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JOURNAL
April 2006
GOODBYE, MAURICE
I didn't know Maurice well when he stood before me last October. He carried a knapsack over one shoulder that contained all his worldly possessions. His black shoes had lopsided soles, worn from miles and miles of walking. Yet he had a grin as wide as the South, and manners to match.
He was staying at the Bowery shelter. He had hit the ground running when he'd arrived in New York a few weeks before, was already working two jobs, and had already made a few friends. But he was still at the shelter and I couldn't bear to see it. I've tried to be a good Christian most of my life, but I'm not one who claims to hear God's voice. In fact, I'm usually looking up at the sky demanding some kind of sign. Well, the day Maurice stood before me, I felt a clear nudge from above.
You see, Maurice was from New Orleans and he had lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. What little family he had went to Atlanta and Texas. He struck out on his own and headed to the Big Apple because he wanted a new start and, as he told me, he liked the way we handled 9/11. Maybe it would be a good place for him.
So I invited him into my home. I live the true Manhattan experience, the kind you don't see on "Friends." I have a studio apartment and, like any smart New Yorker, I managed to turn it into a one-bedroom with some carefully placed floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Thus, I had a place for Maurice to sleep, on a fold-out futon in my "living room." I thought it would be a matter of a few weeks because, as I say, he was working two jobs and seemed well on his way to independence.
As he settled in, Maurice called my little place his "safe haven." I called it a dump. It was the first place he'd gotten rest in months. It was a place I couldn't wait to move out of.
Over time, Maurice found a few friends who would let him crash for a night or two, but my place remained his prime headquarters. Midtown, easy access to interviews and all parts of the city. Over time, Maurice began to see how involved New Yorkers were in their careers and how busy their daily lives were. Every encounter seemed to be a stopover while the New Yorker distractedly looked toward the next flight. Over time, Maurice grew disillusioned with my city, and missed the hospitality of home.
As the holidays neared, he lost one job, then quit the other, a fast-paced job with a new company whose purpose was to advise seniors on the new health plan options. It had turned into a sales job and Maurice was decidedly uncomfortable with that. Still, he had impeccable credentials in bartending and fine dining, and managed to land some high-paying cash jobs around the holidays. I managed to get many in our church to donate gift cards and money for a stocking for him. He was overwhelmed by the kindness.
Although the short-term stay was turning into a long-term stay with no clear end in sight, an amazing thing began to happen: I found I could ignore the growing pile of his stuff and enjoy the growing friendship. While he couldn't always pay me money for rent or bills, he was always eager to make a gourmet meal. Shrimp alfredo. Pepper steak and rice. Saturday morning beignets with latte. We loved to order a big pizza from Fat Sal's on Friday nights and watch a movie. We had different tastes in film and would take turns picking them. He always fell asleep during the ones I chose.
He was a movie junkie. Around Christmastime, we went to see "King Kong" and, although we both loved it, he insisted I see the original 1933 version with Fay Wray. We watched it, and he was right: the first was more economical, a better film. He was a music junkie. He quickly began filling up my shelves with CDs even though I warned him, "Maurice, don't be spending money on this stuff. You need to be saving for something more permanent." He'd insist he needed his music therapy and that was that. He especially loved the group Chicago and would blast one of their songs and play air trumpet to it. He was a news junkie. He would often go to sleep and wake up with earplugs in his ear, listening to NPR. He would rail on and on if there was a news special about Katrina that pointed out the government's failings. "Turn it off," I'd command.
As much as I loved the guy, I knew it would be better for both of us if he eventually left the nest. I set a deadline for March 31. But a week before the deadline came, he was gone. Just like that. Vanished, without a goodbye. He had taken his paycheck from a job and some charity money and, many of us surmise, took the first train out.
Who can know how a man who has lost everything will behave? Possessions were no longer important to him, and he left most of them behind for me to sort through. A goodbye was probably something he didn't want to face. Again. Some people are with us only for a season, and this was a season to remember.
Maurice, wherever you are, may God guide your steps and light your way. May your troubles recede like the waters from a flood. May hope rise up in you like the stem of a spring daffodil. And may you always know that friendship is only a phone call away.
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