My Experience with a Gypsy, Part 2

A serious moment here, people – have you ever had one of those days when you know in your head that what you did was the right thing, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling like shit?  Yeah, that’s how I’ve been the last couple days.  It’s finally started to ebb, but for a time, it was pretty awful.  All of this began with a conversation with a friend about a game, Life is Strange.  True to form, that is still fitting.  The unfortunate part is that, while life is strange, it can also be pretty awful, sometimes.  Strange can be good or bad.  In my case, it started out great, then got really fucking bad.  Now, I am sitting here, hoping that everything turned out well.  I don’t know.  I doubt if I ever will.  Which is a genuine pity.  I’m going to have a candid moment with you, my audience.  Why?  Because maybe I just want to get this all off my chest, and hope that it doesn’t feel like crap in the morning.

The gypsy had left.  She left something at my place – her tarot cards.  It seemed a fitting memento.  Even after everything that happened, I still have those cards.  I hope that I can give them back to her, someday.  Hopefully when she gets herself sorted.  Don’t know if that will happen.  I genuinely hope so.  I don’t wish unpleasantness on anybody.  Not really.  Even people I genuinely hate, the most I can say about them is that I won’t shed tears if something bad happens to them.  I don’t actively wish bad things on any person.  And to be honest, while I think she has a lot of problems that need to be resolved, I do think that the gypsy I met is a good person.  She just needs to get some shit sorted out.

A couple days after she left, the gypsy came back.  It was 1 in the morning, and she came knocking on my door.  Told me she had nowhere else to go.  If nothing else, I wasn’t going to let her stand out in the cold.  I could let her come in and warm up, right?  Right off the bat, I knew something we up.  She had had several bags with her before, which were now gone.  Her hoodie, vest and coat were all missing too.  Her pockets had almost nothing in them, save a few things, that she proceeded to dump all over my floor.  One of which was a pamphlet for Narcotics Anonymous.  There is a story to be told in all that stuff.  One which I doubt I will ever know the answer to.

I had looked into stuff she sent me.  She friended me on Facebook, which I looked into.  Her story about being from Canada was true.  How she ended up here is a mystery.  So yeah, not a total con artist.  But with problems all the same.  Like that night, when she came here and was strung out.  For real, I know what drunk looks like.  This wasn’t that.  She was all over the place!  Her emotions were yin-yanging from one to the other on the drop of a dime.  She smelled terrible.  Like she hadn’t bathed in a long time.  She had told me that she spent some time in rehab, due to opiates.  This sounded like opiates.  My natural skepticism took what she said with a grain of salt.

So yeah, I’m trying to figure out what had happened, because she was wanting a place to stay.  I didn’t want that.  My cousin, who is still staying with me for the rest of the month, was even less pleased.  He told me not to let her in.  In hindsight, part of me is glad I did.  Especially if she can get the help she so desperately needs.  I tried to reason with her, to tell her that I didn’t want to burn her and I wanted to do the right thing (which was a wasted effort, as she didn’t even register what I said.  She was all over the place, mentally), she then went into my room and passed out on my bed.

This led me to one of those moments that we all get to have.  Those moments that define us as people.  When you have to make a really tough choice, and there is no technically right answer.  I had to really think about it, and it wasn’t easy.  Following about half an hour of thinking it out, I told my cousin what I was going to do.  I was going to call the cops and have them take her somewhere where she could sleep.  Somewhere like what he called “drunk-tank.”  It was the hardest thing I’ve had to do.  It was just me who could make this choice.  I made the call.  About twenty minutes later, the cops arrived.  Two guys and two gals.  The older gal cop was so in control.  She asked us some questions.  I guess she could tell that we were being straight with her, since there were two of us to corroborate the story.

They got my gypsy up and on her feet.  She was still all over the place, but much less so.  I guess she was frightened.  It was all over her face.  Made me feel terrible.  The cops had some trouble getting her to get her shoes and whatnot on.  But the lady cop was totally cool.  I guess she’s dealt with this before.  She got her to get her shoes and coat on.  Last I heard, they were taking her to the local homeless shelter.

I still feel terrible.  The gypsy just wanted to get back home to Canada.  Her people seemed completely incapable of helping her.  I would know.  She used my computer to chat with people, when she was here.  Got to see those conversations.  She was looking for someone to help get her home.  I truly hope that she finds her way, and then gets herself some help.  There is a good person underneath all those problems.  Judging from how she suddenly dropped off Facebook a year or two back, I’m guessing that whatever got her here started then.  I bet that the story is fascinating.  My inner journalist wants to know what it is.  To find her and her people and learn the truth.

My cousin thinks that she was playing me.  The cop warned me that homeless people do.  They might be right.  But what else was I supposed to do?  What else could I have done?  I don’t know.  I was skeptical of her too.  Believe me, I still am.  But I was able to corroborate some of her story.  So she isn’t a total liar.  And besides, if she was looking to rob me, she had had a chance to do so last time she was here.  For real, my wallet was literally right there, if she had wanted to fish through my pants pockets to get into it.  She didn’t.  I made sure.  So did my cousin.  She didn’t take a thing.  Doesn’t that say that this person might not just be a user?  Should I just assume that everyone who I help is a user?  Is that the culture we live in?  Where it’s all users and everyone is using or getting used?  I can’t believe that.  I won’t.  Because if it’s true, then it means that all my work to be a good person is a giant waste of time.  And if that’s the case, then what the fuck am I doing here?!  What is life worth if all you can do is just use and get used?

I hope that my gypsy finds her way home.  The last message I sent her was to tell the cops that she’s here illegally.  They would deport her back home.  If she is using, then I guess that’s that.  If not, then hopefully she is waiting for the long road of extradition from the US to Canada.  Things in the government are slow.  I hope I’m right.  I desperately do.

In the meantime, I still see those tarot cards, sitting on my bookshelf, by the TV.  I hope to see my gypsy again.  When she is cleaned up and back on her feet.  I can give them back to her, and find out what that story is.  I bet that it will be one worth telling.

Until next time, a quote,

“What are we holding on to, Sam?” -Frodo Baggins
“That there is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo.  And it’s worth fighting for.”  -Samwise Gamgie, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

Peace out,

Maverick

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2 thoughts on “My Experience with a Gypsy, Part 2

  1. Wasn’t there anyway to get her a ticket & get her back to Canada ? I know that the situation had to be dealt with & you just have to do what’s necessary, but putting someone into that system is God awful. Hope you find out she fared well & got home. Drugs are the worst, hope she makes it.

    • I didn’t have the money. Just a poor journalist trying to get by. Her people have money, but if she has a history of drugs, they might have cut her off. I don’t know. Putting her in the system wasn’t what I wanted to do, but if I could have thought of another option, I would have. It was not an easy decision, by any means.

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