It’s 2:35 in the afternoon, and I’m sitting at my computer catching up on my emails, as always.
Mr. Davis peeks through my office window. We make eye contact. I summon him in, but he looks apprehensive, thinking that he’ll disturb my work. I’m checking my personal emails.
He steps inside. I tell him that I’m glad to see him, and that I was trying to track him down yesterday afternoon, but that he had left the building.
“We need to coordinate your housing situation” I say. “Your 28-day max here is up. You can’t be placed in permanent housing here unless you join the day treatment program.”
Mr. Davis has a restriction on his Medicaid that prevents him from enrolling in day treatment. His caseworker is out today and won’t return until Thursday. He’s effectually homeless.
“You got to help me.” He says more matter-of-factly than pleading. “I told you that I need to live here. I can’t be placed in no SRO (temporary housing, usually in a half-way house or ¾ house setting.) I’m not ready for all a that.”
“I know Mr. Davis. Believe me. We need you to stay here, and we’re going to figure this out, but you have to work with me.”
“Listen Ms. Boyuan. I’ve been locked up for 20 years. I’m not ready to be out there. I don’t trust people, ya hear me? I slept at night with an ice pick. All you see is blood. All there is is blood. They tried to place me in cells with other people and I just told them that I preferred solitary confinement. One day I told the warden “listen, you need to get me out of here, because I’ll kill somebody else.” You would be sitting at the cafeteria, not paying no one no mind. A cat over there will see you starring off at nothing and say, “What the fuck are you looking at?” You’ll say, “I ain’t looking at nothing man”, and that’s when stuff would start. Then all you see is blood. Everywhere there’s blood. It’s warfare all of the time. People come out of there with more PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) than out in combat. Sometimes it’s the same. All there is is blood.”
I try to interject something, but he keeps going.
“I don’t trust nobody. I know you have compassion, but I don’t trust nobody. Now, sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I’ll just be looking at all the people as they walk by. Just ready, ya know?”
I’m pressing my energy so hard into his pupils at this point, trying to assure him that I understand. “Nah, I don’t know,” I say.
