The Christmas spirit hunts me down
Dec. 26th, 2007 12:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mamagotchaSo it's Christmas evening, and we're all just vegging... the baby's asleep, I'm uploading photos and LJing, the boys invited a friend over to play Rock Band, and Bill's rocking along with them. It's coming up on 11pm, and...
...the doorbell rings.
So in the fall of 2005, this dude shows up at the front door. He's skinny, black, about my age, a little bedraggled-looking, maybe down on his luck. He wants to rake leaves for a few bucks, and since I don't feel like raking the damned things myself, and it's a huge battle to get the kids to do it, I decide that spending twenty bucks to get the yard finally cleaned up is probably a deal. So we shake hands on it, and he does a decent job, and after I pay him he wanders off, and I think nothing more about it.
Thus began the saga of Greg.
Sometimes he goes a few weeks without showing up, maybe even a few months. Then he starts calling and knocking on the door again. He calls me "Miss Katje" and doesn't want a handout (although he'll usually accept any sandwiches or cookies or leftover curried chicken I send his way). He used to ride a bike, until he got beat up and had it stolen from him (I asked around and found another bike for him, a new one, but it was stolen too). He's been in and out of jail (on the order of 15 or 20 years), and I believe him when he says he never wants to go back. He's Muslim, and speaks fluent Arabic. He's got three tears tattooed along his cheek, under the outside corner of his right eye. Every time I see him, he's lost another tooth or has another gash on his face. He smells strongly of cigarettes and booze, all the time.
Sometimes when he's working on a big job or something I need done in a particular way, I'm working alongside him, so I have Linc with me. Several times he's asked me about how I communicate with Linc, and commented on how I explain things to him: "My momma wouldn't never have tolerated that. She would have smacked my butt good. You don't never hit your kids, Miss Katje?" he says with wonder in his voice. He's asked all about homeschooling, about the kids in college, about Bill's PhD, about what I do as an editor. It's all clearly a foreign world to him, but he's curious.
He thinks I can produce a 20 out of thin air. When I once tried to pay him for a job with a check, he just smiled and shook his head wryly... "Nobody like me has a bank account. You gotta have money to have a bank account." He says nobody will hire an ex-con... he gets odd jobs moving friends or cleaning out abandoned houses, that sort of thing. He shows up and asks for work when he's broke and needs cigarette money. Sometimes he's pretty drunk, other times he can be very persistent... he won't leave unless I hire him to do something, give him an advance on some other future job, or flat out tell him he has to go away. I have to shut the door in his face sometimes, and I feel like a cold-hearted bitch, but he's never cursed or gotten angry. He eventually wanders off, sometimes after sitting on the steps and having a smoke, just to make sure I don't change my mind, and then he's gone for the next day, or week, or month.
He's brought friends over to do work... he noticed cracks on the wall, and had a friend come to do the patch job. Another time, he found someone to wire a light for the backyard. Each time, I feel like I was totally pressured into hiring the work... he just hammered away at my objections until I caved in. He can be very charming, but he's also tenacious like you wouldn't believe.
This kind of thing has happened a few other times since I've moved here... I've shown some amount of kindness to someone, and they've latched onto me like I was their bestest friend in the whole world. I don't remember this happening in California, but maybe I wasn't so desperate for human contact and was pickier about who I was kind to. I don't think so... I don't know. But these people, I have to be almost truly nasty to get them to back off.
Except Greg. He still hasn't gotten the hint. Hell, it's no hint. I tell him I have no cash, I don't have work, I'm on a tight budget, I'm busy with other things right now, I'm leaving in ten minutes... it doesn't matter. He'll wait for me to go to the bank, can he have an advance, he'll come back the second it snow/dumps leaves, surely I can spare a few dollars, he'll come back tomorrow... and he does.
So tonight, 11 pm on Christmas night, he rings the doorbell. "Miss Katje, my daddy died tonight. He had a stroke. My momma just told me. I never knew him. He disavowed my sister and me. But we looked just alike, Miss Katje. Everybody said so. I'll bring you a picture tomorrow. I'm broke, Miss Katje. I need some cigarettes and a six-pack to get through the night. Please let me do some work for you tonight, anything. I'll bust down all your Christmas boxes. I'll clean your basement. It's gonna snow tomorrow night, and I'll come back at 7 o'clock the next morning and clear your driveway, I promise. The next two snowfalls, I'll come back. You know I'm good to my word, Miss Katje. You know I am."
He's drunk. He's on foot... he's at least two miles from his home. It's dark and cold and miserable, and the guy's been drinking and crying. Of course I invite him in. What else can I do? But I have no cash, not anything, and neither does Bill. We pack him up a baggie of Christmas cookies (and Bill quietly slides the new 2-liter bottle of Absolut out of sight). I listen to him talk all about his daddy, a man who never acknowledged him as his son, and hear his frustration and anger at being left alone, his struggle to find a place of warmth and comfort in a cold and sad world. His words slide to a harsher place, he's saying things I've never heard him say before: "That motherfucker... that no-good nigger..." but he's not talking to me anymore, he's just thinking out loud, because I know he wouldn't jeopardize the chance of being able to work for me by cursing in my presence.
He suddenly remembers where he is and asks again for some money, anything. I glance around in desperation... and I see the two winning Missouri lottery tickets my sister bought for her husband during her last visit and sent back for me to cash in, $20 worth. I have no idea whether he'll find anyplace open at this time of night, but maybe the 7-11 down on 63rd will pay out on them... He's dropping things as he stands up, and asks for a cookie right after he puts a bagful of them into his pocket (and laughs when I point out that he's already got some). I don't know if he'll be able to hang onto the tickets long enough to make it to a store, but I decide that's not for me to worry about. He takes the tickets and promises to return the morning after the next snowfall (and I know he will).
This relationship is like no other I've had before. It's uncomfortable and difficult for me (and my family). Is it my duty, as a relatively well-off person, to provide a source of income to someone who asks for it? If so, how can I set up boundaries so we both can keep a measure of dignity and privacy? If not, then why do I feel so awful when I say "no"? I don't know how to do this... I'm just feeling my way here.
I just know that I did the right thing tonight. We celebrated Christmas Day with plenty of wonderful food, gifts that brought laughter and delight, family and friends close by, phone calls to those far away, radiators and fireplace and new boots keeping us warm... I could do nothing else but offer some of that to this hurting, broken, cold man on my porch. He came to my house looking for help and trusting that he would find it here: a hug and a patient ear, a homemade treat in his pocket and old lottery tickets. He took them with gratitude and left behind his promise to return, and stumbled off into the dark.
...the doorbell rings.
So in the fall of 2005, this dude shows up at the front door. He's skinny, black, about my age, a little bedraggled-looking, maybe down on his luck. He wants to rake leaves for a few bucks, and since I don't feel like raking the damned things myself, and it's a huge battle to get the kids to do it, I decide that spending twenty bucks to get the yard finally cleaned up is probably a deal. So we shake hands on it, and he does a decent job, and after I pay him he wanders off, and I think nothing more about it.
Thus began the saga of Greg.
Sometimes he goes a few weeks without showing up, maybe even a few months. Then he starts calling and knocking on the door again. He calls me "Miss Katje" and doesn't want a handout (although he'll usually accept any sandwiches or cookies or leftover curried chicken I send his way). He used to ride a bike, until he got beat up and had it stolen from him (I asked around and found another bike for him, a new one, but it was stolen too). He's been in and out of jail (on the order of 15 or 20 years), and I believe him when he says he never wants to go back. He's Muslim, and speaks fluent Arabic. He's got three tears tattooed along his cheek, under the outside corner of his right eye. Every time I see him, he's lost another tooth or has another gash on his face. He smells strongly of cigarettes and booze, all the time.
Sometimes when he's working on a big job or something I need done in a particular way, I'm working alongside him, so I have Linc with me. Several times he's asked me about how I communicate with Linc, and commented on how I explain things to him: "My momma wouldn't never have tolerated that. She would have smacked my butt good. You don't never hit your kids, Miss Katje?" he says with wonder in his voice. He's asked all about homeschooling, about the kids in college, about Bill's PhD, about what I do as an editor. It's all clearly a foreign world to him, but he's curious.
He thinks I can produce a 20 out of thin air. When I once tried to pay him for a job with a check, he just smiled and shook his head wryly... "Nobody like me has a bank account. You gotta have money to have a bank account." He says nobody will hire an ex-con... he gets odd jobs moving friends or cleaning out abandoned houses, that sort of thing. He shows up and asks for work when he's broke and needs cigarette money. Sometimes he's pretty drunk, other times he can be very persistent... he won't leave unless I hire him to do something, give him an advance on some other future job, or flat out tell him he has to go away. I have to shut the door in his face sometimes, and I feel like a cold-hearted bitch, but he's never cursed or gotten angry. He eventually wanders off, sometimes after sitting on the steps and having a smoke, just to make sure I don't change my mind, and then he's gone for the next day, or week, or month.
He's brought friends over to do work... he noticed cracks on the wall, and had a friend come to do the patch job. Another time, he found someone to wire a light for the backyard. Each time, I feel like I was totally pressured into hiring the work... he just hammered away at my objections until I caved in. He can be very charming, but he's also tenacious like you wouldn't believe.
This kind of thing has happened a few other times since I've moved here... I've shown some amount of kindness to someone, and they've latched onto me like I was their bestest friend in the whole world. I don't remember this happening in California, but maybe I wasn't so desperate for human contact and was pickier about who I was kind to. I don't think so... I don't know. But these people, I have to be almost truly nasty to get them to back off.
Except Greg. He still hasn't gotten the hint. Hell, it's no hint. I tell him I have no cash, I don't have work, I'm on a tight budget, I'm busy with other things right now, I'm leaving in ten minutes... it doesn't matter. He'll wait for me to go to the bank, can he have an advance, he'll come back the second it snow/dumps leaves, surely I can spare a few dollars, he'll come back tomorrow... and he does.
So tonight, 11 pm on Christmas night, he rings the doorbell. "Miss Katje, my daddy died tonight. He had a stroke. My momma just told me. I never knew him. He disavowed my sister and me. But we looked just alike, Miss Katje. Everybody said so. I'll bring you a picture tomorrow. I'm broke, Miss Katje. I need some cigarettes and a six-pack to get through the night. Please let me do some work for you tonight, anything. I'll bust down all your Christmas boxes. I'll clean your basement. It's gonna snow tomorrow night, and I'll come back at 7 o'clock the next morning and clear your driveway, I promise. The next two snowfalls, I'll come back. You know I'm good to my word, Miss Katje. You know I am."
He's drunk. He's on foot... he's at least two miles from his home. It's dark and cold and miserable, and the guy's been drinking and crying. Of course I invite him in. What else can I do? But I have no cash, not anything, and neither does Bill. We pack him up a baggie of Christmas cookies (and Bill quietly slides the new 2-liter bottle of Absolut out of sight). I listen to him talk all about his daddy, a man who never acknowledged him as his son, and hear his frustration and anger at being left alone, his struggle to find a place of warmth and comfort in a cold and sad world. His words slide to a harsher place, he's saying things I've never heard him say before: "That motherfucker... that no-good nigger..." but he's not talking to me anymore, he's just thinking out loud, because I know he wouldn't jeopardize the chance of being able to work for me by cursing in my presence.
He suddenly remembers where he is and asks again for some money, anything. I glance around in desperation... and I see the two winning Missouri lottery tickets my sister bought for her husband during her last visit and sent back for me to cash in, $20 worth. I have no idea whether he'll find anyplace open at this time of night, but maybe the 7-11 down on 63rd will pay out on them... He's dropping things as he stands up, and asks for a cookie right after he puts a bagful of them into his pocket (and laughs when I point out that he's already got some). I don't know if he'll be able to hang onto the tickets long enough to make it to a store, but I decide that's not for me to worry about. He takes the tickets and promises to return the morning after the next snowfall (and I know he will).
This relationship is like no other I've had before. It's uncomfortable and difficult for me (and my family). Is it my duty, as a relatively well-off person, to provide a source of income to someone who asks for it? If so, how can I set up boundaries so we both can keep a measure of dignity and privacy? If not, then why do I feel so awful when I say "no"? I don't know how to do this... I'm just feeling my way here.
I just know that I did the right thing tonight. We celebrated Christmas Day with plenty of wonderful food, gifts that brought laughter and delight, family and friends close by, phone calls to those far away, radiators and fireplace and new boots keeping us warm... I could do nothing else but offer some of that to this hurting, broken, cold man on my porch. He came to my house looking for help and trusting that he would find it here: a hug and a patient ear, a homemade treat in his pocket and old lottery tickets. He took them with gratitude and left behind his promise to return, and stumbled off into the dark.