Coffee emergencies

“Hi, Pete,” I say, stepping out the front door of my building. “How are you?” My next-door neighbour, the one I think of as “Sparrow Man”, is bundled up against the cold. The pale beak of his nose pokes out from the faded blue hood of his jacket.

“Not so good,” he says. I look again. His large brown eyes are filled with tears.

“Just been to see the doctor,” he tells me. “They can’t treat me no more.” His medical insurance has run out on him. “I’m only 61, you know?” In 2012, that makes him just one year older than me. “I don’t wanna die! But without the drugs …” He shrugs. Six months. Maybe one year. He tells me he has Hepatitis C.

“C’mon, I’ll buy us coffee,” I say. Our building shares the parking lot with a Dunkin’ Donuts café. Half an hour later, we’re sitting inside the glass-walled eatery with its pink-and-orange logo. He gets a regular, with milk and extra sugar, I get a regular with milk, no sugar. He tries to pay for the treat but gives in when I show him I have a $25 gift card from my sister, for coffee emergencies.

We sit at an orange table. Sunlight streams in while other customers ebb and flow around us. Pete talks about his life. He got infected while working at a local hospital. “I used to be a male nurse. Kept getting sick. Finally they checked my blood. It was Hep C.” That’s his nickname for the disease. “Some people get completely cured but I’m not one of ’em.” He was briefly in the military. “Had a wife. A son. Got divorced. Never see my son.” He shrugs. “Now I’m here, in Newport.” He does odd-jobs. For instance, he cleans the hallway and stairs in our building and gets a monthly retainer from old Mrs Rose, the landlady. He paints windows. But he tires easily. “It’s the Hep C. Can’t do so much no more.”

His brother Trevor, who lives in the flat adjacent to mine, is also divorced, with two children whom he never sees. “I did some bad things in the military,” says Pete. “I was locked up. But they let me out.” Sitting in the bright, coffee-scented café it’s hard to associate any heinous crimes with this fragile, bird-like man. His skin is translucent. His eyes are fever-bright. He empties two more packets of sugar into his coffee.

“Dad’s still alive,” he says. The old man lives in Providence, north of Elsewhere, in the four-bedroom family home. “It was a great place to grow up.” Their mother died years ago, but the father, now 97, had a 98-year-old girlfriend. “She used to love to go out dancing. They had a great time, my dad and her.” Then she had an accident and passed away suddenly, a few months ago. “He’s seeing someone new now. But she don’t like to dance so much.” Still, she’s only in her ’80s. A spry young thing! “There’s time yet,” says Pete.

We laugh, finish our coffees and go our separate ways.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, tells us tales of her parallel life in Elsewhere,USA, in this fortnightly series.

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