Ron

My day job is in social services. Through my job, I get to know people in all kinds of situations. Most of them have health problems and need caregivers. Some are financially well off, some are supported and insured by the state. I work with people who have mental health issues, substance use issues, and…just issues. Racisists, papists, Democrats, and conservatives; mothers, fathers, hoarders, and hippies, we all have bodies that get out of joint, fail, breakdown, or die. This is where my agency comes in; we connect people with services that allow them to stay at home as long as they can.

Below is a character sketch of a former client in which I reflect on and process the man as I knew him. “Ron” was in my chapbook, Cat Show, and will also be included in my upcoming book The Anonymity of Waiting.

Ron

Ron had 13 cats,
and none of them were his.

He left some windows in his trailer open 
all the time, even through the winter,
so any cat roaming the trailer park could come in.

One time I said, “Don’t you get cold?
I mean, last night, it was like 15 degrees or something.”
Ron said, “Nah, I just crank the heat and pile on the blankets.
Besides, if I shut the windows, 
those halfwits’ll freeze to death.”

I wasn’t sure if Ron left the windows open
because he cared about the cats
or didn’t care about himself,
or a little of both.

He gave all the cats names
like Nico, Punk, or Tiger.

Ron was tethered 
to his oxygen machine.
He had a patchy beard, paunchy eyes,
and a ready, raspy, smoker’s laugh.

The cats came and went as they pleased.
Pain was Ron’s only constant companion; 
he complained his doctor
wouldn’t give him pain meds
because he drank too much.
“But drinkin’s the only pain relief I got
so I can’t quit.”
These were the pincers of irony
he was caught in.

As his Case Manager, I reminded him 
about the dangers of smoking 
while wearing his oxygen cannula.
He said he read on the net that
it was impossible for the oxygen
coming from the concentrator to ignite
and was quiet while I told him
about another client who breathed fire 
and got burns all over her mouth and nose
when she lit a cigarette which lit her o2 hose.

Ron flashed a careless smile and wryly observed
that if he caught fire
the cats would enjoy the heat.

It’s been ten years but I still wonder 
about that January night from time to time.

Investigators ruled it an accident
but doubt smolders in my brain.

Did a cigarette fall from his snoring mouth
into the blankets piled on him?
Did the oxygen catch after all, turning his o2 hose 
into a fiery snake on the rug?

However the fire started, I’m guessing 
Ron made sure the cats got out
before flames crawled up to block the windows.

If he lived long enough
to look for a way out himself,
I wonder if he found the front door engulfed
and felt trapped
or saw that door of flame
as another kind of escape

one better than surviving
the inferno of his trailer.