Call me anytime."
I round the front of the my truck idling in front of the tobacconist as the man to whom I had been speaking removes the white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head and puts on the coat I had given him.
"See ya later," I say from the driver side door over the bed of the truck to Nicholas now shuffling from in front of the store towards a meeting.
I sit in the truck and drive off home to warmth and heat blasting because it is cold without a coat.
"Oh. It's crazy man!"
"Hey Rick!"
"What do you mean, crazy man?"
"Oh. I call him crazy man."
"Nah. He's alright. Nothing wrong with him."
"Oh no?" I interject wearing a clown's hat over a baseball cap, an overcoat, jeans and black sneakers with a white stripe standing at the counter with my ginger ale waiting for the clerk at the coffee station to approach the back of the cash registers on a glass counter top displaying lottery scratch off tickets.
"No. There's nothing wrong with him," the other customer repeats to the convenience store clerk.
"You don't think so?" I ask the customer.
"No," the other customer replies turning back to the coffee counter for something.
"Well, I'm schizophrenic," I reply.
"Really!?! Diagnosed!?!"
"Yep. It's like yelling 'gun' in a crowded theater when you say that word out loud."
"Yeah."
The other customer and the second customer who was at the coffee station overhearing the conversation approach the front counter and line up while I pay.
"Forty-eight, ninety-four in gas."
I put down fifty dollars in gas and ginger ale.
"You see the fifty?"
"Yeah. I see it," the clerk responds picking up the fifty dollars off the glass encased counter.
"Good."
"You wanted forty-seven, ninety-four in gas?"
"Forty-eight, ninety-four."
I exit the store.
(A brief hiatus to eat a breakfast sandwich at 5AM, let the dog in the truck out at a waterfront park and drive back across town ...)
At the convenience store on Congress Street, my truck idles as I glance over a newspaper with a double ginger soda nestled in the groove by the middle console between the passenger seat and the driver's side.
I notice a man walk up to the convenience store in a T-shirt on a 25 degree morning at 6AM. The man covers his head with a white, hospital issue blanket and looks cold. I immediately think to myself that he had just been released from the hospital in his condition to walk the streets.
I put the truck in gear having sipped from ginger ale and reading the paper while listening to the news and drive off down the street to the tobacco store.
Parked and idling in front of the tobacco store a few minutes after 6AM, I await the store clerk to be ready for customers while the store clerk is busy inside the store stacking newspapers which were left at the door over night.
The man whom I had seen with the hospital issue, white blanket draped over his head calls out from across the street to me at the tobacconist sitting in my idling truck waiting for the store clerk to be ready for customers. The man in question had just walked down Congress St. in Portland, Maine across State St. to by Longfellow Square.
"Can you call the hospital?"
"The hospital? Why?"
"I'm cutting."
"You're cutting!?! What do you mean you're 'cutting?'"
"I mean I don't want to live anymore. Can you call someone to take me to the hospital?"
"I can't. I don't have a phone."
"You don't have a phone!? Well, can you take me to the hospital?"
"Dude. You don't want to go to the hospital."
"I have to. Will you at least give me a ride?"
"Alright. I'll give you a ride."
"Alright. I'm crossing the street now."
"Alright. Go ahead and cross the street."
The man with the white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head on a cold April 4, 2013 morning at 6AM when the tobacconist opens on Congress St. crosses the street to me sitting in my truck.
"So. Can you take me to the hospital?" the man asks hesitantly standing at my driver side window.
"Yeah. I can take you to the hospital. Let me just get my cigarettes first," I reply stepping out of my truck to the sidewalk with the man shuffling and shivering towards the sidewalk with a white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head.
"Can you get me a soda?"
"Yeah. Sure. What kind?"
"I'll have a Mountain Dew."
"OK. I'll get you a Mountain Dew. What's the problem anyway? The hospital is right down there. You can walk there."
"I can't. I'm not going to make it. I'm schizophrenic."
"Really!?! You're schizophrenic? So am I. I've been hospitalized eight times. How many times have you been hospitalized?"
"Five times."
"I got you beat. Eight times. Three times during the fall of 2002."
"Yeah. But, look at you now," the man retorts indicating the idling truck.
"That's all mom's. I get support from my family. All this is mom's," I say indicating my clothes, drawing the lapels of my coat aside. "Alright. Hold on a minute and I'll get you that Mountain Dew."
I enter the tobacconist store, walk to the back of the store by the coolers, pick out a six pack of beer and then a bottle of Mountain Dew and step to the front of the store to pay.
"JB!?! How many?"
"Two. What's your cheapest pack of cigarettes?" I ask the clerk as two or three customers meander into the store and wait in line behind me.
"Probably the Hi-Val."
"Alright. Let me have a pack of Hi-Val."
"Regular or 100's?"
"Regular. And let me have a pack of matches. Two packs of matches, if you don't mind."
"Sure."
"How much is all that?"
"Thirty-four, fifty-four."
"OK. Here you go ... thirty-five."
I palm the change, empty my coat pockets of a Zippo lighter and my cell phone, pocket the Jester tobacco I had bought and paid for out of thirty-five dollars, grab the six pack of beer and Hi-Val's with two books of matches and exit the store.
Outside, dawn is breaking over the eastern horizon and the sky is cerulean blue over head with orange tint above the five story buildings that line Congress Street. The man with the hospital issue, white blanket waits outside. He appears to be about my age with a scruffy beard like me, but taller than me at about six foot.
"Here you go," I say handing him the Mountain Dew. "And here. Take this and this," I continue handing him the two books of matches and the pack of Hi-Val cigarettes.
"Thank you. Thank you."
I step to my truck to put the two packs of Jester for myself and a six pack of beer in the passenger side of the truck opening the door to the passenger side.
"Hold on. I got something else for you," I tell the man taking off my coat. "There's some change in the pocket. And, I also got this for you. Here's my card. It's got my number on it. Don't go to the hospital. They suck."
"Thank you. Thank you."
"What's your name? And, where you from?"
"Nicholas. I'm from Michigan. I want to go back there."
"Really!? Yeah I hate this state. This state sucks. The people are assholes."
"Oh. I got nothing bad to say about this state. This state has been good to me."
"It hasn't been good to me. I want to go to Washington."
"Do you party or just take meds?"
"I just smoke a little weed and drink a little beer; smoke cigarettes and take meds."
"Dude. Do you have any weed? Can I have some?"
"No. I don't have any. I can't get it anyway. Alright. Listen. Don't go to the hospital. They suck. Just look how they sent you out into the cold with no clothes on. Just see a doctor and take meds."
"OK. I'm going to a meeting."
"Good. Call me anytime."
I round the front of the my truck idling in front of the tobacconist as the man to whom I had been speaking removes the white, hospital issue blanket draped over his head and puts on the coat I had given him.
"See ya later," I say from the driver side door over the bed of the truck to Nicholas now shuffling from in front of the store towards a meeting.
I sit in the truck and drive off home to warmth and heat blasting because it is cold without a coat.
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