This is a story of how we, as humans, choose to interact with one another; how we can show compassion toward another being; and how we can be touched by the simplest things.
Many years ago, close to 15 years by now, I would regulary see a man in my work neighborhood who clearly had serious mental issues. He would walk down the street, sometimes with a shirt on and sometimes without, screaming and cursing. His eyes would look wild, his hair was unkempt, and his ranting would make you want to cross to the other, seemingly safer, side of the street. On some days, he was a lot calmer...still unkempt, but not so scary that he couldn't beg change off of the people he passed on the street.
I patiently observed this man for many months. I would often see the police harrass him, sometimes making his ranting worse, and giving his ranting a subject (as opposed to screaming at the air in front of him). None of the ranting made any sense, and I began to notice that he never really ranted at anyone (other than the police), just to the air. I wasn't brave enough to make eye contact, but I saw seemingly normal people giving him money. I even saw a woman sit down with the crazy man and have a conversation with him. I think that was my turning point.
The next time I saw the man, I gave him a quarter. To my surpise, he was very polite and thanked me. On days I didn't have any spare change, he didn't seem to mind. He never got mad. He just continued to work his way down the street. I learned that he had "regulars" that gave him money. And I started to see him every day. Spare change eventually worked its way up to a dollar. Finally, one day, I found myself sitting with him one day, actually having a real conversation. That's when this man became a little something more than just a crazy person you generally avoid or limit your exposure to.
This first conversation was pretty simple, consisting of normal pleasantries (how are you? isn't it a nice day? and other simple things). But eventually we formally introduced ourselves and he was no longer nameless. His name is Rudy. While you can't hold a conversation with him for too long...he has a limited attention span...I learned that Rudy is an intense baseball fan. In fact, he loves most sports. I learned that he lives in a group home in the near suburbs and commutes downtown every day. I learned that he used to own a trucking business, and was apparently successful before he lost his mind. He can't remember my name, but he can remember that I vacation on Martha's Vineyard. He recognizes my car. And he knew exactly where I worked and which garage I parked my car in everyday. I eventually understood that he was relatively OK if he was on his medication. The ranting and raving came when he didn't take his meds. He has a memory like a steel trap. So, when I promised to get him a Washington Nationals t-shirt, he worried me every day he saw me until I finally produced the shirt.
One evening after work, I was pulling my car out of the garage and into traffic. It was a beautiful summer day and I had the convertible top down. As soon as I pulled into the stream of traffic, I saw (or rather heard) Rudy coming down the sidewalk...one of his ranting days. He saw my car and made a beeline for it. I got my dollar out for him, but suddenly thought, "will all of these drivers seeing this crazy man walking toward my car be worried that I am about to be attacked?" At that point, I couldn't worry about it. To my surprise, as soon as Rudy got to the car, his screaming stopped long enough for him to pluck the dollar from my hands and say thank you. As soon as he turned his back and headed back toward the sidewalk, he resumed his angry ranting to whatever imaginary instigator he was seeing in his mind's eye.
Rudy began to grow on me and I actually missed him on days I didn't see him. Eventually, when I left my job, I said my goodbyes to Rudy, but promised to keep an eye out for him whenever I was in the area. I could also keep tabs on Rudy because the day porter at my former office knew him and I would get periodic reports from my former colleagues. A couple of years ago in the late fall, I bumped into Rudy and he told me he didn't have a winter coat. He was not one to let the weather stop him, unless it was torrential rain. I didn't really have the extra cash, but I made a trip to a discount coat store and bought him the warmest winter coat I could find. I left the coat with the day porter at my old office, as I knew he saw Rudy daily and would be sure that he got his new coat. It warmed my heart the next time I saw Rudy, with that winter coat on. And he was not shy about thanking me for it. I had to laugh the following spring, when Rudy sent a message to me, via the day porter, that the zipper broke on his winter coat and that he needed me to get him a new one.
Now, if too many months go by and Rudy doesn't see me, he will ask the day porter where I am. This happened not too long ago. Rudy's patterns have changed a little over the years. So, he is not always around at the times I am in the area. But a few weeks ago, I was running an early morning errand and saw Rudy that morning. I saw him before he saw me. But I wasn't prepared for his response. When he looked up and saw me, his eyes lit up and his usually serious countenance broke into a big grin. Rudy never smiles. We almost always have the same conversation. He reassured me that he still has his room at the group home. He told me that one of his housemates had promised to give him a shave...yes, Rudy knows when he is unkempt, though it may take several more months before he actually gets that shave. He told me about where he's been hanging out during the day. But then he turned the conversation to asking all about me: where I've been, where I'm working, what I'm doing. It was like bumping into any old friend that you haven't seen for a while.
Rudy can't hold a conversation for more than about five to ten minutes. What really touched me was when it was time to say goodbye. One of the things that I learned over the years with Rudy was that his mental illness prevents him from getting close to people. It's a two-way street because you still have a little voice inside of you telling you that you're dealing with an unpredictable crazy person and that you should keep your distance, even though I am no longer afraid of Rudy...haven't been for many years now. For most people, an encounter with an old friend might end with an embrace. But for someone with a severe mental illness, this level of closeness..to actually embrace another human being... is usually not a possibility.
So, when Rudy very tentatively held out his hand, I instinctively reached out my hand to meet his. It was our "hug". It was our acknowledgement of a long-standing friendship, though perhaps not a traditional one. I was amazed that such a simple human act...that moment of touching, which most would take for granted, took on such a deep meaning that I am sure both of us felt. That one small moment of touching, a big deal for Rudy, was immediately felt by my heart and put a smile on my face for the rest of that day. It is my lesson in how the simple act of compassion, the sharing of love on a human level can touch our lives and better our lives in the most profound way.
