(no subject)
I'm lying in my backyard at four o'clock on a sunny last Tuesday of August in the Newtown neighborhood of Sarasota watching fire ants transport their cargo along the last two or three threads of the hammock's edge from the mango tree at my head to the palm tree at my feet. They don't bother me and only an occasional scout explores my body to assess the situation. Above me, the thick tree canopy of oaks and palms filters the sunlight, and the smell of the ocean salt blows down Cocoanut Avenue behind a cool breeze rocking the hammock ever so slightly. This is my new home, my new life as a single, divorced man seeking... I don't know... not another woman certainly, but rather what it was that I was seeking before I got distracted- fearlessness, or perfect freedom, that sense of escape from civilization's web, epic destiny, that subtle door with an invisible handle which one can only turn for oneself. I have nothing holding me back. I want to volunteer for NASA's space catapult program so they can launch me into the sun and see what happens- what have I got to lose? Really? Nothing. I have absolutely nothing to lose and for this I am content. I feel completely relaxed. I left my phone inside the house and no one can bother me, no one can interrupt me, unless I give them permission.
I close my eyes and remember J------ Walker from this morning. A naturalized senior citizen from Poland, Juliana owns a bike with a wooden basket tied onto the back and a fanny pack full of pictures and various memorabilia, nothing else. She smiles when I introduce myself and immediately hugs me, whispering into my ear, “You are an angel of the Most High God.” It is my job to help her out in any way that I can by A.) getting her a phone with 78 minutes a month, B.) Getting her started with a monthly bus pass, and C.) Possibly getting her an interview with the guy who can get her an interview with the guy who can get her an interview with the guy who might possibly decide to hire her for a part-time, no benefits, temporary job for a couple weeks.
She's one year older than my Dad. She was born in Warsaw, Poland during the ghetto uprising. While I get her started with the paperwork she won't stop thanking the Lord, sometimes praying directly and thanking Him for me, whom He sent as His angel. Then opening one of her eyes to look at me she says, “I know that you're an angel in human clothes. You don't believe me but I know that you are an angel sent to me from the Most High God to help me in my distress.” She doesn't stop talking like this. Even when I'm trying to get her to fill out an application for employment she goes on and on about how wonderful God is to her and how she getting stronger every day because of the wonderful food they serve at the Salvation Army. (I eat at the Salvation Army twice a month. For outsiders, and other caseworkers like me, they bring out the good stuff- and let me tell you it is nasty. I never brought anything back for my wife from Salvation Army because she would give it one look and tell me to throw it out. The food there is nasty.) But she just knows that God is going to take care of her and everything is going to work out because it is in the Lord's hands.
I almost lose it. I almost scream at her. I almost stand up and shout in her face- the only thing holding me back are the two security guards standing at the end of the hall- “God's not going to save you! I'm not going to save you! I'm going to get you a crappy phone and a bus card and by the end of September you will most likely be living in the woods, and statistically, dead within five years if you aren't raped and murdered first. I'm not your fucking angel, I hate my job, my wife's divorcing me for another man, and I haven't had a cigarette this morning, so if you don't sign your mother-fucking name on this piece-of-shit Goodwill application so we can attempt the impossible task of finding you a job, then so help me God, I'm going to punch this bullet-proof glass with my fist and shatter every single knuckle in my hand without even making a dent! Understand?"
Instead I bite my lip. She continues, “I just know that this was all meant to be and that it will work out in the end...”
I interrupt her to ask for the last four digits of her social security number.
“I don't have it anymore.”
“What do you mean you don't have it anymore.”
“It was written on my social security card which I kept in my wallet. I'm very thankful... but, well when I stayed with my roommate the next day it was gone.”
“What do you mean it was gone?”
“It was... gone. Stolen.” She choked on the word. It pained her to think that such a thing could happen. She was embarrassed to be part of an event that was morally out of synch, even if she was just a victim.
She couldn't remember her social security card number. She didn't have it written down anymore. As for a birth certificate, she doesn't have it, and we will have to mail Poland a request for them to send another original copy, WWII-era birth certificate from an abandoned hospital in a city that was systematically destroyed as the direct result of an order from Hitler to "wipe the city off the face of the earth forever."
The conversation becomes surreal as I think of an angel interviewing a ghost and receiving incomplete fragments of lost information. Some data are just lost. There isn't enough time, so I have agreed to meet with her the same time the next morning, at 6:45, just before they kick her out of the shelter for the day. She has less than a week remaining before she is required to pay. She has no money. No income. Just a few old stories about her ex-husbands. Sadly I'm not making any of this up.
I close my eyes and remember J------ Walker from this morning. A naturalized senior citizen from Poland, Juliana owns a bike with a wooden basket tied onto the back and a fanny pack full of pictures and various memorabilia, nothing else. She smiles when I introduce myself and immediately hugs me, whispering into my ear, “You are an angel of the Most High God.” It is my job to help her out in any way that I can by A.) getting her a phone with 78 minutes a month, B.) Getting her started with a monthly bus pass, and C.) Possibly getting her an interview with the guy who can get her an interview with the guy who can get her an interview with the guy who might possibly decide to hire her for a part-time, no benefits, temporary job for a couple weeks.
She's one year older than my Dad. She was born in Warsaw, Poland during the ghetto uprising. While I get her started with the paperwork she won't stop thanking the Lord, sometimes praying directly and thanking Him for me, whom He sent as His angel. Then opening one of her eyes to look at me she says, “I know that you're an angel in human clothes. You don't believe me but I know that you are an angel sent to me from the Most High God to help me in my distress.” She doesn't stop talking like this. Even when I'm trying to get her to fill out an application for employment she goes on and on about how wonderful God is to her and how she getting stronger every day because of the wonderful food they serve at the Salvation Army. (I eat at the Salvation Army twice a month. For outsiders, and other caseworkers like me, they bring out the good stuff- and let me tell you it is nasty. I never brought anything back for my wife from Salvation Army because she would give it one look and tell me to throw it out. The food there is nasty.) But she just knows that God is going to take care of her and everything is going to work out because it is in the Lord's hands.
I almost lose it. I almost scream at her. I almost stand up and shout in her face- the only thing holding me back are the two security guards standing at the end of the hall- “God's not going to save you! I'm not going to save you! I'm going to get you a crappy phone and a bus card and by the end of September you will most likely be living in the woods, and statistically, dead within five years if you aren't raped and murdered first. I'm not your fucking angel, I hate my job, my wife's divorcing me for another man, and I haven't had a cigarette this morning, so if you don't sign your mother-fucking name on this piece-of-shit Goodwill application so we can attempt the impossible task of finding you a job, then so help me God, I'm going to punch this bullet-proof glass with my fist and shatter every single knuckle in my hand without even making a dent! Understand?"
Instead I bite my lip. She continues, “I just know that this was all meant to be and that it will work out in the end...”
I interrupt her to ask for the last four digits of her social security number.
“I don't have it anymore.”
“What do you mean you don't have it anymore.”
“It was written on my social security card which I kept in my wallet. I'm very thankful... but, well when I stayed with my roommate the next day it was gone.”
“What do you mean it was gone?”
“It was... gone. Stolen.” She choked on the word. It pained her to think that such a thing could happen. She was embarrassed to be part of an event that was morally out of synch, even if she was just a victim.
She couldn't remember her social security card number. She didn't have it written down anymore. As for a birth certificate, she doesn't have it, and we will have to mail Poland a request for them to send another original copy, WWII-era birth certificate from an abandoned hospital in a city that was systematically destroyed as the direct result of an order from Hitler to "wipe the city off the face of the earth forever."
The conversation becomes surreal as I think of an angel interviewing a ghost and receiving incomplete fragments of lost information. Some data are just lost. There isn't enough time, so I have agreed to meet with her the same time the next morning, at 6:45, just before they kick her out of the shelter for the day. She has less than a week remaining before she is required to pay. She has no money. No income. Just a few old stories about her ex-husbands. Sadly I'm not making any of this up.