Changing Buford's Heart

Love is not a concept,

it is an entity,

who pursues us.

Dr. Jerome Dean

Late one night, on the fire escape of a four story building overlooking a moonlit alley somewhere in Chicago an old, black jazzman made mournful sounds with his saxophone. Its tones reverberated through the still and balmy air, bouncing off buildings and stirring the few souls that heard. Others inside watched TV, drank, or argued, or slept, or read. But the call was for those outside, listening. "Karuunna? Who is your neighbor?" asked the sorrowful music.

B. A. Mann crouched in the bushes hiding from the local Gestapo. Buford Allen hated his name, hated the police and hated most everything. He even hated the night, though darkness was his ally and his shield. Dawn was a hated enemy, too.

"The son-of-a-bitch ran over this way," shouted a uniformed watchman to the police who accompanied him. "I saw him at the back of the building foolin' with the door and shouted at him and he took off running."

A flashlight beam passed overhead. B.A. dropped down and slid onto his stomach holding his breath. The three men passed, cursing among themselves. After more than a minute, B.A. gasped, realizing he hadn't been breathing. He looked up over the hedge. His chest ached and he pushed with a finger between his ribs, trying to find the pain and relieve it. His eyes darted furtively around the alley but he didn't move.

Minutes later, still wary, he crawled along behind the hedge until he came to another building and ran in a crouch to a large cardboard box that had been left in the alley. Pushing it over, he climbed inside and pulled the flaps closed. He held his breath again, listening. The saxophone wailed, calling him from his seclusion. But Buford's isolation was stronger than the music of the night.

On the street that intersected the alley, Dr. Jerome Dean was walking to his apartment building, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his pace slow from a long and demanding day. Dr. Dean, a second year resident working towards a cardiology fellowship, worked in the Emergency Room of the County Hospital two blocks away. Weather permitting, he always walked to work and home again, even when he was tired. He knew the exercise was good for him.

When he passed the alley, the saxophone squealed an urgent summons, then dropped through the octaves and settled into its lowest register. Dr. Dean stopped. He raised his head and searched the night skyline looking for the source of the music.

Buford, in his box only a few yards away, wriggled over onto his stomach and covered his ears with his hands.

The music stopped after a long and mournful note. Dr. Dean applauded softly, hoping the sax player would hear his appreciation and continue. Buford muttered to himself, hoping the music was over, wanting to sleep and escape to his dreams.

But that night when he dreamed, Buford was at the beach, caught in a current and being pulled out to sea. His father and an old girl friend stood together waving him away and shouting at him, although he could not hear what they were saying. His mother was hunkered down on the sand doing something with needles and spoons.

He called out to her, drawing out the word. "Maaahhm." But she didn't seem to hear, being busy with her medications.

"Maaaaahhhhmm," Buford pleaded again, as the riptide pulled him, struggling, further from the shore.

Dawn paraded into the alley arrogant and quarrelsome, with her cacophony of traffic and machinery, pushing the night back until it cowered in dubious safety under trash cans and down unlit hallways.

B. A. cringed at the intrusion. Remembering his dream brought back the longing and the anger and he wasn't ready for it again. He lay still, eyes closed. He didn't want to see the first rousings of morning. But he heard the world revive outside his box like the slow motion grinding of some great starter motor. Garbage cans scraped, people coughed, steam was exhaled in soft sighs from the night's confinement; a dumpster's large steel door swung on rusted hinges and scraped the loose litter of the alley and the engine caught. At first, it sputtered intermittently, overcoming the night's inertia, until it settled into the steady rhythm of the morning rush.

A stooped over bag lady brushed Buford's box poking at a bag containing an empty bottle with a short stick. Watching her through the flap, B.A. condemned her silently. Not willing to relinquish the safety of his secret place, he held his breath again. There was a clinking of glass on the pavement, and the woman shuffled by.

Birds have their nests, foxes their holes, all I got is this stupid box, thought Buford, closing his eyes again, and this stupid old bag probably stayed awake all night poking into everybody's business with her damned stick. He slowly worked himself over onto his back and twined his fingers behind his head, then poked his chest again, wondering at the pain. He opened his eyes and felt the sting of a beam of light that had snuck in through a hole in the cardboard. Instinctively he put his arm over his face, shutting out the intrusion.

What time it was, or even what day didn't occur to Buford. For him time was not dispersed in twenty-four-hour days, sixty-minute hours and sixty-second minutes. It had merged long ago. Day became night became day without significance. Minutes got lost for hours. Hours could flee like seconds. Purposelessness prevailed. It had been years since he had winched himself forward on the stout cable of a meaningful goal. Now he was relentlessly pushed into the future by a nagging and leering mockery, an apparition of failed dreams, a predator who chased him away from half-finished projects.

B.A. heard the irritating electronic beeping of a truck backing up. Knowing it was garbage collectors, he panicked. Now what the hell am I gonna do, he complained silently, but he already knew. He needed to get out of the box before they threw it into the truck. His heart raced.

He grimaced at the pain and pulled open one of the flaps and peered into the alley. The truck was stopped three doors away. A heavyset bearded man sang as he threw plastic bags into the truck. The singing irritated Buford. He didn't want to confront a happy person this early in the day.

He couldn't think of a way to get out of the box without being seen so, reluctantly, he pushed open the flaps and climbed out, brushing himself off. The burly man looked his way. Sensing a greeting, Buford looked down and walked to the other side of the alley. Beyond the truck, on the sidewalk, a bum was perched on a plastic bucket. He was gesturing with his hands at people as they passed. The garbage truck moved forward and Buford watched as his night's lodging was tossed into the back of the truck and compacted with the other garbage.

At the junction of the alley and the sidewalk, Buford stopped and shielded his eyes against the morning sky, crystal blue above the buildings. The sun didn't actually rise in the city until late in the morning, when the protective buildings could no longer keep it from the street. Buford seldom withstood this intrusion without a drink.

The bum everyone called Stinky was a short, rotund man whose ruddy cheeks bristled with a few days' growth of beard. His eyes were wet, his face expressive. He wore dirty overalls over a plaid shirt and scuffed work shoes. In the night, Stinky had experienced a revelation, a realization of the mystery of accumulation. To him it seemed very profound. Two plus two equals four! A simple mathematical equation, but at the same time, to Stinky, the foundation of all material significance. He could not contain himself with the joy of his thoughts. He was standing on the bucket waving his hands in enthusiastic gesticulation proclaiming to anyone who would hear, "Two plus two equals four! Two plus two equals four! Two plus two equals four!"

Few people, even among those who knew Stinky, stopped to encourage him. The others, wondering at his sanity and not trusting his overt gesture, crossed at the light and passed on the other side of the street. A greasy-haired man with his collar turned up and shiny black shoes said, "You're full of crap, buddy. You know that?" but didn't look up at him.

Stinky was undeterred. "You'll find out one day, young man," he proclaimed, wagging a finger in the man's direction, "Two plus two equals four."

B.A. stepped out on the sidewalk and faced Stinky, looking up at the impassioned face with his hand still shielding his eyes.

"Hey Stinky!" He called to him as though he were across the street. Stinky ignored him and turned on the bucket and faced the oncoming crowd.

B.A. walked around and got in front of Stinky's face again and shouted, "Hey Stinky!"

Exasperated, Stinky scowled down at him and asked, "What do you want, Bew-ford?" Stinky drew out both syllables. Buford ignored the insult of his hated name.

"How much is six minus two?"

Stinky looked confused for a minute. He didn't understand the question. Choosing to ignore it he turned on the bucket again and called in a loud voice to the backs of everyone who had passed during Buford's interruption, "Two plus two is four!"

"Same answer, different question," Buford said. He spit on the sidewalk and walked a few yards away and slid down the side of a storefront until he was squatting on his heels.

"Stupid idiot," he mumbled and picked a short cigarette butt from a crack in the sidewalk, straightened it and stuck it behind his ear.

"Can you spare a dollar so's I can get something to eat?" he asked one passerby after another. Eventually, a woman already disturbed by Stinky's proclamations, succumbed to some inner guilt and plucked a dollar from the top of her purse and pushed it towards Buford. The dollar floated down and Buford snatched it deftly from the air.

Not looking in her direction he stuffed the dollar into his shirt pocket and turned to the next pedestrian.

"Oh God, I'm hungry," he pleaded and clutched his belly, trying to express desperation.

The next few dozen people ignored his act so he changed tactics. He stood up and shifted onto one foot and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to look casual.

"Got a light?" he asked a teenage boy who was smoking and walking quickly past.

"Sure." The young man stopped and offered Buford his cigarette. Buford took the cigarette butt from behind his ear and lit it with the other and handed it back.

"Could you spare me a quarter for a phone call? I just got out of jail. Need to call my old lady, come and pick me up. I got the dime. Just need a quarter more."

The young man reached into his pocket and started to take a quarter from his change, changed his mind, and gave it all to Buford.

"Hey, thanks," said Buford, feigning gratitude. "Can you spare another smoke?" The young man took a cigarette from his pack and handed it to Buford and walked on. "Stupid shit," Buford mumbled, under his breath, squatting back down against the wall to count the money. The pain came again and he massaged his chest with the heel of his hand.

Dr. Dean was among the morning's pedestrian traffic. He tried to leave enough time on his walk to work to talk to the men who lived on the street. He liked them. He was intrigued by their uniqueness and tried to understand their perspectives. He enjoyed hearing their stories and marveled at the roundabout conclusions they made concerning their lifestyle.

When Stinky saw him coming, his eyes gleamed with recognition. "Hey, Doc," he shouted and waved, "I got another answer. It's four. How much you got? You got four?"

"Wait a minute. The answer to what? Have I got four what?" returned Dr. Dean, looking up at Stinky affectionately.

"It's how much two and two is," replied Stinky. "It's what everybody's been askin' themselves, tryin' to figure out what's left."

"Oh. Well I don't know how much I've got, but don't be discouraged if everyone doesn't understand," Dr. Dean said sincerely, "you just go on tellin' 'em. You're right, you know. Four's the right answer." Stinky and the doctor chatted briefly and then Dr. Dean walked over to Buford.

"Hey, B.A., how you doin' today?"

"I'm O.K., I guess." Buford shielded his eyes and looked up at the doctor. "How'd you know my name?"

"Stinky told me. He said you've been buggin' him."

"Yeah, so what?" said Buford. "Who cares?"

"I do, B.A. I consider Stinky my friend," said the doctor matter-of-factly.

Buford, still shielding his eyes, tilted his head and looked at the doctor again. His comment didn't appear to be a threat and he couldn't think of any reply, so he said, "You got fifty cents so I can get some breakfast?"

Dr. Dean shrugged his shoulders and put his hands into his pockets. "Sure I got fifty cents, but how do I know you're gonna eat breakfast and not buy booze with it."

"I guess you don't," Buford replied. "You a doctor?"

"Yeah. How could you tell?" Dr. Dean was in khaki slacks and an open sport shirt.

"Not too difficult, Doc. Nice shoes, haircut, hospital two blocks away. How 'bout it, Doc? Fifty cents more and I can get coffee with my breakfast."

"C'mon, let's go down to the Gulp and Gobble. I'll buy you breakfast."

"Where?"

"The fast food. We call it the Gulp, Gobble and Hurry at the hospital."

Buford was willing to act friendly on occasion, but he wasn't about to sit down and eat with some doctor. "Naw. I ain't ready yet," he said.

"Gotta run, then," said Dr. Dean. Buford didn't reply.

After the doctor turned the corner, Buford got up, walked down the street and went into the fast food restaurant and ordered two greasy sausage and egg sandwiches with cheese.

"Can you let me have a small coffee, too?" he asked Stacey, the young girl who worked there, "But I only got enough for the sandwiches." Buford held out the money in his hand for her to inspect.

She looked around for her manager and not seeing her took Buford's money and said, "Sure," and brought Buford's breakfast with the coffee. Buford took three creams and a small handful of sugars and sat down by the window to eat.

Two coffee refills later, he bummed a light and smoked the borrowed cigarette. The sun finally broke the building barrier and shone its full radiance on Buford and all the accumulated wrappers on the table.

Suddenly, the pains that had been nagging and irritating him for the last few days intensified. Buford was startled. He clutched his chest and looked around. His breath shortened and he felt as if his chest were being crushed. He rose to his feet and hurriedly pushed the door open and lurched into the street, banging the door against the wall. Stacey looked his way but only saw the accumulated litter on the table. "More work for me," she sighed.

Buford headed for the hospital. Crossing against the light to the irritation of honking commuters, he stumbled through the automatic doors of the Emergency entrance. Still clutching his chest, he looked pleadingly at the receptionist and said weakly, "My fucking heart," and sat on the edge of one of the fixed plastic chairs and rocked.

Attendants, nurses and a doctor did their best to ignore Buford's rude behavior while they hurriedly attempted to evaluate and administer aid to his ailing body. They started an I.V., put him on oxygen, hooked up the E.K.G. and rushed his blood to the lab for analysis. A nurse named Mary, ignoring his blasphemies and arguments, administered morphine for the pain and quieted him somewhat. The attending physician read the returned lab reports, examined the E.K.G. and, determining that Buford was stable, instructed the nurse to arrange for his admission to the cardiac unit.

Dr. Dean, coming back from a coffee break, encountered Mary shaking her head and heading for the computer.

"What's up?" he inquired.

"These guys get to me," she said. "You try to save their lives and all they do is gripe."

Dr. Dean looked into the examination room and saw Buford on the bed. He walked in and picked up Buford's chart and said, "Oh, it's you." He looked at the chart. "What happened to you, Buford?"

The narcotics had reduced the pain but Buford was still alert because of his high tolerance to the drug. He started to make a sincere reply and then stopped. He was panicked by his surroundings and felt trapped. He glared at the doctor and then at the door.

"Look, its O.K., Buford. We all just want to help you."

"My name is B.A.," Buford declared.

"I don't want to call you B.A.," responded Dr. Dean, "it sounds like a degree. Let me call you Buford."

"No, I hate that name. God, I hate it."

"Why, what's wrong with Buford? I'll bet it was your grandfather's name, wasn't it?" Dr. Dean walked around to the side of the bed.

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"Oh, I just guessed, Buford." Dr. Dean's eyes were soft and unthreatening though his gaze was direct. Buford squirmed inwardly, not trusting the kindness, and looked away. Finally, his fear overcoming the distrust, he reached out and grabbed the doctor's wrist.

"Am I gonna die?"

"I don't think so, Buford. But those are questions you'll have to ask the physician attending you. I suspect your body is just reacting to what you're doing to it. You're not taking care of yourself physically and this is your body's response."

Buford's hostility was temporarily silenced by Dr. Dean's sincerity. He felt small and afraid. A tear came and escaped down his cheek. He wiped it off quickly with the back of his hand, embarrassed, and wondered what was happening to him. He didn't like Dr. Dean, but he felt a powerful attraction.

"Why don't you rest," Dr. Dean said gently. "I'll come find you in the cardiac unit and we can talk some more."

Buford drifted in and out of sleep, the narcotic's effect finally relieving his anxiety. He dreamed of his other grandfather, Grandpa Allen. He was standing in front of the stove, stirring hot cereal for himself and Buford as he had always done. A mixed bowl of fruit piled high with melons and grapes and strawberries was on the table before him.

"Breakfast is the most important meal, son." Grandpa Allen instructed. "Lots of fruit and grains and it'll carry you through the whole day."

When Buford awoke he was being wheeled down a hospital corridor. He knew why Dr. Dean was so compelling. The doctor's sincerity reminded him of his grandfather.

That afternoon, Dr. Dean skipped lunch and went to Buford's room. He found him staring out the window at a brick wall. Buford didn't look around until Dr. Dean spoke. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked. He didn't pick up his chart. He wanted this to be a personal visit.

"I need a cigarette," said Buford, "but no one will give me one."

"I won't either," said Dr. Dean. "Friends don't let friends smoke after they have heart attacks."

"Oh, so you're my friend?" challenged Buford, glaring at the doctor.

"I want to be," said Dr. Dean.

"Well I don't need one right now unless he has a cigarette. Leave me alone."

"I can't," said Dr. Dean. "You intrigue me. You've got my curiosity aroused. I want to find out why you're so surly all the time."

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. It might help me understand myself when I feel the same way."

Buford wanted to curse the doctor and call him names but he couldn't do it. Dr. Dean was talking into Buford, reaching him at a primal level.

"Are you married, Doc?" he asked.

"No, not yet." answered Dr. Dean.

"You're lucky," said Buford, and turned toward the wall again. Dr. Dean could sense Buford's loneliness.

"We all feel alone sometimes. Like we're the only one left. Nobody else cares. But it isn't true. There's love in the world. And it's stronger than the pain and the memories and the fear. It exists whether you believe in it or not."

"So what am I supposed to do? Get down on my knees?" snarled Buford.

"No, but it wouldn't hurt. What you need to do is open up. Talk to me. Tell me who you are. For some reason you've turned away from other people and gotten hard. And then your heart followed suit. You act hard and things get hard. Your arteries get hard. The muscles get hard. You've got to loosen up."

Buford wasn't responding and Dr. Dean had to return to work. "I'll come by again later. I hope you'll talk to me."

Alone again, Buford began to cry. He missed Grandpa Allen. When Buford was twelve his mother died from an overdose on drugs. His father freaked out and left town, afraid he was going to be arrested. Buford went to live with his grandfather. Grandpa Allen was a real friend to young Buford. When the boy wasn't in school they did things together. Ball games and movies and working on projects in the garage and fixing up the old apartment house they lived in. When Buford turned sixteen his grandfather had a minor heart attack and had to slow down. Buford quit school to help him with his work as the neighborhood handyman. And that's where he met Ariana. She was beautiful and Buford fell head over heels in love with her. But Ariana was coquettish and played Buford along, responding to his youthful advances with subtlety. She would lead him on until his heart ached to hold her and then she would withhold her affection, but not completely, not without leaving him some promise for a later encounter.

Then Grandpa Allen died suddenly. When he didn't come down for breakfast, Buford went to his room and found him in the bed. He called to him and then nudged him gently and finally shook him. When Grandpa Allen didn't respond, Buford called 911. When the medics arrived Buford was in a chair looking out a window, cursing under his breath.

Buford saw his father at the funeral and asked if he could come back home and stay with him until he decided what to do next.

His father was emphatic. "Sorry, son, too much for me right now. Can't do it. Have you thought about joining the Army?"

Buford called Ariana and asked her to dinner. He dressed in his finest clothes and took her to the nicest restaurant he could afford and after a painful silence during dessert he asked her to marry him. He blurted it out, almost crying with the effort. Ariana laughed. She couldn't help it. Buford was so upset he left her at the restaurant. He went back to his grandfather's house and ordered a case of whiskey from a liquor store that delivered and paid for it with one of Grandpa Allen's checks.

That evening, before Dr. Dean left the hospital for home, he walked up to the cardiac unit to talk to Buford again. When he didn't find him in the room, he inquired of the nurse at the reception desk, "What happened to Buford Allen Mann?"

"You don't want to know, Doctor," said the nurse. "That one's a real loser."

"Did he bolt?"

"I came into the room and found him ripping the tape off and pulling his I.V. out. I tried to stop him but he threatened me with the stand. I went to get help, but by the time I got back, he was gone. Couldn't o' gotten far. He was in a gown, for God's sake. Attendants are looking for him."

Buford had ducked into a broom closet and found a coat that a janitor had hung in there and some rubber boots. After he put them on he darted through the halls and made his way down a back staircase and hurried out a rear door.

Dr. Dean found him sitting on a short retaining wall between a dumpster and the loading dock, holding his chest. Buford wanted to run, but was struggling to get his breath. Dr. Dean walked quickly over to him and took him gently by the arm.

"You've got to come back in with me, Buford. You've got a serious condition."

Buford shrugged his grip off and moved back, gasping for air. "I can't go back in there," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the building. "They treat me like baggage. I need a smoke."

"Buford, you've had a heart attack. You need to let other people help you." Buford was still gasping for air. "Breathe deeply and slowly," Dr. Dean said. "In through your nose, out through your mouth." Buford did the opposite and tried to calm himself. "I can't force you to do anything, Buford. The decision is yours. But if you won't let us help and listen to what we're saying, then this is going to get worse. Your heart's reacting to the way you're acting. You need to change some things in your life or you may not last much longer. You've been holed up in there a long time. It's time to come out. You've got to knock some of this wall down and climb out of there."

Buford began to cry again. Softly, at first, and then bigger sobs. As the dam broke and years of pent up anger and frustration escaped, Buford wept louder and louder. Dr. Dean smiled warmly. He knew how needed the release was.

"Help me, Doc. I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die, Buford. At least, not now. We're going to get you back on your feet. And then we're going to teach you some important things about your heart." Dr. Dean led Buford back into the hospital.

In the morning, Dr. Dean stopped by Buford's room. They talked briefly and Buford opened up to the doctor and cried a little bit more.

"With some people you can heal their hearts," Dr. Dean told him, "take care of the physical problems, even reverse the disease, replace the arteries, correct the diet and reduce the cholesterol. And still the disease comes back. Why? Do you think the heart is just a muscle that pumps the blood through your body? It's more than that. It's the seat of your being. It's the place where you live. And that place needs light and love. Open some windows. Let others in."

Buford listened attentively. Dr. Dean told Buford of a support group he conducted for cardiac patients and invited Buford to attend. "After you're released, come back and meet with us. It's informal. It doesn't matter if you're not all cleaned up. The others will accept you. Come and talk with us. We meet Tuesday nights in the cafeteria on the first floor." Buford continued to listen without committing himself. "It'll be good for your heart. It's what you need."

Buford remained in the cardiac unit for a few more days while doctors evaluated him and prescribed some medication. While he was being processed for release he had a small battle with the woman at the front desk. When Buford gave his address as the fast food restaurant the woman objected. Buford marched out in the middle of one of her sentences and turned up the street toward the alley. He was wearing clothes that Dr. Dean had given him, the shoes better than any he had ever owned.

When he rounded the wall that led to the alley, he spotted Stinky on a bench in the back of the fast food eating a sandwich Stacey had given him, secretly, out the back door.

"Hey, Stinky," Buford said, sitting down next to him on the bench. "How come you're not on your bucket today?"

"That was then." Stinky replied. "This is now."

"What difference does that make?"

Stinky’s animated face took on a look of incredulity. "Are you crazy? Don't you recognize the different days, son. They're for doin' different things. Some days you work. Some days you rest."

"But what if you think of something real important on your rest day. Don't you gotta tell people right away?" Buford was egging Stinky on as usual.

Stinky ignored it. His expression changed from exasperation to concern. "Where'd you get those nice clothes?" he asked.

"I got a job," Buford lied. He reached into his pocket and took out some money the doctor had given him. "Got paid today. See?"

Stinky looked at the money. "Two plus two is four," he said. Buford glared at him. "It's the mystery of accumulation," he said. "It's how things add up. Don't you notice it once in a while? Like when you have some to spend. And then there's more. It's mysterious." Buford began to massage his chest. "You O.K?" Stinky asked. "Why're you pushing on your heart like that?"

"It aches," replied Buford, "it's crying."

"You don't rest," Stinky stated factually.

"Whaddya mean, I don't rest?" Buford asked. "I don't even work. I lied about the job. I stole the money."

"I mean you don't rest from being the rotten person you always are. You're uptight all the time. Irritating. You don't take any breaks. Think you know everything already." Stinky's concern turned fatherly. "You need to sit back once in a while and take a look at the rest of the world."

To demonstrate, Stinky sat back and was quiet, watching Buford, smiling warmly. Buford couldn't think of anything irritating to say and was quiet also.

After a while Stinky spoke again. "Why do you think I get all this important stuff to tell people? It's because I stop and watch people. All day, sometimes. Just hang around and watch. And then I know what to tell 'em."

"Well, you're watching me pretty close. What're you gonna tell me?"

"Man, that's easy. You're trapped." Stinky's smile broadened and his face began to light up the way it did when he was given the knowledge. "You're a prisoner inside yourself. And you don't think anybody's ever gonna come and bail you out. But you're the one that locked yourself in there and hid the key. And you never make your phone call." Stinky started to laugh. "How's anybody gonna come and bail you out if you don't make your phone call? It's your rights. You got a free phone call." Stinky leaned closer, his eyes twinkling.

Buford was uncomfortable, recognizing the similarity in what Stinky was saying to what Dr. Dean had told him. He didn't want to hear more. "Bullshit," he said and stood up to leave.

"You'll find out," Stinky said.

Buford walked away heading up the alley.

"You need a friend, Beeeewwwwford," Stinky called after him. "You need a friend to make your bail."

Buford turned into the alley and went to where the box had been. It wasn't even dark yet, but he wanted to get in it and hide. Then he remembered it had been thrown in the garbage truck. He looked around, beginning to panic. He tried the door nearest to him. It was locked.

A blustery wind off the lake and rain kept most of the people in Dr. Dean's support group home on Tuesday night and the meeting broke up early. Buford was nowhere in sight. Bill Johnson, a construction worker who had suffered a minor stroke and had met Dr. Dean during his hospital experience, had been attending the meetings for over a year. The two men often left the meetings and continued their discussions long into the evening in a nearby coffee shop. On this evening they were accompanied by Mary, the E.R. nurse, who ostensibly was broadening her knowledge of cardiac care, but secretly was sweet on Dr. Dean.

"I really wish Buford would have showed up tonight," said the doctor. "He needs somebody." They had already talked about him earlier at the meeting.

"I don't know why you care so much about these guys," said Mary. "This Buford guy was totally obnoxious in the E.R."

"Well, I guess I see myself in them a little," replied the doctor.

"You?" said Mary. "What do you have in common with him? You're as different as night and day."

"I feel the same as Buford, sometimes. I get locked up with stuff I don't want to share and it just brews inside me."

"He reminds you of your brother, doesn't he?" Bill asked. Dr. Dean nodded. They had talked about his brother before.

"You never mentioned you had a brother," Mary said. "What happened to him?"

Dr. Dean stirred his coffee a moment, then looked into Mary's eyes. "He died in an alley. Overdosed on drugs. We were sharing an apartment together and he didn't come home for a few days. Found him in the morgue, finally." Dr. Dean looked out the window at the rain. The city lights, distorted by the wet glass, were soothing.

"I'm sorry," Mary said.

"But the problem was I just couldn't reach him. I always thought he was obnoxious when we were growing up. But later, when he was slipping away, I remembered the times we had connected. We were brothers."

"But that's just it," Mary said, "you were brothers. This Buford is a bum on the street. Let him go. He'll just give you grief." She seemed angry at Dr. Dean's concern.

"She's probably right," Bill said. "Let him go. There's a lot of others who appreciate what you're doing for them."

"So what's the difference with Buford? Why should we withhold compassion from him?" Dr. Dean asked. "It seems to me that in the E.R. the worse shape someone is in, the more attention you give him. Buford's just a radical case. He's just human like the rest of us, only more so. His faults aren't hidden as well as ours. If someone confronts us with our faults, we deny them. Confront Buford with his and he'll demonstrate them for you. There's probably more hope for helping Buford than most of us." Mary was starting to squirm at Dr. Dean's intensity. "So when do you decide somebody's not worth it and pull the plug? You care about people, Mary. You sew them up and soothe them and I've seen you love them like a mother. What's the difference with Buford?"

Bill thought it was time to interrupt. "But what can you do? You don't even know where to find him. He's just out there somewhere. You know those guys. Unless it's for pain killers or narcotics, they won't even fill the prescription you give 'em. How can you help them?"

Dr. Dean looked away. "When our Dad died, my brother seemed okay about it, but our Mom stressed out. Made him leave the house and go get a job. He resented it and resented me because I was younger and she let me stay. He started getting on her case all the time, when he wasn't trying to finagle money out of her. I watched him get more isolated as time went on. It was gradual, like arterial disease. It didn't happen suddenly.

"And I sided with our Mom. I was critical of the way he was acting. And he just seemed to get more distant all the time. Until he was out of reach. I got an apartment for us, to try to help him out. But it was like he was being sucked away by some current and he was too far out to reach. I didn't know what to do."

Dr. Dean looked weepy and Mary softened. "We can't help anyone unless they're willing to help themselves," she said.

"So, what is our role in life? Are we just observers sent to watch others as they drift away from shore? Wave them off? Have a nice eternity. Too bad about the current."

Mary and Bill both looked down into their coffees. Dr. Dean looked out of the window. The rain had stopped. "Let's get out of here," he said. "I'm getting morose."

On the sidewalk outside the coffee shop Bill and Mary decided to share a cab. "Come with us," Mary suggested. "We'll drop you off."

"I need to walk," Dr. Dean replied. He waved at them as the cab sped away from the curb.

As he walked towards his apartment, he passed the place where he had first encountered Buford. Shielding his eyes from the glaring neon lights from a nearby bar, he peered into the alley, and saw the saxophone player on the fire escape silhouetted against the evening sky. Reluctant to enter alone in the night, he called into the alley.

"Beeeeeewwwwwwford," he pleaded, his voice blending with the mournful tones of the saxophone.