I first spotted him a few weeks ago...
Today, however, I was able to get a closer look at Talky (the nickname I've given him). Talky was in the prison's outdoor recreation yard, walking by himself. His lips could be seen moving at a rapid pace as he conversed with his invisible friends. There was no one on either side of him. But Talky continued to chat away, oblivious to everyone around him.
I've seen this kind of behavior before. Talky is mentally ill, and he lives in a world of his own. For the most part, men like Talky are lonely, confused and tormented. For them, as well as for him, they've retreated into their own private worlds where others are not permitted to penetrate unless invited in. I suppose, too, that such self-created places help to better insulate themselves against the pain and heartache which can come with relationships. There's no one to hurt you. And this seems to be the case with Talky.
I grew up in New York City. I have also spent more than thirty years in prison. Therefore, having to observe these kinds of individuals on a regular basis, men who are ill, is no big deal. Such damaged souls can often be found on the streets of big cities like New York, jabbering to themselves or arguing with creatures whom only they can see. I recall, when I lived in the City, watching as passers-by would nervously walk by these disturbed persons, quickening the pace as they go, while trying to avoid eye contact at all cost. We're frightened by those whose behavior is bizarre, even if these people are really harmless.
Talky is a real thin black man who's about five feet, ten inches tall. He doesn't seem to own any personal clothing, so I must assume he only has his prison issued garments which consists of three pairs each of t-shirts, undershorts and socks. Plus three pairs of heavy green pants with matching green work shirts, two green hand towels and a pair of no frills black work boots plus a sweatshirt and one coat, both green. Dark green is the color of our uniforms.
Talky is highly energetic. His arms will flail from side to side or up and down as he talks to himself. He's probably in his mid-thirties but looks about fifty, which is fitting for a life lived in poverty and homelessness washed down with lots of cheap wine. Talky's face is prematurely wrinkled and wisps of gray in his close-cropped hair. His facial features and taut skin around his jaw and cheekbones bespeak of one who has experienced many years of deep emotional pain and disappointment.
Walking with a friend, I suggested to him that we try to catch up to Talky, and I explained why. My friend is a Christian. So he knew I had my sights set on a soul. Then, as he and I caught up to Talky, I tried to appear nonchalant. I turned to Talky and said a polite hello along with a slight nod of my head and a simple smile on my face. For a few seconds, Talky ignored me. I wasn't surprised. I could also tell in these brief moments of initial contact that Talky was not used to someone giving him a greeting, especially a stranger. And by now my friend and I were already a couple of steps ahead of Talky when, as something of an afterthought, he said to me in a scratchy voice, "Hey, you got a cigarette?"
Hearing his voice, I turned toward Talky and made eye contact. He repeated the question. But I told him that I don't smoke and apologized. He then shrugged his shoulders at his failed bid to get something to smoke and immediately resumed the conversation he was having with his invisible friends. I've seen and experienced this often in the prison setting. Many who are mentally ill can be momentarily aroused from their psychosis merely by dangling a cigarette in front of them. However, once they score a smoke for themselves, they will often retreat to an isolated location to puff it. In a correctional setting, tobacco is the drug of choice. Its nicotine seems to soothe the mind. And Talky's charred and blackened fingertips tell of many a cigarette consumed to its fullest.
In any event, I am going to make it my business to get to know Talky. In time, I'll ask him if he needs anything (besides cigarettes). I will invite him to church. I'll make myself known to him, and this is a good way to start. No doubt, Talky is a street-wise survivor. But I believe that it was God who has kept him alive for a better day. And, for Talky, better days will come.
D.B.
I've seen this kind of behavior before. Talky is mentally ill, and he lives in a world of his own. For the most part, men like Talky are lonely, confused and tormented. For them, as well as for him, they've retreated into their own private worlds where others are not permitted to penetrate unless invited in. I suppose, too, that such self-created places help to better insulate themselves against the pain and heartache which can come with relationships. There's no one to hurt you. And this seems to be the case with Talky.
I grew up in New York City. I have also spent more than thirty years in prison. Therefore, having to observe these kinds of individuals on a regular basis, men who are ill, is no big deal. Such damaged souls can often be found on the streets of big cities like New York, jabbering to themselves or arguing with creatures whom only they can see. I recall, when I lived in the City, watching as passers-by would nervously walk by these disturbed persons, quickening the pace as they go, while trying to avoid eye contact at all cost. We're frightened by those whose behavior is bizarre, even if these people are really harmless.
Talky is a real thin black man who's about five feet, ten inches tall. He doesn't seem to own any personal clothing, so I must assume he only has his prison issued garments which consists of three pairs each of t-shirts, undershorts and socks. Plus three pairs of heavy green pants with matching green work shirts, two green hand towels and a pair of no frills black work boots plus a sweatshirt and one coat, both green. Dark green is the color of our uniforms.
Talky is highly energetic. His arms will flail from side to side or up and down as he talks to himself. He's probably in his mid-thirties but looks about fifty, which is fitting for a life lived in poverty and homelessness washed down with lots of cheap wine. Talky's face is prematurely wrinkled and wisps of gray in his close-cropped hair. His facial features and taut skin around his jaw and cheekbones bespeak of one who has experienced many years of deep emotional pain and disappointment.
Walking with a friend, I suggested to him that we try to catch up to Talky, and I explained why. My friend is a Christian. So he knew I had my sights set on a soul. Then, as he and I caught up to Talky, I tried to appear nonchalant. I turned to Talky and said a polite hello along with a slight nod of my head and a simple smile on my face. For a few seconds, Talky ignored me. I wasn't surprised. I could also tell in these brief moments of initial contact that Talky was not used to someone giving him a greeting, especially a stranger. And by now my friend and I were already a couple of steps ahead of Talky when, as something of an afterthought, he said to me in a scratchy voice, "Hey, you got a cigarette?"
Hearing his voice, I turned toward Talky and made eye contact. He repeated the question. But I told him that I don't smoke and apologized. He then shrugged his shoulders at his failed bid to get something to smoke and immediately resumed the conversation he was having with his invisible friends. I've seen and experienced this often in the prison setting. Many who are mentally ill can be momentarily aroused from their psychosis merely by dangling a cigarette in front of them. However, once they score a smoke for themselves, they will often retreat to an isolated location to puff it. In a correctional setting, tobacco is the drug of choice. Its nicotine seems to soothe the mind. And Talky's charred and blackened fingertips tell of many a cigarette consumed to its fullest.
In any event, I am going to make it my business to get to know Talky. In time, I'll ask him if he needs anything (besides cigarettes). I will invite him to church. I'll make myself known to him, and this is a good way to start. No doubt, Talky is a street-wise survivor. But I believe that it was God who has kept him alive for a better day. And, for Talky, better days will come.
D.B.
