Charles had two names to match his personalities. He was over six feet tall and probably about 280 lbs. When we’d go to 7/11 to get his jumbo cola, people would move away from him.
He lived two lives. During the day, he stayed in a semi-lockdown facility where I worked. He’d bum cigarettes off people occasionally. Who could say no to him?
His hair was a messy dishwater brown, thinning on the top. He had the puffiness that comes from psychotropic medication. The meds made him drool. He bathed but refused to use soap so he had a bit of an odor about him. He’d even shave sometimes. But there were patches missed and the bristles shown in the sun. His skin was pasty white and his eyes washed out blue.
He was a site to behold.
He was also a very dear man who deserves to be remembered.
Charles had been abandoned at some point in his life. No one knew for sure where he came from or what his history was. Rumors said he’d lived in Las Vegas and was left to state care by a father. In Charles’s world, none of this existed.
My first experience with his character happened when I was assigned to drive the clinic van to the store with the residents who’d earned the trip. I was a bit intimidated by this awesome responsibility. As I perched in the driver’s seat, I issued edicts for participation in this privilege. Things like listening to me when I spoke, not overdoing the sweets and sodas, etc. Blah, blah, blah. Charles, who was sitting directly behind me, spoke up. He said, “Let me out. I don’t want to go.”
What a bitch I was. This gentle soul had one joy in life – going to the 7/11 once a week and I’d ruined it for him. We let him out. When I got back, I asked him to please forgive me for my harshness. We took a separate trip to the store. We respected each other from then on.
He taught me it isn’t always necessary to verbalize your personal boundaries to everyone.
More later…
