Just Off Center

When you come from a smallish midwestern town like Evansville, there is a natural tendency in youth to do anything you can to get out. The world seems so much smaller than you know it actually is. If you have any curiosity about the world outside your hometown, the urge to flee is overwhelming. And it’s a good urge too.

I was 21 years old when I finally set foot on a one-way flight out of Indiana. I was newly married and anxious about getting out of the Godforsaken burg that had trapped me for so long. While most of my friends were trying to establish themselves with homes and jobs in Evansville, I was leaving for an adventure in the U.S. Air Force that, if nothing else, would ensure that if I ever returned to Indiana, it would be of my own volition. At the time, Nina and I had just moved out of a basement apartment under the home of a nice old man named Norman, who had worked as the night custodian at the Steak n’ Shake restaurant where we waited tables. It was a cavernous place with white concrete walls and a bedroom that was pitch black 24 hours a day. Though we tried to keep it clean, it always gave our visitors the sense that they were entering a makeshift dungeon.

On the side wall there were two cement steps leading a couple feet down to a small door that stuck in it’s frame. The first time I saw what was behind it I was sold on the idea of moving in. When you pulled the Wonka-sized door open and flipped the light switch you were greeted with a small, cement tunnel akin to a WWII bunker. The lights that ran the 30 foot length of the curving tunnel were simple bulbs and caged in steel frames. At the end of the tunnel was another step down into the bottom of a well. The area was about ten feet in diameter, dank and lit by a single bulb dangling from the rooftop. Around the wall of the well was a steep, uneven staircase that led to the top of the well. The well had been sealed off years ago and covered with a small shed that resembled the pulley and bucket system used by farmers. Nina and I would love going into that well and smoking pot and talking cheap, early twenties philosophy. We’d read poetry and laugh with our friends.

That apartment, which we rented out at an unheard of monthly fee of $275, was the one part of Indiana that Nina and I regretted leaving. When we moved up to Indianapolis while I was awaiting my initial orders to Basic Military Training, or boot camp, we thought long and hard about who we should have take our place. Norman had never made us sign a contract, but we had no intentions of leaving him without a replacement tenant or with a tenant he wouldn’t want. He’s a kind, hard working man, who gets long winded about his Army days and loves to drink Canadian Club and cheap local beer that tasted like the can it came in. Every day he would take the 200-yard hike out to his mailbox and deliver the mail addressed to us to a separate, unofficial mailbox he had placed outside our door. He built an overhang for the porch outside the main entryway to give us added cover from the elements. He gave us free reign over how to make additions, changes, and decorative alterations to the apartment, and would knock off a portion of the rent with every “improvement” we made. We owed it to him to replace ourselves with someone who was trustworthy and who would recognize and appreciate Norman, and his wife Katherine’s, generosity.

One of our best friends at the time was a man I had know from my high school days named Sam. Sam was one of the only friends I had, and had become a good friend of Nina’s as well. He attended a different high school than I did, but we shared friends in common. He was a gruff looking man, about 5’10” with a body of thick hair and a love for angst and rage of his favorite band, Pantera, which was a mainstay in his stereo. He drank and smoked with us. He smoked two to three packs of Marlboro Reds every day. He’s a hand’s on type, who enjoys looking as unapproachable as possible. But he carried the softest eyes and the most genuine and kindest personality you’re likely to ever encounter. He always seemed to love the apartment, and was growing tired of living with his parents who lived about twenty miles away. In Evansville, that’s a distance that can jeopardize a friendship. He wanted to move out, but was reticent to sign any leases on an apartment. He too wanted to leave southern Indiana, but was taking fewer steps to realize this as a realistic expectation. We left the apartment to him, and he was happy.

Three years ago, Nina and I went back to Indiana for the holiday season. Though we were being tugged by family at all corners of the state for Christmas visits, we took an hour out of our schedule to visit Sam. We were pleased to see that his car was still parked in Norman’s yard, where ours had been so many times before. When we stepped down the walkway to the entryway, we hesitated. Sam had always taken trade jobs, and to our knowledge was working on becoming an electrician. We didn’t want to wake him. But we resolved that if roles were reversed, we would insist that Sam wake us up. We knocked on the screen door for several minutes, knowing that the bedroom in the back of the apartment blocked out not only all daylight, but also most sounds. After a few more knocks a figure emerged in the shadows and Sam approached us. He looked different now. He looked slightly more worn for the wear. He had shaved his head completely and grown out a long, black, menacing goatee to augment his white skull. When he saw it was us, his eyes lightened with shock and he immediately let us in.

This was the first time we had seen the apartment since moving out in 1997. We were shocked and dismayed upon entering to see that Sam had allowed this place to turn into a 1,000 square foot landfill. The image was something out of a police show after they break into the serial killer’s private home. Everywhere were dirty clothes, old fast food bags, empty cans and bottles. The kitchen table was covered in garbage and the sink and kitchen counters were a sea of dishes not washed in ages. Everywhere was ashtrays, filled with old butts. The place had obviously not been dusted in years. Forgetting the horror we felt seeing our old home in this state, I wondered how a human being could reside here at all. The only things missing were a bucket for feces and a severed head on the television.

Sam did apologize several times for the look of the place. He was obviously not accustomed to having visitors. We spend a few minutes catching up and assuring him that it was his place to do with as he pleased. After an hour, we got up and told him that we missed hanging out with him and hoped that we could see him again soon. We exchanged phone numbers and hugs, and left for my mother’s house still reeling from the shambles that our friend’s life had been allowed to become. That was the last time we spoke to Sam…until last week.

Nina and I had kept Sam, Norman and Katherine on our Christmas card list all of these years. We always write something personal in our cards to say hello and make the effort at retaining our friendships, despite the lack of contact. This year, Nina filled out all of the cards while was away on business. She included with the greeting our home phone number and a request to hear from them. Last week, Sam gave us a call. He was very brief and short on words. But he had always been very stoic and difficult to hold a phone conversation with. So I gave him an update on everything we’d been up to in recent years, including the house, my job, Nina’s culinary education and experience, her back injury, and our three cats. He briefly spoke of his electrician job and apprentice status. He told me about his sister’s marriage to a Notre Dame professor. As was typical with Sam, he told us that he didn’t want to use up all of his minutes on the phone and politely let us go. I felt satisfied that he was doing well enough for Sam and resolved that I should make contact more often.

This past Saturday I awoke to Nina talking in the other room. I’m quite used to her conversations with her mother, so I took no interest in waking up completely. A moment later, she burst through the door, obviously wanting to pass the phone off to me very soon. I lay there wondering whom I was about to speak with. When she handed me the phone I heard the voices of Norman and Katherine for the first time in several years. He was emotional and told me several times how proud of me he is. The last time I saw him was during another visit to Indiana. Nina and I had visited the Steak n’ Shake where we had worked for one of their famous steakburgers. Norman walked out of the back carrying a broom and a mop. Upon seeing me he jumped back like he had seen a ghost, dropped the mop and broom, and rushed to me to give me a hug and blubber over me like the prodigal son. I can’t recall what I did that made him attach to me so completely, but I felt very touched and hugged him back.

After speaking with Norman and Katherine on the phone they passed the phone off to Sam, who I had just spoken to a couple days prior. Nina had left the bedroom and shut the door. Sam told his landlord that he was going to step outside. We made small talk for a minute, and then he told me that he didn’t want to bum me out, but that he had some news for me. I poised as I always do before hearing bad news. He said that he wanted to tell me that he had, for several years, been combating a serious drinking problem and that he was planning on detoxing himself again on midnight, New Years Day.

Sam had always loved his Jack Daniels. He and I had shared many shots and beers in our days together. He could always put away the bourbon like I never could. I used to think that he was developing a problem, but at that age, there is very little a friend can do to stop a friend from making mistakes. I was in no position to tell anyone how to live either. But now he was admitting to being an alcoholic and telling me that he was intending to face his fourth attempt at sobering up alone. He had no friends or family left to turn to. I tried to keep it light, but never strayed from the subject at hand. I was genuinely concerned and promised to call him every day. He was obviously shaken up. I hung up and went into the kitchen to tell Nina what had just transpired.

After discussing the matter for a few minutes, we both came to the conclusion that it would only be the right thing to do to invite him out here to Phoenix. We have two spare rooms, one fully equipped as a bedroom, and a spare bathroom. He needs friends to help him through this. He needs to get the fuck out of Evansville Indiana like everyone else did before him. I called him back a few minutes later and asked him to come out. He thanked me and declined. I tried to convince him, but I’m not good at convincing people to do something they don’t want to do. But he then asked to speak with Nina. I handed the phone off and Nina started talking to him about his problem. Every time Sam would give a reason why he couldn’t come out, Nina would counter it with a solution and reiterate another benefit to being in Arizona. He said he would look into it and we hung up.

Sunday morning, Sam called me back and asked me if Tuesday was alright for him to arrive. I couldn’t believe that Nina had actually convinced him to leave. He had never left. For Sam this was uncharted territory and he was scared. I assured him that day was fine and started making preparations like emptying out our liquor cabinet and prepping his bedroom. We’re now ready for a guest and an alcoholic. This is probably the kindest thing I’ve ever attempted and I’m quite scared of failing him. But I know that if we should be successful, we will have helped a friend in his darkest hour. And that will fill me with a swell of peace I’ve not felt in some time. He arrives this evening after I get off of work. Perhaps he’ll join our little online community after a while. Perhaps he’ll kick the habit once and for all. Perhaps he’ll find an electrician’s job out here and finally escape the clutches of the small town of Evansville Indiana. All I can do is bear down for the long haul and trust in hope and our convictions.