I’ve gotten into this habit of falling asleep on the couch after Amanda goes to bed. We don’t have the same days off, so on Sunday and Monday Nights when she is at the beginning of her work week, I’m at the start of my weekend. Since I’m a child, I always feel the need to stay up as late as possible when I don’t have to wake up at 4:40 the next morning. Unfortunately, when Amanda goes upstairs to bed at 9:37… I’m usually snoring away on the couch by 10:02…!.. (sometimes still holding a Chewey Chips Ahoy cookie).
This particular evening was no different from the normal routine. I’m sure I had plans to stay up and watch some dystopian sci-fi-y action movie while shoveling food packed with artificial flavors and preservatives into my pie hole and to not… NOT… fall asleep on the couch!……………………… I wasn’t successful. Yup, it was just like most of the other Monday (my “Saturday”) Nights. I mean, besides being woken up by the “I’m being protective and assertive” Xander BARK! at 3:49am…! (Yes, I was still on the couch… slumped in a position that allowed my beard to keep my neck nice and toasty!… and sweaty… which was gross.)
As I kinda came to, I heard a knock on the front door. Mind you, I’m in Vermont… a lot of us who reside in old houses don’t really use the front door for this reason or that… so I knew it was someone I didn’t know who was lost, looking for some sorta help, or someone(s) who wanted to rob me. (I live in the woods with distant neighbors. When you live rurally, you learn how to protect your home/loved ones/belongings from all sorts of things… animals, the cold and snow, water, bugs, things that simply decide to break or give up on doing what they have always done!, Mother Nature, the natural deterioration over Time, and people… whose decisions and circumstances in Life lead them to make some not so great choices.) After getting off the couch with an under-the-breath groan or two, I shuffled to the front door, flipped on the outside light without saying anything for the element of SURPRISE! and saw this kid and his dyed-red hair in a hoodie holding his phone on my porch. I inquired what was up…? He mentioned a few things and that his name was… let’s just call him Cody! Codi! Code! I asked if he was ok… he said no… I realized there was some sort of mental health crisis going on so I told him I would meet him out front and we would try to figure some things out. (I said out front on the deck because I still didn’t know this kid from Adam!)
(Side Note: Guess what has two thumbs, might’ve smoked half a joint, started writing, and forgot that they put water on the stove for a Cup o’ Noodle Scooby Snack…?… THIS GUY!… winning.)
Long story short, we sat on the deck for a bit talking about the situation and it got to the point where I invited him into The Little Red Schoolhouse so that we could make some phone calls and plan the next steps. Amanda had already started to scour the interweb for information, and our options in the early morning hours were to call 911, call a 24-hour hotline for a local mental health provider, he could go back to where he was staying, or I could drive him to the ER. After calling the 24-hour hotline, in hopes of being able to get him checked in somewhere somewhat close, and learning from the “Mental Health Professional” yawning on the other end of the phone (Fuck-you, dude… do your job better) that he would need to wait until they open to be checked in… I decided to drive him the 40 minutes to the ER.
It was a pleasant drive in, and I always enjoy those commutes where the stars are twinkling all bright when you leave the house and at some point, you notice the slightest lightening in the shade of darkness you’re traveling through and realize The Day… is right around the corner. We chit-chatted about this and that, but I kept it light and non-intrusive or judgmental, considering he was saying some pretty wacky stuff. Nothing that I felt was dangerous, but things that definitely didn’t add up. As I figured, it was simply my job for the night/morning to do what I could for this young man who knocked on my door at 3:49… a.m…. asking for help. Once he was checked in and through the double doors, I gave my contact info to the nurse at the desk and asked if she could pass it along to Cody! Codi! Code!… just in case… and then I drove home… in the daylight.
Now, before you start thinking I’m this wonderful guy and wanna nominate me for various Good Samaritan Awards or a Nobel Prize for being so fucking awesome!… let me tell you about the second time Cody! Codi! Code! came by The Schoolhouse… at 12:16a.m…. three days later… straight-up and cutting to the chase of asking for a ride to the ER… again. The differences this go around were that when I opened the door this time and he started talking, I realized he simply didn’t wanna be where he was and he… more or less… thought I would simply take him wherever he wanted at any time of day or night (I know who he was staying with and am pretty sure it’s a pretty safe place). The other main difference, and one in which I have thought a lot about and have struggled with, is that I had to be up in four hours to get ready for another long day at work and my brain has been going back to the question, “Was I supportive and willing to help this kid out that first night only because it was convenient for me at the time…?”. Hmmm.
Being a part of The Good… being a Good Person… can sometimes be a struggle. Not just because there are so many differing opinions and definitions of what it actually means to be a good person or what is actually “Right”, but also because us as individuals are so different in how we receive and react to the millions of outside forces/experiences bombarding us every minute of every day… and have since our birth!… which have formed our opinions on… everything… and make us who we are Today. Being a part of The Good or being a Good Person doesn’t mean there’s Perfection… it means you Persevere through the struggles until one day you look up from the path you are on and recognize all the work you put into yourself simply made you a little bit better of a person.
Thirty Days of Mo(u)rning 