The man leaned forward in his chair, intently watching a news report about the murder of Jamal Khashoggi. “Those people are brutal,” he said, pointing at the TV screen. My response was immediate: “Yes. They go into synagogues with AR-15s and murder 11 people.” I was seated to the man’s right and watched him in silence. The man did not turn to me. I think that he was processing the contrast between his statement and mine, but so far, we have not discussed it. This was not the least of the contrasts between us, most evident when we shared the small space of my apartment for 22 days.
I met the man in a pool hall and our relationship grew out of a mutual respect for each other’s skill on the pool table. When I had car problems, the man offered to drive me home; when he learned that I frequently traveled to New Jersey to see my grandchildren, he offered to take me to the airport and pick me up when I returned. When he worked on a “side job,” he invited me to join him, and as we shared the front seat of his truck, I heard him express his anger at the world. “I like who I like, CJ,” he told me, “but I hate everyone else.” He was hostile and aggressive toward other drivers, saying that he leaves space in front of his car for himself, not to allow others to merge into his lane. When I commented on his purposeful blocking of an intersection when cars were backed up, he was quiet. But he was respectful toward the clients we serviced, laughing and joking with them and showing care and concern for their property. But it was our poolroom relationship that made me offer up my space when he called to tell me, “I have no place to go.”
The man had caused himself some legal problems that had him incarcerated for a time; when he got out, he was barred from his home. His unconstrained anger caused him additional problems while he was in jail, and when he was released, he had enlisted the aid of another associate in getting some of his clothing and personal items. He arrived at my apartment with the back of his SUV loaded with boxes, bags and plastic containers. I unfolded my black futon and doled out sheets and towels. “I’ll try to stay out of the way,” the man told me, as I explained to him that my granddaughter spent every weekday with me, starting at 6:30 a.m. and ending at 6:30 p.m. “She’s the boss when she’s here,” I told him. And for three weeks, he showed that he understood that, and we managed to co-exist with minimal friction, and almost no shared views on the vagaries of life. Friends with whom I have shared my erose relationship with the man have been alternately surprised and fearful; one friend warned me, “He’s dangerous.” Perhaps he is, but he was not, to me.
I don’t feel bad, and I don’t feel “better than,” but for that man and for me, the friction of our passing may have altered the trajectories of our lives in ways beneficial to the both of us. In Shakespeare’s play, “The Merchant of Venice,” when Shylock questions “what compulsion” commands him to be merciful and not demand the pound of flesh pledged as collateral for a debt, Portia responds that “The quality of mercy is not strain’d … It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
Perhaps, there may have been that.