Someone Like Bill

The kinder the deed, the deeper your place in Hell.

That’s what I’ve learned from life. I’m sorry, but there it is. The raw and naked truth.

It took a blind crack addict of a beggar to teach me that, and today he gets his reward for it. I’m giving him exactly what he wants, which is the worst thing you could possibly do for somebody.

He’ll be happy. I’ll be happy. Where’s the downside?

And, anyway, it’s his birthday. It’s always his birthday. He constantly says so. Not every time I see him, mind you, but regularly enough. It’s his way of getting extra cash out of me.

But, whatever. I’m going to act like it really is his birthday and make his wildest dream come true.

I’ve got a package for him. Just a little cardboard box wrapped in brown paper. He’ll be pretty thrilled when he opens it. Just wish I could be there to watch, but that would raise questions.

I met him the way people always meet someone like Bill. He came up to me on the street. Just like that. Out of the blue.

I remember the weather was bad and I was wrestling with my umbrella. This was about a year or so ago, and I was still anxious about making a good impression at my new firm.

Anyway, I heard this soft-spoken “excuse me,” and I wheeled around, even though I knew better. Anytime someone says “excuse me” on the street, they’re about to hit you up for money. They’re just trying to sound polite, so they don’t offend you.

But, like I said, it was raining, and I was distracted. So he got the better of me for a second.

“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you like this,” he said. I could tell right away something was wrong with his eyes. One was just a dried-up socket. The other he had to hold open with a thumb and forefinger.

He hadn’t shaved in a while. His clothes were filthy. He smelled like a barn in summer.

He went on. “You can probably tell I’m homeless,” he said. And then he paused. “I’m Bill, by the way. Everybody calls me Bill.”

“I’m sorry, Bill,” I told him, packing my voice with pathetic politeness. “I’m in an awful hurry. But here. Here’s some cash.” I guess I gave him a ten, maybe a twenty. I don’t remember. It wasn’t much, really. Whatever it was, I was overly generous, and I’ve ended up regretting it.

Anyway, he wasn’t able to tell the denomination right away, so he had to bring the bill up to his eye to inspect it. “Sorry. Can’t see very well,” he explained. “My eye is drying up. Doesn’t make any fluid. The gland doesn’t work. It’ll be gone soon. The other one already is.”

A sudden wave of sympathy crested through me, and I had to fight the impulse to open my wallet and just give him everything I had. I got hold of myself, though, and told him that I hoped it helped.

“Everything helps.” I do remember him saying that.

And, of course, he was there the next day. Of course he was. It was stupid of me to even be surprised. I knew better. Do something kind for someone and they’ll punish you forever.

And, yes, he has punished me. It’s been a constant, tiresome, draining saga of need and supplication.

See, he’s done nothing but beg and beg. He’s persistent about it. He’s there in the morning, and then back in the evening. Not every single day, certainly, but close enough.

He’s always got some story about why he needs cash. Sometimes it’s his cat. She sleeps on the street with him, he says. Either he needs to buy her food, or she’s got to go to the vet. “Can’t you please help me?” he’ll plead. And, of course, I’ll cave. I always do. I hate that about myself.

He uses his eye as a reason, too. He says it’s dried up now. Says he’s completely blind. Goes around with dark glasses all the time. Don’t know where he got them, but I’m pretty sure I paid for them.

It’s not just money, either. He needs me to take him places. Stinks up my car. Makes the leather smell. Doctor’s appointments, the shoe store, food pantries. And anytime he buys something, I end up paying for it. What homeless person goes to doctor’s appointments anyway?

But all that’s changing today.

I made up my mind after following him around a couple of weeks ago. See, I had a couple of days off in a row. I needed it. We’d just won a big case, and I hadn’t had any down time in months. So the firm manager told me to take it easy for a bit.

Then Bill accosted me on the way out and asked for a ride somewhere. Some apartment building. He was talkative in the car, which was my cue he needed money. When he hit me up for it, I handed him a fifty and pulled away.

Only I didn’t drive off. Instead, I quietly parked and followed him. I stayed behind as he made his way to a ground floor dwelling, tapping his cane as he went.

When he rapped on the door, a wiry man in a wifebeater came out. You could tell right away he didn’t want Bill in his place. He whispered something and Bill went off around the corner of the building.

I figured drugs, and I figured right. The door closed and then opened again, and the man went around the side exactly where Bill had gone.

It was a short meeting, and then the man was headed back to his apartment. Then Bill was coming back around the building and making for the sidewalk.

That’s when I confronted him.

“What you buying with my money there, Bill?”

He wheeled about in surprise, his discomfort evident in his face. Then, just as quickly, he relaxed.

“So you know,” he said.

“I mean, I kind of figured. But I wanted to be sure.”

“Did you actually see me buy it?” he asked.

“Yes.” I lied. “Just tell me what it is,” I demanded. “I think I have a right to know, you know. I am the one paying for it.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’s crack. OK?”

“OK,” I said. “I just wanted to know.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not like I’m hurting anybody. It just makes me feel better is all.”

“Well, you are spending my money,” I reminded him. “So you are hurting me.”

“Yeah, but you got plenty of money. I know where you work, remember?” he fired back. “So I know I’m not hurting you.”

“It’s not the money. It’s the principle,” I said. “You can’t just take from somebody and lie about why you need it. I feel like I’ve been used.”

There was a long pause. Neither of us said anything. Then he spoke again. “So does this mean you’re going to stop helping me?”

I had to admit; I was caught off guard by the practicality of the question, the pragmatism of it. Everything was transactional with Bill. Everything.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I need to think about it. I can’t say I’m exactly happy you’re using my money to buy drugs.”

“I understand,” Bill said. “But if it helps, this is just weak street stuff. It doesn’t do all that much. It’s cut with something. Who knows what? Baking powder maybe. No telling. I have to smoke the whole bag just to feel it.”

There was another pause, an uncomfortable silence I didn’t bother to fill. Finally, he went on. “To be honest, I’d love to get my hands on some of that good stuff, that pure smokable rock.”

“God,” I thought, turning away.

And that was where we ended things. I got in my car and drove off, leaving Bill to go wherever he was headed next. I didn’t see him again for a good while. It was nice.

Until yesterday. That was when he showed up outside my office again.

“Look I know I effed up,” he said, “but I really do need your help. I got nowhere else to turn. You’re my only friend.”

It was all just another pathetic display of learned helplessness. Bill really can’t do anything for himself, it appears. I know I have it better than him. I understand that. I really do. But that’s just no excuse.

Naturally, he had another story. Someone had mugged him and taken his wallet. “I promise it’s true,” he said. “Give me a stack of Bibles and I’ll swear on it.” He needed some cash to refill a prescription. His blood pressure would go dangerously high without it.

"No worries, Bill,” I told him, handing him over another wad of bills.

“I’ll be in the neighborhood tomorrow,” he added. “Got to meet up with somebody. Maybe I’ll drop by and say hello. It’ll be my birthday, you know.”

“You do that,” I said.

So now I’m parked in front of the building. It’s Saturday. My day off, though I do have a few files to review. I’m sitting here with the AC on full blast, tapping along with a playlist I’ve put together.

I look up and there he is, making his way up the block, moving in the opposite direction of the foot traffic, his walking stick extended before him like a strange appendage. People move aside when they see him. Whether it’s because he’s blind or dirty I can’t tell.

“Bill!” I yell, getting out and keying the car shut. It makes an electronic chirp chirp that blends in with all the other street sounds.

“That you?” he calls back.

“It is indeed,” I say as he approaches the curb.

“Boy, did you save my ass yesterday!” he declares. “I mean I was in real trouble there. I could have had a stroke or something.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Just glad I could help. Happy birthday,” I add, placing the packet directly in his hands. “I got you something. Only, you can’t open it here. Wait till you’re alone.” I lean in. His odor hits me like a physical force. “It’s cash,” I whisper. “Don’t want anybody taking it from you. There’s a little something else in there for you too.”

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he says, a measure of raw emotion in his voice. “Nobody ever remembers my birthday.”

“Hey listen, buddy,” I say. “Think you could swing by next week? I’m kind of in a hurry right now. You know, work and all.”

“On a Saturday?” he questions me.

“On a Saturday,” I confirm.

“Well, okay,” he says. “Anything you want. You always do right by me.” And then, suddenly, he is moving away from me, his back growing smaller as he moves into the swirling crowd of pedestrians.

In a little while, he’ll get off to wherever he goes and open up the little package I just gave him. I didn’t lie. It does have cash in it.

But the something else I mentioned is five hundred dollars of the purest crack cocaine there is. Enough to kill off an addict his size ten times over. See, I know a guy, too. I put in a call to him yesterday. Once Bill gets to smoking it, he won’t be able to stop.

He'll have what he wants, and I’ll get what I want.

Peace.

There’s no other way of putting it. I’m silencing him

Maybe it’s cruel of me. Maybe it’s a kindness. Who’s to say? What I do know is that you can never take half measures with someone like Bill.