©2008
“What’s in a dime?”
Marie T. Cox
My life began without fanfare. My Mom gave birth to me passed out, numb from pain due to her daylong binge combination of cheap rum and cheaper cocaine. Her dealer had long been selling her his own mix of coke dust, sugar and comet. What would this brain-addled alcoholic know at this point about purity, even drug purity.
Yes, my life began and ended in a hovel, one born of drugs and alcohol and rough, empty coupling and even rougher poverty and despair. So how else could my end have occurred? What chance did the offspring of this cheap, whore-addict have in life? Fair? No. Not a chance, not a snowball’s chance in purgatory.
Who knows who my father was, or is. My sperm donor. My mother was never coherent or sober, not at least when I knew her. He could be anyone, any one of her johns or dealers or pimps. Any one of those users in the alleys or hallways of her minute-to-minute business meetings. What I do know is that I got whatever nerve I have from him. She never had any spirit or gumption to speak of. Her soul had long been dead when I came into this world. So, I ask once again, what chance did I ever really have?
My first memory was of a cloudy day. I was sitting on the stoop of our apartment building in downtown Canton, on old Monroe Street, right off Tuscarawas Street. It had been condemned months ago, but we dregs still inhabited it, if that’s what you could call it. And I remember this black man stumbling up to me, smiling and singing some indistinguishable tune. He fell on the step below me, tried to steady himself in a dignified manner, and handed me, in a shaking hand, a dime, saying “Son, put that in your piggybank, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
That was the nicest thing anyone ever said to or did for me in my whole, sorry existence. Can you believe it?
And this would not be our only meeting, nor would I know just how life-changing our interaction would be, for both of us really.
After that, my life remained pretty consistent, moving from condemned place to condemned place, hiding from one crack addict after another, trying to avoid their rages and mood swings, as well as their groping fingers and, more often than not, their swinging fists. What a crowd my mother hung out with. But the memory of that kind man stayed with me, as well as his advice to get out of this place. But what could I do at that young age, but endure and endure and endure.
One night I woke up, choking and barely able to breathe. And the heat, God, it was stifling. I opened my eyes only to find I could see nothing, absolutely nothing. The smoke stung my eyes, and I began to panic. Fire! My God, our place was on fire! From what seemed far away, I could hear screams, horrible, horrible screams. And pleas for help. Then I felt strong hands on my back, pulling me forward. I did not struggle. We both fell so many times and bumped into things I still could not see. I’m not really sure how this happened, but my unseen and unknown rescuer and I got out of the building after what seemed like a blinding eternity.
Choking and still blinded from the smoke, I felt those strong hands slowly release me onto the ground. Then everything was a blur as paramedics and firefighters ran past me to destinations unknown.
All I heard was someone very close by coughing and coughing, and then this in a barely audible whisper, “Son, we made it. By God’s help, we sure done made it.” The voice of my rescuer! At that moment, I was sure I had been saved by an angel, an angel in the ‘hood.
I heard later from a nurse that I was the only one who had made it out of the burning hovel; they obviously weren’t aware of my savior that night. The woman I had known as my mother died in that inferno, probably too drunk or drugged to even be aware of her own death. No one else ever stepped forward to claim me, or what was left of me. So I waded through foster home after foster home after foster home, until I was liberated, so to speak, at the age of eighteen. And what did I learn over those hard, hard years? How to survive, my friend, how to survive.
My path remained pretty typical for my situation; I spent more time on the streets than I ever did in school. That kind of knowledge, book learning, never proved really helpful in my life; no, that was more for those who had a chance, a chance to “get out of Dodge.” My chances were pretty limited: no money, no family, no book smarts. So, I set my personal goals pretty realistically, or so I thought. What did I know, really know? I knew about drugs, about pimping, about stealing, about conning. And I took that basic knowledge and turned it to my advantage. I can’t tell you how many times I was rounded up with the rest of “the usual suspects” or how many times I just squeaked past a conviction. Nobody could really touch me, I believed so arrogantly at the time. And, so on my pathetic life ran. And I mean ran.
One night, while I was making my payment runs, I decided on a shortcut and took the alleyway running behind the Y to get to my next stop. That decision changed the course of my short, short future.
As I headed north on the alley, I saw up ahead of me a man bending over something and sobbing, I mean sobbing like his heart was broken. I’ve never heard a grown man cry like that, ever. Well, I thought it was just another junkie or drunk but still remained on guard as I approached. Especially since I had a bundle on me at this point. One never could be too careful.
As I got closer, I noticed something was wrong, very wrong. I almost turned and ran off, not wanting to get involved in this mess. But at that moment, the man turned in my direction and looked up at me, the tears streaming down his old and weathered black face.
“My baby, my baby’s dead,” he sobbed, holding a bundle in his arms.
Jesus, this was the man who had given me that dime so long ago. And it looked like he was still wearing the same old suit from that fateful day. His eyes showed no recognition at all. And why should they? Especially at this tragic moment?
Now I could plainly see that he was holding a small dog. And when he moved his hand away, I saw that the dog was covered in blood.
“He killed my baby; he killed my baby,” the man sobbed, rocking to and fro with his bloody dog in his arms.
“Who did, old man?” I asked, disturbed at his grief and wondering about the state of his mind.
The man stopped rocking and pointed to his left. I turned from him and walked over to the dumpster on our left. There, on the ground, lay a very dead man; the blood was still seeping from the gash on the back of his head. He appeared to be about fifty or so, and did he stink! And not because he was dead. His last bath or shower might have taken place during his teen years. He was still holding the broken whiskey bottle he had probably used to kill the dog.
God, what a mess I had walked into. Now what?
I turned back to the old man, who was still sobbing uncontrollably.
I knelt down and placed my hand on his shoulder. He quieted down and looked right into my eyes.
“He took the only thing I’d ever loved, the only thing that ever really loved me. Why? Why did he do that? Why?”
I remained silent. What did I know about love?
“I’ve tried to be a good person, ya know? Never did no wrong to no one. At least I don’t think so. I tried to do right by everyone. And look. He gone and killed my baby. I had to shove him, son. I had to!”
I heard sirens approaching from far off. Great, just great.
“Listen, old man. We need to get out of here, and now.”
He didn’t seem to hear me.
“I know who you are, son. It didn’t hit me right away. But now I know.”
All I could think of was the approaching sirens. We needed to move now!
“Your eyes. They still hold the same sorrow and anger, all wrapped up together. You didn’t make it out, did you? You’re still in Dodge.”
So he did remember. But we had to leave!
“Let’s go, old man. Do you hear the sirens? C’mon!”
I rose, trying to drag him with me. But he wouldn’t budge.
“I had hoped after the fire that you’d be freed.”
That stopped me dead cold. No pun intended.
“It was you! You saved me.”
The old man slowly rose, still holding his dead and bloody dog.
And I knew now I was going nowhere. But he was.
And we didn’t have much time. The sirens were almost deafening at this point.
“Go now, old man.”
He looked at me with such sadness and slowly shook his head.
And I said the only thing I could to get him out of this unholy mess.
“They’ll take your baby from you, old man. They’ll take your baby.”
The old man clutched his bloody dog even closer to his body. A look of utter anguish and horror crossed his weary face. And then I knew with certainty that I would allow no one else to harm this old man.
It was time.
I gave the old man a hard shove and yelled, “Go now or you’ll never see your baby again! Go!”
He stumbled, looked back at me only once and ran as if pursued by the devil himself.
They found me standing over the smelly remains of one who had taken the only joy my angel had found in his lonely, lonely life.
