Do-Gooding 101

The Saturday morning AA meeting I go to is filled all types of people: There’s everything from hardcore addicts, living on the streets, to affluent, well-spoken CEO’s. This morning, a tough looking guy is sharing a bit of his story: “I’m going to classes,” he says, in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I even made the Dean’s List. But here I am still on the streets. I get paid on Tuesday and if I can make it to then, I can move into a place of my own.”

The imposing appearance of the guy, and his deep, scratchy voice, contrast the vulnerable manner in which he speaks. I’m stirred by it. After the meeting I approach him and hand him a few bills. “Hey man,” I say, “I really appreciate what you’re trying to accomplish. Tell you what – I know you don’t know me, but my wife and kids are out of town for a few days, and if you need a couch to crash on, just let me know.” He whips out a little booklet and I write my phone number down.

Almost immediately after the words come out of my mouth, I start regretting the offer. That was impulsive. Maybe even risky. But it’s out there, and I’ll do it if he takes me up on it. He probably won’t anyway. For the rest of the day I’m hoping the guy won’t call. I start thinking of excuses I could give him why I can’t follow through. I’ll say the wife said no. I’ll just be honest and say I’m not comfortable with it. I’ll say some other guys in The Program advised me not to.

I think back, about a friend of mine in Atlanta, who was once similarly moved, and brought a homeless guy in to live with his family for a few weeks. They extended him every generosity, treated him like one of the family, and even admitted him into a drug rehab center. Eventually, the guy simply skipped out on them; but I remember telling my friend that I thought it was a reckless move, especially with little girls in the house. And here I am doing practically the same thing. Damn, I hope the guy doesn’t call.

He calls around four o’ clock. I tell him – let’s call him Alex – I’ll pick him up at Pike’s Place around six o’ clock. I call David, my nineteen-year-old son, and let him know we’ll be having a guest spend the night.

Before I leave to get Alex, I take all the computers and electronics out of the main living area and put them up. Why needlessly tempt the guy? I also put away any papers that might have personal information on them, along with all extra sets of car keys.

I pick Alex up from Pike’s Place. Driving back to my house, he starts letting little bits of information loose. “I couldn’t get that job because I’ve got a felony,” he says. Oh, that’s great. I figure the best way to handle the news is with nonchalance, and I don’t ask him what the felony was for. But my imagination starts running wild.

We stop along the way, and pick up a sandwich for Alex. I take a longer, indirect route home to make it more difficult to retrace. When we finally arrive, Alex says, “Man, this is a nice house.” I fight the urge to be apologetic about having a house and just say thanks.

Alex eats his sandwich and tells fragments of his story. From what I can make out, he grew up in New York and quit school, his senior year, to be a roofer. That set him on a negative trajectory, which kept him working menial jobs and bouncing around – Florida, the Midwest, and California. He regrets quitting school and ever getting mixed up with drugs.

David comes home from work and introduces himself to our guest. Alex talks for a while, and David and I listen. I study what must be a prison tattoo, of a flower, on Alex’s forearm. It, along with his piercing stare, leathery skin and shaved head give him a sinister air; but I try not to dwell on it. I’m a big guy, and I can take care of myself. But I imagine guys in prison are used to taking risks that fighters at the gym, where I train, aren’t used to. Guys with nothing to lose are dangerous. More doubt creeps into my mind.

Alex talks proudly about his brother who’s a successful corporate guy; but many of his other family members also succumbed to drugs. One cousin’s a Meth addict; an uncle’s into heroine; someone else got sent away for trafficking cocaine. I wonder how a person can get out of a system where there’s such heavy drug abuse. Alex says it’s hard, but not impossible.

We both talk about the economy and how it’s affected everyone – how there’s not enough work to go around anymore. I tell him that my industry is in decline and that I peaked a few years back. I feel like bitching about my own financial woes but it would just sound stupid and sniveling to a man whose only worldly possessions are contained in a small plastic grocery bag.

After a while we put on a movie. It’s a Quentin Tarantino flick about grifters and smuggling. Every now and then, Alex take’s a cue from the movie and says things like: “That reminds me of this guy I know who would dress up like a businessman, go into office buildings and steal everything from petty cash to computers;” or, “I know this one guy who stole an industrial generator and sold it for $50,000;” or, “I know this guy who robbed a bank.” My takeaway from all these statements is: Alex knows an awful lot of thieves. I can only guess, by association, that he might be one too.

When the movie’s over, it’s totally dark outside. Our house is well lit and we don’t have any curtains drawn; so the darkness shouldn’t really make a difference. But it does. I’m suddenly more wary of Alex. I tell him I’m going to call it a night and I start locking everything up for the evening.

I keep all the lights on. I go into David’s room and leave one of our dogs with him. I tell him to lock his door. I take our other dog to my bedroom and lock my door behind me.

I can’t get to sleep. Not so much as a wink. I lie in bed wearing all my clothes, and a baseball bat is within reach on the pillow next to me. I keep a small light on. Every noise I hear – every shuffle or the slightest cough – I sit up, and see if sounds of a struggle are coming from David’s room. What was that? Was that the turning of a bedroom handle? Was that the gurgling sound of David being strangled? Or, was it just the dog, scratching? It was the dog. Phew!

In the morning, I’m out of bed and in the kitchen around seven. Alex is up and having a hand-rolled cigarette out back. I fix us both eggs and sausage.

After we eat, I offer Alex provisions for the road and he takes a water and a grape soda with him. I speed downtown like a stunt-driver and I’m in good spirits. This plane’s coming in for a landing. But I’m not out of this yet. I’m still half paranoid that something weird, like a hijacking, might happen: you hear stories.

I stop the car in front of Pike’s Place. Alex is grateful. When he gets out, we shake hands. He looks me in the eye and gives me a sincere, “Thanks brother.” I like it when he says this, and I think: Yes. Right now, at this moment, we are indeed brothers and I’m glad to have been able to do you a small kindness.

Driving back home, I’m utterly relieved. Except for a small, nagging worry, in the back of my mind, that now a homeless drifter and ex-convict knows where I live. Deep down, though, I don’t think I really need to worry about Alex. I think he’s just a guy who’s had a lot more setbacks than I have.

Here’s the thing: All my anxiety has been about something I’m supposed to do; and not just once in a while. I’m supposed to help people.

This big, black book, I keep in my night stand, uses some rather forceful language about helping orphans, caring for the sick, visiting prisoners, and being a general benefit to those who are forgotten and in need. It doesn’t list these things as optional. It wildly asserts that it’s my obligation to help others even if it means inconveniencing myself, being uncomfortable, or taking risks. It claims that I should be bold and somehow fearless in the pursuit of compassion.

Do I do that? Not so much. I rarely extend myself in the aid of others and that’s one of the things that makes me more of a church-goer than a church-doer. The fact that I’m even mentioning all this reinforces how unusual altruism is for me.

But I liked it. And I’d like to get better at it.

Next time, though, I think I’d probably get someone a hotel room instead.