You won't like me

My whole life, I’ve been a quitter. The years I’ve lived are rich with mistakes that cause me to gag whenever they flash, and they flash often. Despite my numerous attempts to numb them, the memories of my mistakes are unrelenting. They continually stab my psyche and have left me tattered and helpless. But, of course, I am to blame. I did the things that turned into memories that haunt me no matter how far removed I am from them. I forget the good times, not the bad, and try to forgive others, but I can’t forgive myself. I used to tell my family that I hated my life. I’ve come to realize this isn’t true. It’s not my life that I hate; it’s me. I hate me. I haven’t brushed my teeth in four days, and I think I just saw my ex-wife and daughter drive past the street median where I’ve been panhandling. 

My mother was there when I first quit something. Mothers are always there; they’re always watching their kids fail. It was little league, and the coach brought us in after we lost another game. The other seven-year-olds and I took a knee or sat cross-legged in left field as the coach told us that we needed to do better. Everyone always wants better. My mom watched from behind the dugout as I got up and told the coach that I quit. Afterward, as I sat in the back of our white Chevrolet Astro van, my mother told me she was proud that I stood up for myself. I didn’t need her reassurance because I had the compulsion to opt out even at that young age.

It happened again with sports in high school; this time, it was tennis. My dad was rated 6.0 by the USTA because he played at a Divison 1 college back in his day. He forced me to play, and when I saw him on the weekends and didn’t play well enough, he’d slam the strings of his Wilson ProStaff racket on top of my head. Strangers on the court would see him hit me, but no one ever said anything. After the matches against my father, which he’d always win, I’d tell myself I would never play again, and I regret that I didn’t make good on that self-talk until after he killed himself. He crashed his car when he was drunk and died on impact. It was a Tuesday. Later that month, at a regional tournament, I told the coach I was quitting. He begged me to compete because if I quit, they’d have to forfeit, and it would ruin our talented players’ chances of moving ahead to the state championship. In a rare act of kindness, I played in the tournament, but I double-faulted every serve and didn’t bother trying to return my opponent’s serve at all. Bystanders in the crowd gasped at my pestilent performance. My play would have really hurt my dad. I wish he could have seen it. 

Panhandling is similar to every job I’ve ever done; I have my good days, but most of them are bad, and as I’m doing it, I wish I was doing something else. The root of the work (the Why) is identical to the previous jobs I’ve quit. My last job was in tech, and I was an Account Manager. My goal was to get your money. It’s the same goal as a panhandler, only the service I’m offering is different. I’m not selling you software. I’m selling you an opportunity to feel better about yourself for having compassion. It would do any doubter good to stand at a streetlight with a piece of cardboard and beg. If they did it, they might understand that we are all mendicants regardless of how we fill our days. So many people do things they don’t want to do because they have too much pride to do otherwise. I don’t have this problem; my pride bled out many years ago.

Patterns have emerged as I’ve aged because of my hindsight over the decades of my life. I see that the extent of my habitual quitting goes beyond recreational actives and employment; I quit people too. I often reasoned that the termination of my relationships was warranted based on the other person’s behavior. It’s only now I see that I willed the disbandment. In the early 2000s, when I called women bitches and wore much baggier clothes, a woman labeled me as passive-aggressive after talking to me for five minutes. It was the first time I heard the term. Although I don’t remember any other parts of that night, I can still see the disgust on her face as she explained all the reasons why I was destined to be miserable: backhanded compliments, hiding anger, sarcasm, playing the victim, making excuses, etc. 

I have no friends because I made it that way, and I made it that way because I’m passive-aggressive. I keep it that way because I’ve convinced myself I don’t like people, and I bet all of this is customary behavior for individuals like me who hate everything they are. In college, my best friend, Jack, died of an Oxycontin overdose. I borrowed a Louie Vuitton tie from another friend to wear to Jack’s funeral. He gave me the tie, which came in a box like it was brand new and asked that I be careful with it. Naturally, I ignored him, and on the night of the funeral, when I was drunk and angry at the world for killing Jack, I threw the $220 tie out the window of a moving car. When I got back to college, and the tie-giving friend called me, I ignored him. A week later, when I saw him at a party, and he asked for the tie, I told him, “You’re probably never going to get it back.” I’ve treated other friends in a similar manner, discarding our relationships like a borrowed tie.

At every job I’ve ever had, people try to be friendly with me. They act like they’re curious about my life, my interests, my dreams, my five-year plan. They ask questions to try to understand who I am, but I’ve never liked the idea that they could know such a thing. Before I was a father, my thinking was that no one knows who they are. But, after watching my daughter grow, I’ve changed my position: only children understand who they are. I don’t know the exact age when life strips people of their essence, but I assume that it happens when they enter the workforce. The issue with people is they make you think you’re not only who you think you are, but you’re how they see you, too. I’ve been told I was funny; told I was a hard worker; told I was strategic, an A-player, a good person; told I was enough. None of it’s true. I read somewhere that people, during the second half of their life, become the reverse of who they were in the first. I disagree. I think people who are shitty stay shitty, and everyone else is probably shitty too; they’re just better at asking questions. 

Panhandling is counterintuitive; you expect generosity from the luxury logos, but it’s usually brands like Toyota, Kia, or Honda that give. Today, I panhandled on Monument Blvd under the 680 freeway for three hours to get $10. The largest sum I got at once, $4, was from a black woman in an older Toyota Camry. As she placed the money in the palm of my dirty hand, she said, “God bless.” There’s much more talk of God around me now that I’m homeless, and it doesn’t just come from people who donate. The vagrants in downtown cling to religion, and when they’re feeling hopeful, they often speak of what God will do for them. I stay away from that type of talk because when I’m around it, I get the urge to shout that all sins are unforgivable. 

In general, I avoid the other bums because they’re territorial; living on the streets is dangerous. One time, I didn’t yield a panhandling spot quick enough, and a guy named Terrance socked me in the face until I spit up blood. But I prefer to dwell on other failings. You can’t live in fear. I’m going to use some of my earnings on toothpaste and a toothbrush since my pack, which had my toiletries in it, was stolen, probably by one of the bums that pray for mercy.

Rite Aid doesn’t let me in because of my smell. I’m able to get into Safeway, but I’m quickly told to leave by an employee who caught me using their restrooms to clean myself a few weeks back. There’s nothing else legit in walking distance, so I go to the Fast & Easy Mart liquor store, which I wanted to avoid due to the limited selection and markup of personal care items. I’m a repeat customer, so the cashier knows me, and I like him because even though we see each other every week, he doesn’t try to get familiar. 

With my money, I purchase a travel-size tube of Aquafresh toothpaste, a Crest toothbrush, a Mickey’s 40oz, and a 12oz bottle of Ice Mountain drinking water, the cheapest brand available. The cashier has a maroon turban on and a Bluetooth device in his left ear. He doesn’t say hi or bye to me. It’s almost like I don’t exist at all, which is the way I prefer to be treated. 

When I got married, I knew I was going to get divorced. Even as I was saying my vows, I could feel all of the mothers expecting me to fail. The saying goes, “If you don’t love yourself, you can’t love anyone else.” I like to think that I loved my wife, but then again, I don’t know what love is. Having a child, which is supposed to make one’s heart swell, make them feel an overwhelming sense of love, only provided me with more material to add to my internal list of reasons for hating myself. 

I was never good enough to be a dad and surely wasn’t good at being one. I was always negative in front of my daughter. It was completely unwarranted and happened organically as a byproduct of my self-absorption. Countless times when she deserved the spotlight, I’d steal it. She didn’t get the praise she deserved when I was in the room. There was a season when I tried to stop being like this. I tried to hide this corrosiveness that possesses me, but I couldn’t keep it up for more than a couple of weeks. The truth of who I am always bubbles to the surface; it’s clear, like when you see someone double fault on purpose.

I stand in the back parking lot of a Jiffy Lube, shoving the Crest toothbrush in and out of my mouth, foolishly expecting to gain a sense of satisfaction from fresh breath. Instead, brushing triggers flashes of the ways I destroyed my marriage. I was always telling my ex to leave me; I’d tell her in the morning; I’d tell her at night; I’d scream it; I’d say it calmly. She didn’t listen, which made the destruction much more painful for our family. I fell into a pattern where I’d quit a job and be unemployed for a month or so, during which I’d drink the days away and ignore all responsibilities. She took money out of our savings to cover my half of the mortgage, and this happened many times until we burned through a third of our nest egg, and she was forced to agree that leaving me was the best thing for the family. Even then, she didn’t go down easy. 

She wanted us to go to therapy, she wanted me to see a doctor, she begged and begged me to tell her how she could help; she just wanted me to get better. Everyone always wants better. One of the last times we spoke, I asked her if she’d admit that until death do us part was bull shit, but she refused. She told me with tears running down her face, “Death do us part is true. The man I married is dead.” Three months after that, I was on the streets. This flash makes me angry, and the toothbrush's head jabs the back of my throat, making me gag until I throw up.

When I find it hard to drink alcohol, I call myself a bitch. The first sips of the 40oz, which mix with the bile and mint taste in my mouth, are followed by just that, then I force another pull from the bottle. I’ve moved from the Jiffy Lube parking lot to a section under the 680 freeway that’s flat and dry because the weather’s turned, and it’s the only covered place available. The area is claimed by Terrance, who I’ve done a good job at avoiding since he smashed my face in. I know I'm taking a risk, but there’s no other place for me to go. I drink the Mickey’s in rapid succession, hoping to catch a buzz that will get me through the night. It’s very cold, and because my pack was stolen, I don’t have a sweatshirt, jacket, or knife - all of the things I need to protect me. 

Within a half-hour, the 40oz is gone, and I’m swaying as I pee into the rain. Above me is the sound of cars going 65 MPH on the freeway. I can hear their tires kick up water and the raindrops on the hoods of their cars. There’s pitter-patter all around me, and my body rushes with hot blood when I realize that what I’m hearing isn’t just rain but footsteps. I quit peeing and turn around: It’s Terrance.  

He calls me a fuck boy and asks if I know where I am. Even in the dark of the night, under a freeway, surrounded by rain, I can see his terrifying eyes. He’s with another guy I've never seen before and this younger girl who’s known for being a whore. I tell Terrance I’m leaving, but that doesn’t stop him from walking towards me with his fists clenched. The two others follow close behind him, and I notice that the whore has on my backpack. 

With the courage of the 40oz in my belly, I tell her to give me my pack back. She responds by telling me to suck her dick. I tell her I don’t want herpes; I just want the bag. The next thing I know, my back is against a pillar that holds up the freeway, and Terrance is lunging at me with a pocket knife. I’m too drunk to defend myself, and he ends up sticking my left thigh. I shriek in pain and try to run away, but before I can get clear of them, the other guy tackles me and starts punching the back of my head and ears. Then I feel the whore kick me in the ribs with her small feet. Terrance goes through my pockets and finds my toothbrush and toothpaste and takes them, and as the beating continues, I don’t even try to fight back. I’ve never been a fighter; I’m a quitter. 

I’m at Sequoia elementary school now, sitting in an outdoor hallway that’s covered by an aluminum roof. My pants are soaked in the blood from the shallow stab wound, my face is throbbing and swollen, and one of my ribs feels broken. If the cops come, I’ll be arrested, but this is the only place left I could think of to keep out of the rain. I never come to this part of town because it’s where my ex-wife lives. I hobbled past her house (our old house) to get here, and my daughter’s light was still on in her room. I thought of what it might be like if I were inside, what it might be like if I weren’t who I am. That thing I read about people becoming the reverse of who they were in the first half of their lives sounds pretty good right now. Everyone always wants better, even me. 

I’ve made so many mistakes, but it’s hard to know if homelessness is a blunder or the rest of my life. I think there’s a way back to the old me, a way back home. I just have to try harder. Maybe I can start fresh tomorrow. “No,” something deep inside of me says, “You’re probably never going to get it back.”