Mark and Jacob were sitting on the sidewalk. An empty pint of Old Crow and tarot deck rested between them. I handed Mark a tin of Irish pipe tobacco and he thanked me with an Irish accent. He wanted to give me a tarot reading but I wasn't in the mood.
It was Labor Day late afternoon and a pleasant 75 degrees. I was on a walk around the neighborhood trying to iron out the vicissitudes in my life.
I told Mark we were heading downtown in two days to try and obtain his assessment/referral for housing. I would pick him up at the sidewalk at 10:30 in the morning. The trip might prove worthless, but we were going to see it through. On the way home, we'd get some lunch. Mark said he'd be ready.
Jacob had been missing in action for a couple of weeks. He told me he'd suffered a drug-induced psychotic episode that had produced a linked series of hallucinations while in the hospital. He wanted to know if I would help him write them up into a coherent narrative.
This news surprised me because I knew Jacob drank, but disdained hard drugs and loathed the class of meth miscreants.
I told Jacob he should write it up himself and then I would provide editorial support. Jacob said that sounded like a good idea. I asked him if he had any paper in his backpack? No. I didn't have any on me, either, which was totally inexcusable. I told Jacob I'd buy him a note pad at the convenience store 20 feet away and he could start right now. The best time to write about something intense is the second the intensity makes you want to write. He agreed.
The convenience store had a crypto currency ATM but didn't stock a single paper product for writing and free napkins for nachos weren't going to cut it.
Now what? The story mattered to Jacob. That was obvious from his introduction. Forget paper! Use the tools at hand! If Jacob didn't tell me the story RIGHT NOW!, he never would.
I would record Jacob on my phone and shape the narrative for the book. I promised him $20 for the story. He said he didn't want the money, only my professional expertise to assist him documenting the experience because it had exerted a profound effect and he'd nearly died during the ordeal.
Okay, cash was out. Let's barter. I mentioned Old Crow and he said that was more than fair. I walked to the liquor store 40 yards away and bought a pint. Was this ethical? Wise? Probably not.
By the time I handed over the pint, another homeless man I didn't recognize had materialized near Mark and Jacob and was eating a cup of noodles.
I dug out my phone and hit record. I told Jacob to hit the highlights and be prepared for my questions.
The narrative was hard to follow at times and I interrupted frequently to establish basic facts, but Jacob's story went something like this:
He was with his cousin somewhere in the neighborhood. It was some kind of gathering. When he regained consciousness he was in some kind of treatment center. He hadn't taken any drugs that he was aware of. He was transferred to another hospital and spent five days in lock down on some kind of parole hold. The hallucinations occurred there.
“I went through three lives. In the first, I met some chick, we fell in love. She saved my life, we went through a slippery door, a weird window, a secret window. In the second life, everybody from the first life came and it got crazy. The third life was all chaotic and killing. After they said I was okay and I walked out of the hospital. They realized I wasn't fucking crazy.”
Jacob had tested positive for methamphetamine and 'blue” a new type of fentanyl. He was lucky to be alive. Again, he said he had no idea how the poison got into his system. I believed him.
He wrapped up the narrative by saying, “Matt you are the person to help me.”
I had no idea how writing his story up might help him. There seemed to be nothing there
This wasn't Carlos Castaneda or Aldous Huxley territory. It wasn't even Jim Morrison's poetry. Maybe it was as simple as writing it down, honoring his belief in my abilities, sharing the result, and let him take it from there. Sometimes all that matters with a story important to someone is that it is heard by someone else.
I asked Jacob what he thought the hallucinations might mean. He didn't really know. Maybe, I suggested, it was all drug addled bullshit. He didn't think so. Ultimately, that was for him to decide.
At some point through the narrative/interview, a younger blonde/purple haired and buxom woman wearing (barely) a halter top and shorts appeared on the sidewalk carrying a backpack. Mark went up to her and said hello.
So as I elicited details of Jacob's psychotic episode, Mark got the lowdown from the stranger and I took that in as well. It was all sort of chaotic, but then again, that's the sidewalk and Old Crow cawing.
She was new to all of us and new to the area. She'd recently been homeless but had just scored some transnational housing a few blocks away and was on her way to the river for a dip. What a great neighborhood Sellwood was! Her light was strong.
We discovered her name was Anya. She noticed Mark's tarot deck and perked up. Lo and behold, she read cards, too, and had a deck stashed in the her backpack! Anya pulled out a silver-colored square can and opened it. Out came her cards. They began comparing decks and talking enthusiastically about their various artistic and soothsaying merits.
I ended the recording and told Jacob I was unsure of next step to with it, but would do something. He thanked me.
It was time for me leave. I said goodbye just as Mark and Anya were about to begin a reading. I couldn't tell who was going first.
Recorded first-person interviews. This could be a new dimension for your Diaspora narrative Matt!