“Hark, the herald angels sing — but as for us, my dear, I can’t recall a single thing we’re celebrating this year.” Jenny Owen Youngs, “Things We Don’t Need Anymore”

I was walking home through the park adjacent to my apartment at about midnight last night, trying (and failing) not to look like a total goofball as I tried to keep myself from slipping, and I noticed a woman about my age sitting on a bench. I thought that was a little strange, given the hour and the temperature, but I didn’t think anything of it. Initially I flashed her a non-threatening grin, but as I kept walking, I noticed that she was crying. I stopped and turned around, asking her if she was all right. She popped her headphones out and turned her head.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.
I repeated my question, “Are you all right?”
She laughed a little. “Yeah, I’m OK.”
I smiled sympathetically and turned to continue on my way.
“You’re a good person for stopping. Happy holidays,” she said.
I turned back around. “Of course, sweetheart.”

But I’m not a good person. My first instinct was to reach for my cell phone, like I do whenever I’m in the Loop and have to pass through the gauntlet of Greenpeace activists, or with those religious nutcases handing out pamphlets on Belmont. And now I feel like a total shit. I’m genuinely concerned; I want to go back.

I wish God existed so she could forgive me.

After writing the preceding, I decided I needed to act; I had a nasty feeling about this, calmed in no way by jotting down all the things I wished I could do. So I grabbed one of my all-purpose cards I keep near my desk and dashed off a quick note on the off-chance she was still sitting on that bench, then threw on my coat and headed back out. And to my surprise, she was still in the same place. As I approached, I could make out the familiar orange glow of a lit cigarette — a good sign — but could hear her crying even more intensely than when I had passed initially. I held out the card.

“What’s this?” she asked, popping her headphones out again.
“The holidays are a bitch; you aren’t alone,” I said.
I gave her a long hug, longer than I had expected.
“Thank you,” she kept saying.
I asked her if she wanted to talk about anything, or if she would rather just be alone. But before she could answer, I anticipated what she may have thought my true motivations were and quickly added, “I’m not here to witness Jesus to you or anything — I’m an atheist, you see.”
She laughed, then paused for a second. “Yeah, I think I’d rather be alone,” she said, ashing her Parliament Light.

I smiled, wished her a healing evening and turned to leave, but as I did so, she continued to talk to me, gratitude and snippets of her troubles all mixed together. So I turned on my heel and walked back in her direction.
“You know, I’m just going to sit here and not say anything, and we can just sit and be sad together,” I said, taking a spot on the bench. I noticed an empty flask of Jim Beam and two empty beer bottles on the ground. She didn’t respond at first.
“My name’s Jenny,” she finally said, extending her hand.
“That’s my sister’s name,” I replied, shaking it, “I’m Trevor.”
Jenny was quiet for a few more moments before she finally broke the silence. “This was already a bad day, and it just kept getting worse,” she began in a shaky voice, with a thick Chicago accent I hadn’t noticed before. I sat quietly as she began telling me of some deep issues with her roommates, when after a few minutes, she turned to me suddenly. “Do you want to go over there and grab a beer?” she asked, gesturing toward a pub just down the street.
“Sure,” I said.
“Really?” she asked with surprise. I smiled.

So we headed off. Her iPod had become tangled around her leg, so I helped her wind it back up again. As she pocketed her smokes and buttoned her jacket, she stopped and looked at me for a moment.
“Why did you come back?” she asked.
“I was concerned,” I replied, briefly mentioning the three loved ones I’ve lost to suicide.
“I was on the edge, I’m not going to lie.”
“Been there, too.”
She was definitely drunk. Initially I wondered if heading to a bar was such a hot idea, but I suppressed the feeling; I figured there was no elegant way to play AA sponsor to a person miserable during the holidays in a sparsely-lighted Chicago park on a late winter evening. She continued to elaborate about how she wound up on that bench, but as is the case with all true depression, there’s no way to effectively communicate exactly what your demons are — they’re just there, and attempting to put them into words is both supremely tiring and futile, as they ostensibly wind up sounding trivial. But she wasn’t looking for advice, and I had none to give.

Her entire demeanor changed rapidly as we walked down Damen, even beginning to joke around with me a little. She asked me what I did for a living, and I indicated that I was a flutist.
“That’s an unusual instrument for a guy,” she laughed.
“Not if you’re gay,” I quipped, dipping into a largely untrue stereotype for the sake of a laugh.
“Well, I’m gay too,” she replied.
But it wasn’t that simple, as is usually the case with such matters. When I asked her if she had a girlfriend, she sighed.
“I’m still coming to terms with it, you know?” I did.

Once inside the pub and out of the cold, she immediately approached the bar and bought us a round.
“You don’t have to do that, Jenny,” I said.
“Oh, I think I do,” she responded.
So we sat with our beers and smoked a cigarette, and she asked me with genuine concern what my coming-out process was like — specifically with my parents — since she was inevitably headed toward that showdown all of us have had to take part in at some point. We gradually began talking about music and religion, which eventually caught the attention of a dude sitting next to us. He introduced himself — Remy was his name — and we did likewise. But as we continued to talk, Jenny and Remy slowly began engaging in that sort of too-loud banter that is solely the province of drunk people sitting within an arm’s reach of each other; the subject of choice in this instance being the comparative merits of flute and guitar in pop music. Meanwhile, I was perched between the two of them nonchalantly sipping my Sam Adams. At last call, after splitting a pitcher of Stella with Remy for some reason, he invited us back to his place, which just happened to be across the street. We accepted, following him out into the cold.

Jenny didn’t stay too much longer after we arrived. Before she left, she gave me another long hug and thanked me again, inadvertently spilling rum and coke on Remy’s couch as she did so. I had given her my number earlier in the evening, so I imagine I’ll hear from her again at some point — I hope I do. As for Remy and I, we headed out to the Golden Nugget (what is it with Chicago and 24-hour diners with the word “Golden” in the name?) for a bite. I wasn’t drunk, but the buzz definitely helped stave off any immediate reaction to the freezing mist that slowly began creeping over the neighborhood. I finally returned home at 5 a.m., discovering that I had left my door unlocked and all the lights on in my living room. Frank greeted me at the front door, standing and stretching on my leg. I picked him up, plopped him on the bed, and grabbed a book, wishing I had another cigarette so I could justify standing on my deck in the frigid air as I collected my thoughts.

I don’t understand my life. But I’m glad I didn’t reach for my cell.

Filed by Trevor at 1:11 pm under Social Issues, Love, Depression