Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The company I keep – roommate #1


A decade ago, I met "W" in Vestavia, a beautiful sophisticated black woman who grew up in New York, was a runway model in Paris France after high school, came back and graduated from Tulane University moved to Birmingham, got married, had two children, drove a Porsche, worked for the city in Richard Arrington’s (mayor) office.  That was before we met.  When I first met her, she was a single, jobless hustler on public assistance who hid her drug addiction well.  I was a target of the hustle; none the less, we became good friends - often meeting for lunch at the local California Pizza Kitchen; her favorite was a Waldorf Chicken salad with extra Dijon balsamic vinaigrette on the side and a bottle bubbling Perrier water.  On occasion, she brought her oldest son "T" and we enjoyed long conversations about the differences in black and white culture.  Fast forward 2 years; "W" had met a con artist, married him, moved to Atlanta, was enslaved in abuse, and murdered a few months later.  "T" lived in Shelby county with his best friend (who lived with his drug addicted mother), who kicked them both out on the street with $900 and instructions to grow up (they were both in their early 20s).  The end result: "T" accidentally murdered his best friend while on drugs in a cheap hotel room, cooperated with police, got convicted of felony murder and spent the next five years in jail.  I stored "T"'s (one) box of things while he was locked up.  It took "T" about a year to find me after getting out; interestingly "T" was living with a new girlfriend who lived with her mom and girlfriend was a heroin addict.

Some wise person once said "Insanity is doing the same things over and over and somehow expecting different results."  I had an extra bed room in the apartment in Vestavia and told "T" it was available as a stable place to stay.  About a month later he took me up on it.  My instructions were to find a job within six months, and get your own place within a year.

Epilogue
It’s been over three years; no job yet.  “T” is now my live-in “security officer”.  “T” is less expensive and more effective than a burglar alarm.

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