I was never a bad guy, he tells me, but I was surrounded by it.
Now, he says, he has left it behind. But what has taken its place?
Abdi and I stand in back of Peace House. The late afternoon sun has changed the cold pavement from something to flee into somewhere to linger.
He has a new bike. I joke that I don't recognize it because there's no U-lock clamped on the front fork. He rode his last bike for a year only able to turn in one direction because the key had broken off in the lock. We tried various strategies to remove it, but the best solution proved to be accepting that once again he was out of luck.
His bike before that was stolen after he was assaulted in a park. This too he accepted. After all, he's already gimped from a car accident. What is he going to do to three young guys?
He is not a bad guy, but it follows him.
How do you live a fulfilling life after you have screwed up too many times, suffer pain from a bad back, travel exposed through dangerous neighborhoods you don't have the means to leave?
You have to learn the way as you go.
He tells me about a trip to Mall of America where he walks as if in a dream, moving between this life and the next, not quite alive, not yet dead. He was high and he is old. Not that old, but too old to pretend he can start fresh. Too young to embrace the end, but old enough to see reasons to consider a short cut.
If you had kids, it would be different, he says. You would want to see how things turn out. But the days are pretty much the same. Abdi has no kids, and he has no illusion about how things end. He considers prayer, more as a good intention than a quid pro quo.
I nod in commiseration. We have no delusions about the ultimate future. Meanwhile, we like standing here in the sun talking about matters at the edge of consequence.
He has girl friend. Sometimes he visits, not intending to stay the night, but he sits in her rocking chair and thinks, this is better than mine. Her television is bigger than mine. He falls asleep and then wakes again at 1 a.m. and it is too late to go home.
That's how you know you are getting old, I say. You spend the night because your woman has a bigger television.
We laugh, and it reminds me of a few weeks ago when we were in the library, laughing about something. Suddenly, Abdi grew quiet. I forget now exactly what he said, but he had noticed a woman across the room involved in a tearful phone call. Abdi did not want our laughter to disrespect her pain.
He was never a bad guy, but now he is a good man. If only that were enough to smooth the years ahead, to fill the days as he rides through the park or walks the mall or heads to his girl friend's for a good night's sleep, only to wake again and stare down the midnight hours.
He walks in the door here most Fridays, and when he doesn't, I miss him. I suppose I should say so.
