So yesterday I skipped out of church early. I had a real nice time of worship and I didn't want the Pastor to bring me down. (How blasphemous is THAT? I know it was a wrong mindset, but I am readjusting my faith from "Punitive God" to "God, Full of Grace." The Pastor that I figured was about to preach is not on-board my faith-shift. So I skipped out.
God forgive me. (Which, being Full of Grace, He will. And in learning that He will, I also forgive myself. Because I'm happy that I went at all yesterday.)
And out I come, skip-to-my-loo, when who do I look up into the surprised face of?
On the corner of Broadway and 50th. He was just coming from not-seeing the play Tarzan (because he had waited for his son, George Jr., and Junior didn't show. Big shock. So sad how George has no idea).
And get this ... George had a dried blood stain, a palms' width (with fingers spread) on the inside of his jeans' thigh. He explains that the day before, he had picked a pink bump that he though was a pimple, and it started bleeding and wouldn't stop.
Yeah. The day before. So he was wearing the same pants he had on the day before, with a huge 24-hr old bloodstain. He was staying at the hotel suite that he let me stay in over Christmas.
And he wanted me to fall in and hang out with him for the rest of the evening. And I'm not ready. I felt a great swell of compassion for him and how lost he seemed. What he looked like was one of the 888,000 homeless people in Manhattan. I felt a shameful buzz of embarrassment standing there speaking to him. All those feelings whirring around inside. Which means I'm not ready to be his friend yet.
Just let me get all my stuff out his house first and secure my cat to the no-kill facility. Just give me some space. Then maybe. Maybe.
Well this morning, after I left NYC, went to my old gym for an hour of buffosity, and returned to George's house to consider what to take next back to my NYC digs, and I find my cat's food bowl tipped over and all the food, (both for the upstairs cats' and my cat's) eaten.
I left on Saturday. Two days ago. And neither George, nor George Jr., fed the cats. Junior was there this morning, and he doesn't have a car. So he was there yesterday. And George was there on Saturday. And Friday.
I'm so out. The shelter will treat my cat better than the both of them do their own cats.
And it'll take a minute before I'm ready to step back to him and try to be his friend.
And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.