lunch with hornell

I stopped by the offices of the Ohio Art League one Saturday afternoon in July. I had intended to join, and I finally arrived when they were open. I stopped to check my phone messages before I went inside. I began to listen when I caught the eye of a young man who was walking by me. He had a faded blue duffel bag slung over his back and he walked with a deliberate, weary pace. Since I'd already acknowledged him, I said hello. He stopped for a second before he responded. "What's your name?" "What?" Over the sound of traffic and wind, and because he spoke so softly, I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. He came a bit closer, but didn't say anything because I still had the phone next to my ear. He repeated the question and I just put the phone down. There were several awkward moments between me telling him I was Damon, and that his name was Hornell. He squinted and averted his gaze a lot, and I hesitantly asked, "How are you doing?" "I'm tired. Tired of walkin' these streets." There were a few more moments of silence, and I waited for him to ask for something. And when he didn't, or couldn't, I asked him "Do you need anything?" "I need to get out of Columbus. What's today?" "Saturday." "Saturday. I been here since Friday (of last week). Just walkin' around in circles. Can't trust nobody, can't talk to nobody." We chatted a bit more, but it was when we were silent and our eyes would stay on each other for several seconds... that's when I knew that there was something "beyond" going on. I don't know if either one of us knew what to think of how this had come to be, but it had, and I knew I had see it through. So I looked around and spotted the Donato's Pizza on First and High. "Do you want to have lunch?" "Do I want to have lunch?" "Yeah, come have lunch with me at that Donato's." "Are you gonna pay, because (and he started to laugh at the obviousness of it) I don't have any money." "Yeah, I'll pay. Don't worry about it. Can you just wait for, like, five minutes while I drop some stuff off?" "Yeah, sure." So I grabbed my checkbook and a copy of nmazca and went inside to join OAL. The woman inside was happy to see someone just come in off the street to join, and she was impressed with the photos. But I was trying not to stay too long because I could see Hornell's hand tapping his knee through the window. After 10 minutes or so, I emerged and we walked into the pizza joint. Hornell ordered a personal pepperoni and a coke. I got a vegetable sub (with cheese that I ordered to be left off, of course). I sat down next to a window that had a view of the intersection. The sunlight came in over my back. Hornell used the restroom and then he put down his bag and sat across from me. He was 30 (but despite his situation, his face looked younger than mine); from Minnesota. He said that he had left there because he felt that he was too much of a burden on his family, what with how he was so upset all the time. He was always crying, he said -- "who'd want to be around someone who's always crying?" I said that he must have a reason to be crying so much, and he agreed. He felt bad for himself, that he was crying so much (which he'd told himself he couldn't do anymore, so when he does he feels worse). What sets it off is when he hears the word "fag." He said he gets scared when he'll hear it on the streets, because he's afraid that someone's talking about him, maybe to come after him. Or when someone (in the past, or just whenever) called him that, it just makes him completely upset. And he just cries. He talked about how he was tired of running. That he felt like he was just running in circles, and he was tired of getting drunk and getting high, and he just wanted to figure out what he wanted to do with himself. He knew he wanted to get his GED (which he said he'd failed by just four points) and that after that he'd just given up. That came up again -- how he felt that he's just given up on himself. To which I'd counter, "But not if you know you don't want this for yourself anymore. You're saying you want to change. And you can. You can't do it all tomorrow, but you can do one thing. But you haven't given up. Don't give up." We went on for more than an hour about how hard it is to let go of pain, or deal with hurt and then keep on, to focus on what's on our minds and how to get it out. Hornell talked about how he doesn't talk about himself, how he hasn't wanted to most of time, but he's got all these thoughts in his head that he needs to communicate. I asked him if he'd ever tried writing things down, and despite his answer that he didn't have good writing skills, I decided to get him a notepad from the UDF across the street. There's be long silences at times. I'd look out onto High Street, and then back at Hornell. He'd stare at me, and I'd wait for him to say something. And then he might, or he'd look out onto the street. And then I'd ask him how long he'd been on the move, where he wanted to go, what he thought he needed to do to get off the street, what he thought was "wrong" with him that made him feel so bad. It was about being down on himself. Not feeling that anything worked out. "Everything is wrong." Right there, I heard myself from just a couple days ago. And although at the time I was thinking about consumer society, and the dirty air, and the isolation all around me, I knew what he meant. And I said, "No, everything isn't wrong. But today was right. The two of us coming across each other today was right. I really believe that." I could fill in more of the conversation, but you don't need play-by-play. Hornell thanked me for the conversation and the food, and we bounced. I started to walk back toward the car when I remembered to get him a notepad. So I asked him to follow me to UDF -- and after all the time together, he was still making sure that I actually wanted him to go with me. I picked up a little notebook and a couple of pens, a bottle of orange juice, and threw in some matches and ibuprofen for good measure. We walked back to the van and it seemed like we'd reached the end. But I offered to take him anywhere he need to go. He mentioned the Faith Mission shelter on Sixth and Long. "That's where you want to go?" "Well, no, but I don't have any other choice," he said kind of wryly. I can't recall what we talking about as I pulled in front of the building. He thanked me again, and we shook hands. I tried to emphasize that he not give up, and that I hoped he'd write out his thoughts if he couldn't find someone to talk to. Then I shook his hand again and gave him a hug. That's it. I was keenly aware of how it felt I had spent time with a lost member my family -- which I was, in a number of ways. Maybe it was because I could see how I could've been in the same situation, if I'd continued running around. Or because I could understand how, as he'd said, "the world was beating him down" because he couldn't feel good in his own skin, or accept himself, or have people understand where he was coming from. It was unfortunate, but I gave praise for being able and open to take the time and do something for Hornell. And I hope that he and all the people stuck in pain and loss and bewilderment can find their way back to security and calm and hope. << more words