Maliq is the first person I remember meeting in the streets while serving with New York City Relief.
In September of 2010 I decided to give the nonprofit organization of Christians serving the homeless equipped with two retrofitted school buses, a half finished warehouse, and a staff of fewer than 10 “urban missionaries” a chance by filling out an application and doing an interview with the leadership team. In October, I moved one step closer to working full-time among the disenfranchised and homeless by agreeing to serve on the Relief Bus for one week as a “test run.”
I met Maliq on my first trip to East Harlem. We parked under the Metro North train tacks between E 124th Street and E 125th Street. He was standing against the chain link fence that stood between the sidewalk and a small grassy lot with signs stuck in the ground warning people of rat poison. He was tall. He had caramel brown skin and lose-fitting jeans. His tank top revealed muscles that made a wordless introduction everywhere he went. His face was narrow and he had a mustache and goatee that neatly framed his mouth. He wore a bandanna and clearly cared about how he looked.
He enjoyed being the center of attention. After I initially approached him we spent a good thirty minutes just joking around. Growing up in a missionary family that would jump back and forth from Africa to the U.S. I quickly learned how to make friends across cultural divides.
There are only so many universal languages. One is sports; it is the language of victory and defeat, effort and exertion. Another is music; it makes us feel, remember, and respond. The last is laughter. And the only thing better than getting someone to laugh at your jokes, is to laugh at theirs. Everyone feels more comfortable with someone who laughs at his jokes.
“I told him, ‘f*ck you, I’m not paying for my own backpack. You stole that from me while I was sleeping, you piece of sh*t!'” Maliq was telling me a story about his experience sleeping in a NYC shelter a few nights before.
“So what did he say?” I had to know.
“He said that he bought my bag from another guy in the shelter 2 hours before and since it was mine he’d let me have it for half of what he paid!” He paused for dramatic emphasis building up to the punchline. “So I told him, since he was willing to sell me my own bag for half price, I’d be willing to kick the sh*t out of him for half the time. OR he could just give me back my f*ckin bag and I’d let him walk away for free!” We both laughed out loud as he delivered the punchline with effortless charisma. It was genuinely funny.
“I’m going for another cup of soup, you want something? Lemonade? Tea?” I gestured toward the Relief Bus.
“No, I’m good.” His eyes went from the food service window to the block lettering written on the side of the bus advertising the kind of services we try to connect people with.
“So what kind of programs do you guys do?” He was referring to the second item listed from the top: “Detox/Drug and alcohol Programs.”
“We do a bunch of stuff. But honestly I’m pretty new. Ok, I’m extremely new. I don’t have a clue what we can do, but I can find out for you. What are you looking for?”
“I drink. I always have. That’s the reason I’m in the street. I had a good job, but I couldn’t stop drinking.”
“Well, let me get the Outreach Leader and see what can be done. Don’t go anywhere.”
I scanned the crowd for the Outreach Leader that day. I spotted him by the fellowship tables that were set up for volunteers and guests to sit down and enjoy the famous Relief Bus soup and bread. Austin is one of those guys everyone likes. One of the many Christians serving the homeless. A self-described hillbilly, he wore a fisherman’s cap and would occasionally grow an outstanding beard to go with it. I jogged over and got his attention. We walked back to Maliq and I made the introduction.
“So what going on, man?” Austin asked.
“I need detox.” Maliq was right to the point.
“You got insurance? Medicaid? ID?”
“Yeah, I got all that.”
“You want to go today?”
“Yeah.”
Austin pulled out his phone.
“Let’s see your benefits card.”
Maliq started fishing in his pocket for it. He got a bite and pulled out a ratty polyester billfold that was more “fold” than “bill.” He flipped through it for a second or two until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a plastic card with his picture on it and some official-looking blue writing.
“Alright, hold on.” Austin took the card and dialed a number. As he dialed he walked away and left Maliq and I to continue our conversation.
“You ready for this?” I asked. “It’s a big step.”
“It’s been too long. I’m tired. I’m ready.” Even as he said it though, I could feel the turmoil start to spring up inside of him. The laughter was gone and now he was anxious.
“You’ve got this, man.” It was all I could think to say. Austin came back a few minutes later.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that your Medicaid is all set and someone from the detox is on their way to come pick you up. The bad news is they are across town and won’t get here for an hour.”
“That’s not so bad.” I said it with the confidence of someone who had worked in the streets for 5 whole minutes. “We can hang out until they get here.”
Maliq moved from anxious to fidgety.
“Ok. That’s fine. But I need to run and get something quick.” Austin wasn’t fooled.
“Come on, bro. Just hang out here for a little while. Have another soup. The driver will be here and then you can rest in a warm bed with some medication in your system.” Maliq heard him but didn’t acknowledge it.
“I’ll be right back.” He turned and walked away. His long stride carrying him up the sidewalk towards the Metro North train station.
I looked at Austin. “What should we do?”
“Nothing we can do but wait.” I did, but not very well. Maliq was gone for a long time. When fifteen minutes turned to thirty I began to give up hope. But then, out of nowhere, there he was. Walking back significantly more slowly than he had walked away. He carried a paper bag that he didn’t have when he left.
“Dude! I thought you ditched us!”
“No, man, I just need something. If I’m going to detox, I might as well have one last beer… or two.” He smiled as he pulled out one of the two beer cans he had hidden tightly in a brown paper disguise. He cracked the aluminum lid back off the top of the first one.
“I get that.” I genuinely did. I had no problem with him drinking away the last half hour before the detox driver showed up.
“So when did you start drinking?” I asked.
“When I was thirteen years-old.”
“Thirteen?” I asked incredulously.
“Yep. My mom drank and all her boyfriends drank. So one day I was in our apartment and she left me with one of her boyfriends who gave me a beer. He told me I was ready to be a man. Never looked back.”
“So what happened to the boyfriend?”
“He hit my mom so I punched him in the face. Man, did he beat the sh*t out of me! My mom begged him to stop, but he told her he was teaching me to be a man. He would beat me up a lot after that… apparently I had a lot to learn. Eventually I got bigger and our fights weren’t quite so one-sided. I guess he didn’t like getting hit back, so he told my mom she had to chose, me or him. She chose him; I had to leave. I’ve been on my own ever since.” He took a sip of his beer.
The flatness of his voice hit me like a truck.
All of sudden I remembered where I was. The noise of friends, both homeless and not, having conversations around us mingled with the shake of the train thundering over our heads on Park Ave. The sun was bright. There weren’t any clouds to speak of. It was a warm October day, and from the way he told me the story of his life, he could have been reading from a newspaper.
The only visible evidence of the trauma he suffered as a kid was the paper bag collecting moisture from the condensation of two cans of beer.
He took another sip: abandonment.
He finished the can: abuse.
He reached for another: heartbreak.
“That’s crazy, bro.” It was all I could come up with at the time. “Dude, no wonder you drink. It’s amazing you’re still upright at all.”
He looked surprised. I’m not sure he was expecting that response from a “Christian” volunteer at the Relief Bus.
I continued. “Seriously. If that happened to me, I’d probably be locked up for killing someone or medicated in a hospital for a nervous breakdown. The fact that you are still standing is a testimony to how strong you are. I believe that God can do amazing things with your story. Tomorrow doesn’t have to look like yesterday.”
Maliq finished his second beer in 2 swallows. He started to fidget again.
Sometimes I wonder if getting people to open up about the pain of their past is the best way to keep them from running to the vices that have sustained them.
“I need another beer.” In an instant my empathy was drowned by frustration.
“Dude, you’re almost there! Your ride will be here any second! Don’t go!” I pleaded.
“I need to go get some money and then I’ll be right back.”
“It’s 1:40 pm! We leave here in 20 minutes. The driver will be here any minute. Please don’t go. You are worth more than a can of beer!”
He left.
Again.
He disappeared around the corner and about 10 minutes later a silver minivan pulled up. A man with a lanyard got out and walked toward Austin. Austin shook his head and pointed in the direction that Maliq had just walked away. The driver agreed to hang around for 10 minutes and have a soup in case Maliq came back. We started wiping down the tables and carrying them to the back of the Relief Bus to pack everything up.
Hope was draining out of me faster than the sweat from my exertion. We closed the serving window of the Relief Bus and volunteers started to re-board. The detox driver finished his soup, shook hands with Austin, and started to climb back into his van.
As I sat in the front of the Relief Bus I started to pray, “Lord, please, bring Maliq back.” It was a desperate prayer. “Show him you are not a God who chooses an abusive boyfriend over your children. Bring him back. Please!” As Austin started the bus, I heard a familiar voice ring out over the engine, “wait!”
I jumped out of my seat, ran out the door onto the sidewalk, and knocked on the window of the detox driver’s van as he started to pull away.
“Wait! He’s here! He’s here!”
Maliq was jogging our direction with a new paper bag clutched in his huge right hand.
The detox driver looked at the bag and back to Maliq. “You can’t bring that with you.” The driver said to him.
“No problem.” Maliq cracked open the can, downed it in one gulp, and climbed into the van. “Keep praying for me!” He yelled as the driver closed the door behind him.
Grace & Peace,
Josiah
