No Road for Cowards

“You want me to come with you?” Matt truly appreciated everything she was doing but was afraid the proceedings might be set back a bit if Tyrone recognized her. Again, Laurie seemed to be on his wavelength. “You know,” she said. “I think I’ll just sit right here. This is gonna be awkward enough without his arresting officer looking over your shoulder. I’ll be right here if you need me.” “You sure you want to hang around? This could take a while.” “Are you kidding!? This is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Matt looked at Laurie and smiled nervously. “Okay, then. See ya in the funny papers,” Matt said with a chuckle as he stepped out of the car. He walked up the street a few yards before crossing to the opposite sidewalk. He wanted to observe Tyrone as he approached. And what he observed was a sad sight indeed. Tyrone was dressed in khaki pants with cargo pockets that appeared to be packed full of… who knew what? From what Matt could see of the man’s current position he looked to be wearing a T-shirt with some kind of logo printed on it. Even though it was summer, in the deep-south, Tyrone was wearing a gray trench-coat. He wore a pair of tennis shoes; each made by a different company. One shoe looked as if it were struggling to stay on his foot, because it was being helped by a generous portion of duct tape. He was not wearing socks. Matt could see that, along with every article of clothing, Tyrone’s hands were absolutely filthy, and his curly hair was dirty and matted like it hadn’t been combed in months. Like untold millions around the world, drugs and alcohol were on the verge of taking another poor soul into the dark abyss from which there was no return. Matt’s heart broke for the man sitting on that Atlanta sidewalk. Tyrone was the kind of man that hundreds of people, possibly thousands, walked past every day, all the while secretly wishing that he and his kind would magically disappear. Matt remembered having the same kinds of thoughts; however, his thoughts were directed at himself. ‘Everyone would be better off if I would simply go away,’ he would think. ‘If I weren’t around I couldn’t hurt people anymore.’ And there was always that hissing, little, accommodating voice inside his mind that always agreed with him. It would say the same kinds of things every time Matt felt the least bit sorry for himself. ‘That’s right. You’re no good for anybody. They’d be better off if you were dead. They would be hurt at first, but after a while it would actually be a blessing. They could get on with their lives without worrying about you. You couldn’t screw them over anymore.’ Matt had lived with those debilitating thoughts for years. The depression was so very heavy and stifling; like living under a woolen blanket in August. There was no light, even on the brightest days, and the air he breathed was always thick and foul. Much of his time was spent in bed. On many days it was a struggle to get vertical long enough to simply to go to the bathroom. He could remember wondering what the point was to all his suffering. ‘If this is all there is I don’t want to live,’ he would think. He would sit for hours holding his 9mm Beretta in one hand and a bottle of Old Charter in the other, and debate with himself about why he was such a coward. He would open his mouth, insert the barrel, and begin squeezing the trigger. He would watch the hammer go slowly backward, while the hissing little voice egged him on. ‘Do it you gutless wonder. You’re a coward! Just a little more pressure and it will all be over. Everybody will be better off.’ But there was always another voice. This voice was soft and comforting; firm, yet full of compassion. Where the hissing voice seemed to fly and whirl chaotically around him, the other voice came from the deepest part of who Matt really was. Somewhere, in a solid place, where nothing could budge it, the calm, soothing voice would always say, ‘Matt, I love you. Don’t hurt yourself, son. Let me help you through the pain. I can make it all go away. You are not alone, Matt. I am with you.’ Later, whenever Matt told about his past life, with its addiction, pain, depression, and suicidal thoughts, he would always acknowledge that it was the voice of Jesus that kept him from killing himself. As he sat down, a few feet to Tyrone’s left, he wondered if those kinds of thoughts ever went through his mind. Matt wasn’t sure how to get the whole thing kicked off, and since he couldn’t think of anything better to say, he simply said the man’s name. “Tyrone Burns?” he asked softly.