Today, I Smell Like George

There’s an old man sitting at one of the chairs under the bus shelter, his back to me, leaning hard to starboard. Another of the homeless, lost to the streets of Portland.

I’m on the bus now, the 94, going home. I usually read, but not today. Today, I smell like George.

 

Earlier…

 

I’m leaning against the sign post at the bus stand in downtown Portland, 5th and Morrison, waiting for the 94. I’ll get a good seat today, first in line. Sitting on one of the choice back seats, I’ll read my book, make the short drive home, and maybe I’ll take a nap. I’m tired today. I hope it isn’t because I’m getting old; 63 isn’t THAT old!

 

There’s an old man sitting at one of the chairs under the bus shelter, his back to me, leaning hard to starboard. I’ve seen it so many times over the last 11 years, working in the city: another of the homeless, no doubt, occupying the streets of Portland during the day, and God - and the police - only know where at night.

 

The bus approaches, the 94, my bus, the express bus. It is the bus for those of us in the suburbs, the ones that make the money. Poor people, homeless people, drug addicts, the down-and-out - no, they take the 12, the 8 or some other bus that stops at every stop, not the 94. The 94, the express, it’s for me, and people like me.

 

My attention lingers on the old man…something…

 

He looks up at the sign on the front of the bus, my bus. He stands - “staggers upright” is more accurate. He totters toward the bus’s door, apparently thinking he is going to get on it. Oh no, I think, I have been through this before: sometimes the wrong people get on my bus, never pleasant. They talk to themselves, they fall asleep and lean against the other passengers, they fart, they drool, they smell.

 

Yep, he is going to get on my bus.

 

The old man stumbles, leans toward the bus, the wheels, under the wheels. We stare, all of us, watching a train wreck, too frozen to move. He swerves just in time to fall away from the wheels, landing on the sidewalk in front of us. His body quietly flops to the cement, like a leaf floating to the ground, too small, too frail, to be an impact. His plastic bag with what appears to be a bottle in it hits the ground, rips, and the bottle, wrapped in a second plastic bag, rolls and flaps away from him. His hat falls off. He sprawls on his side - still.

 

I study him, willing him to get moving: get up, stagger away, be another of the homeless that I can ignore and then be on my way. The door to the bus opens, the 94, my bus, our bus. Others wait behind me - just move along, step into the bus, someone will fix this. I can’t move along, as still and frozen as the old man. Impatient, they pass me, glancing down at the old man sprawled, unmoving, and some glancing up at me - “stupid,” I feel their thoughts - they board the bus. Something in me, from long ago, tells me that I can’t leave until this old man does.

 

Someone will fix this.

 

“Sir, are you okay?” I ask, taking a tentative step toward him. The old man doesn’t respond. He squirms, rolls around to his back and looks past me to the sky, the buildings stretching out above us. His eyes are bloodshot-yellow - alcohol or something. “Sir?” Nothing, disoriented, unseeing.

 

The bus doesn’t move; people stand around us, faces from the bus windows, watching. “Do you need any help?” the driver of the 94 asks.

 

“No, I’ll call 911. I can catch the next bus,” I answer. I can always catch the next bus. I take the final steps to the old man.

 

The smell is overpowering. I don’t care; it’s not a thing to care about, not now. I lean down on one knee beside him. “Sir, I am going to help you up. Okay?” Nothing.

 

I place my hands under his arms, wondering if I am doing something medically that I shouldn’t, wondering if he is going to start wailing at me, screaming for help, stab or shoot me, whatever old men do when their possessions are a hat and a double-bagged bottle. Well, sue me, hit me, yell at me; this man is going to get up! I want to make him right; I want to fix him. I lift; he sets up easily, quietly, weightlessly, and focuses…as much as an old man with a double-wrapped bottle of something and a stocking cap can focus.

 

He searches the sidewalk for his hat and double-wrapped bottle.

 

Slowly, so very slowly, he reaches for his yellow stocking cap, places it sideways on his head. It falls off. I hand it to him, he tries again and succeeds, it sits a bit askew but promises to stay, for now. He reaches for the wrapped bottle. I hand it to him. He slowly, methodically, reverently places it into the first plastic bag. “Okay, let’s get you standing, sir.” I keep calling him “sir” because to me, right now, he is - he is “sir.” He is as much a “sir” as anyone.

 

I leverage him under his arms; he drops his plastic bag and his bottle goes rolling again. I suspect we look pathetic. Another man comes over, “Can I help?”

 

“Yeah, let’s see if we can get this young man over to that seat.” I call him a “young man.” I want him to feel like one of the boys, you know, when you joke with someone to make them feel included. I want this old man to feel included - he and I are in this together; we’re buddies now.

 

The other man puts the plastic bottle back in the bag and hands it to the old man. We try to get him to his feet again; I lift from under his arms and the other man steadies him - there’s just no weight to this guy. I lift, he staggers, almost toppling us into the street; we work together, the three of us, and steady ourselves. We walk. It crosses my mind - pick him up and carry him. A whisper tells me “No, let him have his dignity.” The three of us work together, slowly, a balancing act, walk him to the seat and ease him into it.

 

The other guy asks if he can do anything else. “No, but thanks for your help. We’ve got it now,” I answer. “I” don’t have it; “we” have it - the old man and I - we’re buddies, you know.

 

“I’m going to get you some help. You stay here,” I tell the old man. It’s not really like I’m going anywhere; I have my Smartphone. I just want to talk to him.

 

I call 911. I can’t hear the operator because of the city noises: busses, cars, train, voices, a constant cacophony. I tell the operator where we are. She says something like, “Does he need to go to detox?” I think to myself, “Now how the hell do I know if he needs to go to detox?” But I’m nice - “he’s lucid, but very intoxicated…on something.” That, I hope, answers the question. “We’ll have an ambulance there soon.” I think that’s what she said, maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, I’m not going anywhere.

 

I keep my hand on the old man’s back, trying to comfort him. “Sir, what’s your name?” Blank, yellow-bloodshot eyes look into mine. He tries to say something; instead, he cries - I think that is a cry, maybe a moan. “It’s okay, we’ll get you help soon.”

 

Someone will fix this.

 

We sit, five minutes, my hand on his back. I can’t let my hand leave his back. I want him to know I’m here; someone is here, just for him. He looks around like a scared old dog - you’ve seen that old dog before; the one that you want to fix, take the pain away, make it better.

 

I try again, “How old are you?”

 

He squeaks, quietly, more a strangled sigh than a voice, “64.” I stare, shocked into silence. He is one year older than I. A reality overtakes him, focuses him inwards; he leans his head back, opens his mouth - the few remaining teeth more black than yellow - and he cries…he cries…the best he can, anyway. I want to cry with him. He has no chance…none…we both know it. We sit, sad - there is no other word - searching each other’s eyes.

 

Finally, I ask, “What is your name, sir?”

 

Again, less than a breath, “George.”

 

“I’m Rod,” I say, taking his frail hand in mind, giving it as firm a shake as I dare, afraid I might crush it with the slightest squeeze. George reaches up to my face - I can’t move away, I won’t - cups the side of my face in his hand - you know, the way your grandma did when you were so very little - and breaths, “Bless you, Rod.”

 

I don’t want George to bless me; I want George, every single George there is, to be blessed. Don’t bless me.

 

George looks away, lost to another thought, I suppose. My conversation with George ends.

 

The #8 pulls in. George quickly stands, sways, nearly falls; I take his thin shoulders in my hands, steadying him. We walk to the bus’s door, George surges past the driver and falls into the nearest seat. The driver doesn’t ask him for a fare. “I know where he stays. I can get him there,” she tells me. The door closes, I wave to George. But he is looking towards the back of the bus now, lost to something a praying man might pray to never see. The bus moves on, the 94 pulls in behind.

 

On the 94, I notice that I smell like George. People are looking at me, giving me more space today - they notice that I smell like George too. I’m glad I smell like George. I would rather smell like George than not.

 

When I think on it, I simply could not leave George behind. My mother would not let me; my father would not let me; my children, my wife, my friends, my teachers, would not let me; the world itself and my paths across its surface, the people passing me by to board the bus, the watchers - none would let me. I could not let George lie there on the sidewalk at 5th and Morrison any more than a salmon can refuse to swim upstream. I wish I could think of myself as good, thoughtful, a hero - pat myself on the back and say, “Good job Rod.” I can’t, because I am not a hero. I was just the one that stopped, that looked upon a fallen old man, another human being, born with me, but set on such a divergent path from mine that I have to ask, “Why me?” I could not board the bus…because the ones I love most would not let me.

 

Someone will fix this.

 

I am not quite sure why I tell this story. Certainly, it is not for accolades, praise, blessings, or to brag about how nice a thing I did. No, not for any of those reasons. I think I want to tell this story because it is our story: George’s and mine. Yeah, that’s why. George and I are buddies, you know.

 

George and I were born together, under very different circumstances. Why did our lives go down such different paths? Don’t answer that, by the way. If there is any reaction to this story, keep it to yourself, please; I really don’t want to discuss it - not now, anyway. And please know that I’m not trying to lecture, cajole, make anyone feel guilty, tell anyone how they should be, especially tell someone how they should be. I’m afraid, for most of us, the choice to stop and help George was made long ago, or maybe just yesterday, by the ones we love most and those we have never known - so complex, the people we are.

 

Sleep will come hard for me tonight because both scenarios will haunt me: get on the bus and ignore the old man sprawled on the sidewalk or help him. The hauntings will come for very different reasons.