I met up with my old friend, "Sam", last week. He was walking
his bike up the street, a large bag draped over the handle bars. Sam is about
my age, with sun hardened skin and strands of mid length hair pulled back in a
tail. He is a generous man, affable and open hearted. He is also a binner,
sleeps rough most of the time and, in his own words, usually “drunk as a
skunk.” I’ve known him for about sixteen years. Sam is always kind to me, gives
me writing advice and once he defended my honour. I like him a lot.
Although it is doubtful he could be diagnosed with a mental
health issue, Sam hangs with those who have one: they are the most honest
people, he says, good people; you know where they stand. These friends provide
him with companionship but also stress and concern; our conversation was filled
with both laughter and poignancy as he described recent events. He keeps a look
out when buddies go missing or run away in fear; provides food and shelter when
he can and is more than willing to share a swig. He offered me a bike once, a
dumpster find that needed but few repairs. Security guards and the cops in my
neighbourhood know him and give him latitude, shop owners provide him with food
for labour done and, ever so often, he tells me of a house sitting job. I gave
him a gift certificate one Christmas to a food store. It embarrassed him—he
works for his pay.
I am continually amazed at his ingenuity and his willingness
to share and yet, I would never invite him home for a cup of tea. There is this
fine line, no, I lie, a concrete barrier between him and me. It is not based on
class or riches, job status or even alcohol. (Okay, the alcohol does influence
my position but he is not always that
drunk). The substances that make up this barrier, in fact, are mutable. Some
days it is because I fear he may bring bed bugs into my apartment (although I
have never seen him scratch); other times it is because he is slightly dirty
and still others, a fear of future neediness. But once again, this excuse has
no foundation, he has always been respectful of my boundaries.
As I sit here writing I am not quite sure that I even know
my truth; like the barriers between Sam and I, that truth is fickle. Perhaps I
don’t invite him in because I don’t want to feel obliged. Once invited, the
door is open: there is no reason, in my convoluted mind, to bar the entrance
again. I will never have peace in my sanctuary—always waiting for the door bell
to ring. But that screams out poor boundaries on both our parts and I know that
ignoring phone calls or door chimes is not unfamiliar to me.
It is interesting to look at those invisible walls that can lie
between us and those in our community. I have friends at work that I don’t see
outside the job and I am pretty certain I will not trade phone numbers when I quit.
Then there are the shop keepers and clerks, and, vice versa, those I serve as a cashier. I have great conversations with
some of these people while errands are done but I find a slight
discomfort when I find myself next to them on the bus. It is almost akin to a
one-night stand: intimate knowledge of the other’s body (or what they like to
buy) but practical ignorance in how the person thinks or feels. What does one
say when you are out of your proscribed roles?
Perhaps it is the idea that close friends have been through
the ringer while passing acquaintances have not. You both know who the other is. You have experienced (and accepted)
most of their personas—and they yours—compromises have been made; tolerances
expanded. There is an implicit agreement that you are in it for the long run. With
store clerks and work buddies you know your time together is limited and the
space constrained. Here, too, compromises are made and tolerance expanded but
only because you don’t have to live with them or have them over for coffee.
But all this doesn’t really explain why I keep Sam at arm’s
length. Perhaps, I just dont want to be reminded that we are all just ill-fated
moments away from living on the street. Then again, maybe it is just my fear of
intimacy: do I really want/need another friend who knows me more than I would
like?
After a while I told Sam I had to go. Our visit was drawing
to a natural close anyway but something else was pulling me away. Although I
wouldn’t have been able to articulate it that day, in retrospect, I think a
part of me was questioning who this man was and what he meant to me. What was
my responsibility to him?
As we readied to go, I asked for our usual hug. Our arms
wrapped around each other. It was a solid, almost fierce hug.
Thinking back on that short moment in time, I wonder if
therein lies the answer. Perhaps our relationship is fine as it stands; perhaps
it is enough.
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