Mike from the Northland
Mike is a nice guy. Close to 50 years old, stocky, with thinning black hair and a missing front tooth, he’s fallen on hard times. He approached us in the dark carrying Zambuca and Irish Cream shooters and told us his story. Upon hearing it, I realized he had never really had an easy time.
Mike was run over by a fork lift when he was 17. He slipped off a log he was supposed to be stacking and knocked the lift into gear on the way down. The lift worked itself slowly over his body. It moved its way up his shins first, then his thighs, then his hips (crack), then his chest and shoulder, and finally his head which he has very little memory of. He still experiences the effects of the incident today. Brain damage effects his recollection of names, dates and numbers and his body is in constant pain so he does what he can to mitigate it by smoking potent weed and stretching on public beaches.
Mike used to have a beautiful home. It sat so high on a mountaintop that it could see both the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific Ocean. But after his father died he needed help with rent and upkeep while he was away so he asked a family friend if she’d like to move in. She was friends with gang members who cooked so much methamphetamine in the house it contaminated the walls and condemned the property. They also murdered a young man and disposed of his car on Mike’s property. Mike had to sell his property for nearly half of its’ worth. He now lives in an RV, alone.
Mike loves talking about his boys. He showed us photos on his flip phone. They were tattooed and muscular. They wore a lot of tank tops. They had struggles of their own; child custody, legal battles, psychiatric issues, but he was hopeful and proud of all of them. Their photos were pinned around his RV. As he talked he would glance at them and the conversation would find a way back to them.
Mike is also a little creepy. He doesn’t realize it and I don’t think he means any harm, but he lacks personal space and doesn’t pick up on social cues. He had this way of stringing together sentences and stories without pause that wouldn't allow you to politely disengage. He talked us into joining him in his RV for a drink. According to Mike, he’s not a drinker, but he opened up his fridge and revealed three well stocked shelves of Zambuca, Mudslides, Mud Shakes, and other strange, sweet concoctions that could trick any 12 year old into getting hammered. He asked us to sit down on his giant, white leather, swiveling cockpit chairs and he lit up a joint. He told us about a group of 6 girls he met a couple days before, who, just like us, didn’t know Mike, they didn’t even know each other, but they accepted his offer of free drink and ended up twerking for Mike while he yelled, “YEAH GIRLS!”
Mike got me so high I fainted. He was mid way through explaining why he carried a hatchet for protection from thieves. Ash kept checking on our van across the parking lot. Mike had the hatchet in my face for inspection when the blood drained from my face, “Mike, I’m sorry man but I’ve gotta drink some water!” I stood up suddenly, I was seeing stars and my hearing retreated somewhere deep within my head. Mike gave me apple juice and I stumbled back to our van. My vision, hearing and circulation came back shortly, and so did Mike. Three more times actually. Each time from behind us in the dark, each time talking until I found a pause just large enough to break away.
Mike finally went back to his RV. We cleaned up and went to bed. Long after we turned off our lights Mike sat on the steps of his RV listening to his radio. A light overhead cast long, strange shadows on his face. Shadows that he may face better alone.