I had to step up. I knew it when I was awoken in the night and forced to sit on the floor next to my handcuffed roomate and look around the room at the terrified faces. Where I used to see the faces of friends, now I only saw children. Children with pleading, glassy eyes, their fingers crossed behind their backs.
But the police addressed the two of us with sleepy eyes. We were the adults, we had let this occur. And after much begging and pleading, and after the tickets had all been writ, I had to make a choice. I had to say something. I had to address them, to add my opinion to their giggles of relief, escalating on top of each other. But instead, since I had nothing to say, I went back to bed. Ignoring the apologetic pleas that trailed off as I left Reuben in the kitchen.
It took me three days to come to the conclusion that there would be no smoking inside the house. And at least a week and a half to enforce it by forcing notice on the perpetrators. That was two nights prior to their court appearance. There was nothing selfish about this decision. If the house was meant to be a refuge, than it had to be truly safe. Truly safe: no one would risk their future, their goals, their ambitions, when they stepped foot inside. They would instead be surrounded by positivity: Cooper and I cooking meals in the kitchen, painting the living room, playing Uno, or singing songs. Indeed, it wasn't a hard decision to make, just a hard one to carry out.
The night they went to jail, we chided about how clean the house would now be. We drank scotch and watched a David Lynch movie underneath blankets in the living room (socks on to keep out the cold).
I woke up the next morning acutely aware of how quiet the house was. The shower head began dripping out of nowhere. I ached to hear footsteps, someone going out for a cigarette, or pouring a bowl of cereal. I got out a pen and paper and began to write. I tried to explain to Reuben why I couldn't help him. Maybe it was the months of leaching off of me. Maybe it was the blatant disregard for my things, and for our house. Maybe it was the fact that he had it coming. But I promised him I wouldn't abandon him. Even though I'm sure he wishes I would. I just know something deep in my heart. His world has stopped turning while outside, we are zooming around. He neither knows what time it is nor the weather outside. He lives for the next television program, or to grow weary and fall asleep. There is no day or night inside. Regardless of whether or not he hears from his friends while he's in, he put in me in a position to administer tough love. It's not that in my opinion, what happened to him is fair. It's that this experience is a positive one. He'll appreciate everything after a months time. He'll appreciate the air he breaths. Today, he is entitled. He expects people to "help," him: to feed, clothe, and shelter him. Tomorrow? No more.
But I helped James, it's true. I helped James because he has a life to claim. Because he helps me, and, when I approached our friends about what to do, because we agreed on one thing: Help James. He works hard, he overcomes obstacles with a positive attitude. He's not perfect, but he's young. And he smiled so big when I opened the door and ran up to him from behind the glass. Dressed in orange, it was the first time he had looked through a window in a day and a night. And we talked, and he told me his was worried about keeping his job, devastated about not being able to join the Marine Corp, and desperate to come home. I rallied to his cause and we had him out later that afternoon.
When you treat someone like a friend, they do the same to you in return.
So I've learned a lot about copping in this sort of climate in the past few months, and I am so greatful that you were never my roomate. AJ didn't follow through, and much for the better. Our electricity bill this month was a fraction of what it was living with him. The house is always clean, and even the messes that Reuben leaves are manageable. There is no one here to abuse peoples things, or break windows, or anything that a 6'1 insolent child leaves in his wake. I should have understood better what the expectations of me were: you provide the house, the pots and pans. We'll provide the ruckus, and you just clean up afterwards, kapeche? This has been straightened out. There is a clear divide, which is just the way I want it. I don't harbor hate in my heart, despite your obvious jibes at me. They demostrate your crystal clear lack of understanding, of which, I really don't have time or energy to mend.
