By Tom Swift
Staff Writer
His name isn’t Steve. But that’s what I’m going to call him here.
I don’t suspect Steve spends much time online — and, even if he does go, it’s unlikely he’ll happen across UTD — yet he doesn’t know I‘m a writer. He didn’t sign up for this.
He’s 56 years old. He’s been in group-homes since he was 21.
I learned these facts — Steve’s age and his thirty-five year history in one or other group homes in different parts of the state — the other night. On my way home from a long, head-clearing walk I encountered Steve milling about on a sidewalk. I was surprised to see him anywhere other than at the home.
Steve moved into the group home, located not far from my house, some months ago. He recalled his move-in date was January. In my memory, I started seeing him longer ago than that. He would stand outside the home each day, waving at people as they happened by, whether on foot or in a car. I walk by the home often. I saw the pleasure Steve got from saying hello to folks. Some waved back, others didn’t, and Steve’s enthusiasm was unfazed either way.
One day I stopped on the other side of the fence in front of the home and asked his name. I told him mine. He said he might not remember my name. He has problems remembering things, he said. I told him it’s OK if he doesn’t remember. I will never be mad if someone asks my name, I told him. Occurs now that may not have been useful; he might not remember that declaration any more than he remembers my name.
For the last several months when I have passed the home I have seen Steve sitting in a lawn chair on the front stoop. He’s almost always smoking a cigarette. I wave. Sometimes I add, ”Hi, Steve!” Steve always waves back, immediately, but in a way, and with a look, as though he were questioning how I could know his name.
Sometimes during my passing by Steve and I make small-talk, often about the weather.
This concludes a summary of the extent of our interactions before the other evening when I found Steve lingering between street corners. He was moving but not really going anywhere. I have seen from a distance Steve walk down the block to a movie theater a time or two. So he must be allowed to roam a bit. Yet in this moment he wasn’t especially far away from the home but he was well out of sight. Ignorant me, I didn’t know if that was allowed.
I walked up to Steve and said an enthusiastic hello.
I reminded Steve I see him on my walks and I am on my way back from one now.
Steve has a big, bushy beard. Some pepper, mostly salt.
I asked Steve if there were anything I could do for him.
Steve told me there might be some illegal activity going on at the group home. He didn’t want to get into the specifics. He wasn’t sure whether he should call the cops.
As he talked Steve smoked a cigarette down to the smallest nub he could and still maintain a grip.
The nub fell. He looked down. He couldn’t find the nub within a pile of leaves. He seemed worried he had littered. I assured him no one could find it if they tried.
I told him I was on my way home. I pointed as I said that. He told me the group home was that way. He pointed as he said that.
“Should we walk together?” he asked. His question had much inflection.
“That’s what I was thinking,” I said.
Before leaving my house I had made a call I had been putting off. My response to a conflict. I don’t like conflict much. The matter wasn’t momentous but sometimes you can’t convince my mind not to summarily raise the stakes. My body then registers the tension. I went for a walk as an antidote. Or maybe just to avoid.
A return call came early in the walk. So did raindrops. I didn’t answer the call and I didn’t let the rain shorten the long circle I was making through a garden, down a parkway, up the next neighborhood, and back down a several-block stretch of my home street.
By the time I reached Steve I was in a better place. Which is different than saying my mind was completely settled.
Steve walked slowly and we talked staccato for a block until the home was in view.
“That's the group home,” he said, pointing.
“Yep.”
How grandly lucky am I that I get to interact with the world with a sense of autonomy — that I get the chance to learn about myself, grow, remember, reflect, doubt, try, fail, and, at least some of the time, make progress toward a fuller version of myself.
What pebble-in-the-sand-sized difference would have had to occur in the genetic lottery — what physical or mental accident was I wildly fortunate to avoid — that I get to experience this life such that my consciousness can be expanded?
My mind is not nearly always as sharp as I wish. Not infrequently do I find I would have like to have said something different than I did. I waste time I wish I could get back. Some of this is inextricably linked with the human condition. Some of it may stem from circumstances unique to my history wholly out of my control — the residue of some serious matters. Yet the level of good luck I have received is impossible to quantify.
Steve’s in a group home. I live in a solo one. For starters.
Later tonight I will sit on my own stoop and write about these moments of kismet. This act will help me make a wee bit of clarity amidst the chaos that is my mind’s response to this life. An essential element in the usefulness of this act is memory. I will recall details of these interactions. I will also voluntarily and involuntarily summon images and understanding gleaned from the past.
What would I have if not this capacity?
As Steve and I reached the fence gate he asked if I had “a dollar or two” so he could go to the convenience store to get a soda.
I thought for a second. ”Is there a manager or leader or someone inside?”
“Yeah," he said, “he’s probably in there making dinner.”
“If you go ask him to come out and he says it’s OK I will take you and buy you a soda.”
Steve ran to the steps, opened the door, and stuck his head inside. “There’s a guy outside who wants to talk to you,” he said.
A man came out. At first the man seemed concerned. I explained. I saw his face change. He stuck out his hand to shake mine. My hands were dirty and he was making dinner so we settled on a fist-bump. Alas, a possible sojourn for soda would be against group-home policy.
“So is this going to happen?” Steve asked.
“Maybe another time, Steve,” I told him. “Have a great rest of the night.”
I left Steve. I pivoted toward home.
Just then I observed a fella walk back to his car after buying plants from a nearby garden supply. This reminded me I am in the market for a bird bath. I also wanted an excuse not to return to the stress that awaited me at home: the message on my phone that came through on my walk that I didn’t want to face.
After chatting up a worker at the store about some really expensive receptacles for a small bit of water for my avian friends, I walked up the sidewalk to go home.
Without thinking, I found myself again on the corner across from the group home. Steve was there. He sat in his chair. I waved.
Steve waved back. This time his wave wasn’t a question mark but rather an explanation point.
