Charles stared at the television screen in the group home, but he had no idea what he was looking at, he just stared. He was high, and in fact, he was always high. No man would want to reflect on the life and terror he had experienced- drugs eased the emotional turmoil. It was people like Charles that I never could convict for using drugs. In fact, on some level, I supported his drug use. Why? I think for some people- drugs are the only happiness that they will ever obtain. Charles had a story that drained his soul until there was nothing in it but darkness. Darkness was all he knew. If drugs could be a light in his dying world- I supported it. There was a time when happiness and joy filled him like candy in a pinata. But also like candy in a pinata- it would be beaten out of him.
Charles grew up in a very privileged life. His dad was a doctor, and his mother worked for a law firm. At a young age, his parents enrolled him in top schools. Both his mom and dad insisted that he be well educated. His father would often tell Charles with a sly smile, “Knowledge gives us truths- and truths give us wisdom.”
The two of us were in my car driving- just driving for fun. At that time the price of gas was below a dollar. We were seventeen and drifted through downtown Baton Rouge as we wandered along aimlessly. Youth is a beautiful time in life.
“Would you light this damn cigarette for me,” I bickered as I struggled to drive and light my smoke with a rebellious lighter. Charles took the lighter from me, and after several strokes, a flame erupted, and I took a deep breath as the cigarette engulfed the little ray of fire. I rolled down both of the windows and wind ruffled my long brown hair. We were in my red Saturn- it was a sporty car.
“Charles said in a daze; You got to smoke this stuff. This stuff is great! This is some good shit!" I did not smoke marijuana- at least not at this point in my life. “Max, you have no idea what you're missing out on.” Charles was smoking weed, and a dazzling smile rested firmly on his face.
“It's not for me,” I said as I twisted my head toward him and my blue eyes locked with his faded brown ovals.
“Common just try,” he said as he held the joint towards me. I looked at it and then at him. His greasy brown hair had become alive in the torrent wind, and his entire body was shaking to the beat of Mambo no 5 as it played over the radio. I took a long drag from the cigarette but did not even reply. Instead, my eyes gazed at the ruins of the buildings we drove by- one after the other- boarded up or run down. Downtown Baton Rouge was a glum place. One could describe it as the dumpster of Louisiana, and although I was sure other places in Louisiana wreaked of desperation- Many parts of downtown Baton Rouge was still a depressing sight.
“Look at that soup kitchen. I couldn’t begin to imagine what disasters lead people to such unfortunate situations- God- eating at a soup kitchen- that is the epitome of hell." I say bitterly. Charles had retracted the offer of weed and was smoking it once more as he too gazed at the group of homeless people. We were at a red light in front of the soup kitchen, and Charles started to yell.
“What’cha you guys eating today?” He hollered moronically. There was a line in front of the soup kitchen that stretched into the distance, and although people looked at him as he shouted, they did not respond. “Is it lobster today?” The individuals in the line were mostly black and seemed too subdued by their misfortune to pay any mind to the ridiculous rantings from my best friend.
I did not say anything but shook my head back and forth, and as the light turned green, I floored it. Charles let out a heinous laugh.
“Charles, my dear friend, you should be careful about what you say.” “Why is that, Max? Is Karma going to get me?” He said wildly with a grin stamped across his face.
“Ya never know,” I said as I tossed the cigarette out the window. “Hah! Karma. Really, Max? We both have grand futures ahead of us- Karma has nothing to do with it. No such thing as Karma- I will own the world, and when I am rich, I am going to buy that soup kitchen and turn it into a laundry mat.”
“What?” I said in a bewildered tone. Charles shrugged.
“I think that was the weed talking.” His face lit up with a robust smile. I gave a humorous grunt.
We drove around for another hour and then I brought him home. That was the last time I saw Charles. Of course, I saw him many times after that, but he was no longer Charles. He would become a different person as the day progressed into night. Something happened- something that would rob him of his soul.
That evening he was watching football with his father. He was stretched out across the couch, his head resting on a comfy red pillow at one end, and his hairy feet at the other. Although I know nothing about sports, Charles could whittle away hours discussing the game. Sometimes he would talk to me about the games as excitement and enthusiasm rattled from him with such intensity- I wondered if I was missing out on something? I decided I wasn’t.
“Dad, he fumbled,” Charles says as his eyes widen and his eyebrows rose. “Yes, interception! Awesome!” His dad was hollering too, and then his father started twisting and turning in what Charles thought was excitement. Charles looked at his father and laughed at his crazy spasms.
His father fell to the floor, and Charles continued laughing. That was how the two of them were. They were always messing around, telling jokes, and having fun. Charles loved his father.
His dad stopped twitching and lay on the ground, and Charles laughs began to taper away.
“Dad,” he said cautiously, and then he called out his father’s name again but this time with much more alarm. His father did not move. Charles stood up and moved the table away from the couch, to better see his dad. Charle shook him twice.
“Shit!” he cried out in a hushed whisper. Standing up, he ran to the phone, dialing 911, and he ran back to his father as he started heart compressions on him and breathed into his mouth. The ambulance was on its way as Charles continued to do CPR on him.
“Dad,” Charles cried, his eyes filled with tears. "Dad," he screamed as he slapped his father's cheek- as if this would awaken him. The ambulance arrived, and they had to pull Charles from his father. He was sobbing loudly by this time and ranting madly. As they gained control of the situation, the outcome was not good. His father, at the age of 43 was proclaimed dead from a stroke.
I went to the funeral. I pulled up to the cemetery, parked my car, and taking one last drag of my cigarette; I tossed it out the window. I killed off the rest of the bottle of vodka and sat in my seat as I contemplated life. I looked at graves that seemed to stretch on endlessly. It made me think of my mortality, and one day I would be nothing more than a tombstone. My entire life would eventually be summed up to dates chiseled into the stone. I shook this thought from my head and stepped out of my car. There was a large gathering, and I approached Charles who seemed to distance himself from the crowd. “You okay buddy?” I asked him softly and looked into his shivering eyes that appeared to be dancing wildly. His eyes stopped moving, and he looked at me. “Ya,” he whispered. And of course, I understood that he was upset- that he was horrified- that he was sad- his father had just died. His behavior was understandable. I hugged him briefly, and as I let go, I said, “You will always have me, buddy.” But as I looked into his eyes- they were hollow- something had left him.
After the funeral was over, I looked for Charles, but I could not find him. At last, I saw him in the brush behind a towering oak tree whose roots spread out like little veins. A cigarette was planted firmly between his two fingers.
I approached him. “Charles- everything will work out. This is tough for you- I know- and I also know that no matter what I say, it won't take away the pain.” I pause momentarily- not sure what to say to a son who just lost his father and all I could say was, "I am sorry." He nodded his head and asked to be alone. I got in my car and left, and although I did not know it at the time- it would not be okay- it would never be ok.
Years progressed and on the occasions that I saw my best friend Charles- he was always mopping around. I would never again see the uplifting smile that was usually companied by a good sense of humor. His tone was bitter, and his eyes were sad. He had no desire to hang out. 6 months after the funeral I visited him, and he was in a deplorable condition.
“Maybe you should see a psychiatrist?” I asked as I watched him take a deep breath from a pipe. He held it in, and he released the smoke as he coughed. But he did not reply to my question. I tried my best to help him. I assured him I would always be by his side. The contents of our conversations were bleak, and although I would beg him to get in the car with me and do something- he would just shake his head no. I wanted to get him out of his house and show him that losing his father was tragic- life was still worth living. But he had worshiped his father, and I knew this to be the case. When we were together before his father's death, he would talk about him with infatuation, and I knew the memories of his father consumed him.
The last time I visited him- he was in bed- and when I entered his room, he did not bother to hide the fact that he was crying. I resided by his bed, and his eyes looked up at me as he whispered, "I miss him so much." I had no idea what to say to this, and I was silent as his sobs continued to fill the room. I tried to help him- encourage him- make him laugh- but my efforts were in vain.
I was 27 years old, and I had a master in English. Charles was in the past. No matter how much I tried, I could not help him. He began using illegal drugs to numb the pain- other than pot. He never got over his father’s death, and I don't think he ever will. One year passed after the other, and Charles remained infringed with agony. His mom would grow weary of his drug usage. She would eventually kick him out of the house, and he would have nowhere to go. I remember him calling my phone.
“Max, I need a place to stay,” Charles said with a profound sense of fright. By this time I had just moved to Boston for a job. I hadn’t been there for but two days.
“I am sorry Charles, but I am in Boston now,” I said softly.
“Can I come live with you?” He asked in fear. The fear in Charle's voice was so thick; I could smell it in his words. However, I had no solution. My partner and I were living together, I had a new job, and it was not possible for me to aid him. Our childhood days had passed.
“I am sorry Charles. I can’t. I just can’t.” There was a long silence, and then I did something that took a lot of courage- I hung up the phone.
Charles would walk the streets for several weeks. As he stood in the line of the soup kitchen with a vacant stare on his face- the realization dawned upon him that he had become the very people that were once targets of his teasing. The line in front of the soup kitchen had individuals who had nothing but misfortune, and now Charles was part of that line. He was a white boy who came from a prosperous family and educated in the best schools but was reduced to walking streets and begging for drugs. Eventually, he would find refuge in a group home where he medicated himself to ease the pain. It was a pain that would never go away. And although many people would claim that with counseling and the proper medication regiment, he would get well- it wouldn’t help. He would call me from time to time, but he was never the same Charles that sat in my car as we ventured aimlessly down roads. That Charles had faded and my only thought now- I hope the drugs provide him some relief because that was all he had.
I am sorry Charles.
