Natalie was probably the most influential person in my life. I can’t think of anyone more effective in how I think and behave today. Well, there is one other; Neeley. Neeley will probably be the last great effective person for me. At any rate both are in my life forever. This story begins with Natalie though.
Natalie and I met in 1977. March 6th to be exact. We were living in Southern California at the time; she in Pacific Beach and I in Imperial Beach. We were close and spent hours talking, learning and teaching. One thing that Natalie taught me was to be more spontaneous and to be more forgiving of myself and to be more aware of who lives inside me. My relationship with her was cathartic. My persona at that point in my life was uptight, rigid, judgmental, and generally fearful and insecure. I was a charmer for sure. She saw the pure me though. She saw who I was even though I was my own mystery.
We spent the days meditating and walking to the market for wheat grass juice. We drank sun tea. We were on the beach early in the day and left before ten o’clock to go back to the her house to meditate some more and sob heavy sobs listening to Sibelius. People were always visiting to feel good and be charged with sweet energy from Natalie. More wheat grass juice and then more meditation. Then one day we were alone in the house and I was probably obsessing about a decision to do or not do something or other. It involved destruction of a relationship or association in order to move forward and I was not willing to decide how to do it neatly. Natalie, in her wonderful fashion, flashed me her beautiful seagull smile and said, “George, if you find yourself painted into a corner just walk across the fucking paint. It’s your paint!”
Genius! That advice worked for that situation. It may not have been the best solution but what is? Sometimes every solution is the best for the moment and we just have to live with the consequences. Anyway I learned how to “give up”, how to stop fighting myself, how to walk away. Just walk across the fucking paint. Unfortunately I over did the walk across the paint routine fairly often. In fact I practiced on Natalie a few times and she gave it back in spades; all part of learning about each other I must add. Too bad we took it to spectacular levels. I say this with fondness because we are the best of friends today and our love remains.
These are the types of stories that dance through my head in the morning here at The Castle. I have private, quiet times first thing with my coffee. I slowly wake up and read a bit and then I will catch a memory from out of the blue. If it is strong enough I begin to focus. I go to my chair and open the laptop to a word document to begin writing. By the time the screen indicates it is ready the story has begun to write itself.
This morning I thought about one of the guys I knew from years ago when I was clinical director of a half-way house in Boston. The time frame is 1983. It was a learning experience type of event that came to mind plus this particular man was one of those people who captured my attention because he just seemed to be always doing the right thing. Of course there is no such person in the whole world but this man, Mac, was nice to talk with and to know. Here is the result of this memory from this morning.
I hope your day is gentle and that you have no paint to walk across.
Peace out.
CASING THE JOINT
I sat across from Mac in the dining room. He was slouched forward, leaning on his elbows and he looked at me with drooping blue eyes the color of an Irish dawn. The light was returning to his ancient countenance, his face the color of brownstone glowed and he nodded ever so slightly to indicate that he was back. Mac had just returned from a hypoglycemic episode. Phil had known what to do. Phil was the house manager and also one of the half dozen counselors on staff. He’d heard the commotion in the dining room and took charge right away.
“Give him some of that sugar there”, he’d ordered. “Just take that goddam spoon and give him some.” The cook had come from the kitchen and helped Mac take a spoon full of sugar. “Just sit still, Mac”, Phil said. Phil was an old timer and was handy to have around in a pinch like this. He told the cook to fix Mac a sandwich and Mac ate it right away.
The excitement was normalizing to a bustle. The cook and his helper were clearing the last of the crumbs from the other tables. The evening meal was over and the other residents had all disappeared into the corners of the old house. Phil was pulling on his coat getting ready for the block-and-a- half walk to his house down the hill toward Meridian Street.
“How are you now, Mac?” Phil had his head stuck through the door of the dining room. Mac turned his head toward Phil and gave him a slight nod. “Okay. Thanks, Phil”. Phil cracked a wry smile and a wink at Mac then disappeared down the hallway toward the back door. “See you gents tomorrow”, he called as he stepped out into the gloom.
I liked Mac. He was one of the longer term residents at the house. He had a past like every other man who lived here. Hard times, bad luck, poor decisions, failed circumstances, all kinds of situations which conspired to keep guys like Mac living on the street, under bridges, and in constant fear, suspicion, and danger. I’d been in the office when Mac returned from his work day out in the city. Like most of the men in the house he took a job painting or doing drywall. Most jobs available were construction or repairs. The worst jobs were the day-labor kind. These types of hiring are common for down-and-outers, guys who are looking to get back on their feet. Unfortunately the work is both good and bad. The money helps but the future is shaky and generally leads to a break-out, another binge and another near death event or detox center; if they are lucky. The way out of this life style is never clear. It is nigh impossible to recognize a path to recovery from life on the street.
Mac was talking now. He described how he had neglected to eat and put off taking a break at work and didn’t have anything to ingest to keep his blood sugar up. His subway ride back to East Boston was uneventful but at Maverick Square Station he’d begun to feel tired. By the time he’d walked up Meridian Street he could feel the weight of the world bearing down and when he found the house finally he stopped remembering. When he got in the house his slurred speech made the other residents think he’d broken out and had a few drinks.
I got up from the table to put a pan of water on the stove to make the two of us some tea. By now Mac was animated, as animated as one such as himself could be. He was back to normal I’d say. I returned to the table with two cups of hot water and a tea bag I found in the kitchen. We shared. I asked Mac about his life before this house and he obliged by mentioning that he’d done some B&E work. That surprised me. Most of our residents were straight alcoholics with jail sentences associated with clumsy driving, neglectful lawlessness, fighting, spousal abuse, and vagrancy. Breaking and entering was real hoodlum stuff, although it was less violent in a physical sense than other trades. Mac told me that he stole things from homes and sold the objects for living expenses. He’d been caught a few times and the way his luck was going he was serving a life sentence on the installment plan. Drinking had become an issue which led to him ending up here at this house.
He was good at his job while doing the B&E stuff. His problem was getting caught. Checking the layout of a house is simple, as he put it, but the police generally knew who the good B&E guys were in the city and Mac was one of the usual suspects. He had to give it up if he was going to stay around here. During our conversation Mac told me that he could walk into any place and within three or four seconds he knew all the window styles, the locks on the doors, where the furniture was in the rooms, whether there were items of value or not. His ability to case the joint, in the parlance of B&E, was extremely fine. Mac always cased the joint in preparation of thefts. Not only did he case joints for thievery, he continued to do it all the time. He could not not do it. Where ever Mac was he was casing the joint.
Mac would enter a bank and scan the area for all the ways to do his work. He would enter someone’s home to do a paint job or repair a wall and he would scan the doors, windows, check for alarms within a few seconds. He even told me in detail about the house we were sitting in. This recovery home was so wide open he said. It was a good thing we had a night manager on duty we agreed. Of course we also agreed there was nothing of value or worth breaking into this house for.
Mac was back to normal now and I needed to get out of there anyway so we parted company. I grabbed my coat and headed down Meridian Street to Maverick Square to catch the subway back to the city.
G. M. Goodwin
11 December 2015
Playing Fair and Being Kind 