PLEASE MEET HALEY AND MARK:
Rumbling freeway ramps wind above the dirty Seattle thoroughfare. Motorists pass in all directions. Flowing in steady streamlines as the city breathes. A man sits on the curb. His static wiry figure contrasts with the rhythm. His head between his knees, he flicks an expired butt and spits at the pavement cursing his luck. A woman sleeps in the gravel. A dated floral table cloth is her blanket. A bible is her pillow.
Nearby, Mark and Haley share a small tent near an overflowing dumpster. Mark is an unemployed chef. He’s worked in prestigious restaurants and trained under Richard Nixon’s personal chef. He escorts Haley gently from the tent, holding her hand. He speaks of their journey. Ever conscious of her presence, his respect for her runs deep. She speaks softly in the background. Randomly. Out of sequence and context. Mark acknowledges her along the way. Thoughtfully encouraging her participation while respectfully metering her inputs with gentle nods and eye contact. All without breaking dialogue. He speaks of their struggles. Their ongoing recovery from heroin, his love for Haley. Her mental illness, and the constant attention she needs to stay safe. Rioting crows steal rotting garbage from the dumpster.
Mark pauses, “Your turn Babe.” But Haley’s voice was weak behind the whine of bus engines and the thunder of passing freight trains. Listening hard, I envisioned darkness. Her confinement in a psychiatric ward. Her father, who abused her as a child. I saw the grim faces of her two children whom she loves, but sadly accepts must be apart from her for now. “I’ll have to leave my body before all this is over,” she said. She spoke of her love for Mark. I could discern no more.
Mark explained that Haley hears voices. She is schizophrenic and exhibits multiple personalities. “She simply cannot be left alone,” he explains. “The women pick on her at the shelters. Men abuse her on the streets. She cannot take care of herself. When we met four years ago, I was struck by her braids. Her tanned skin and tattoos. Her soft voice and smile. My feelings haven’t changed. And though I am unable to care for her and work, Haley is my priority. She is worth more than money.”
Back at the dumpster a stumbling man urinates in the shadows, unfazed by the rat snooping near his bare feet. There’s a dead cat. The stink of diesel exhaust mingles with smoke from a nearby garbage can fire. A shouting match ensues from the tent next door. Then silence. Mark looks at Haley, then at the ground. “I need to get her out of here,” he said softly.
SODO Neighborhood | Damian
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