Chapter 36 Bobby

In October, Mrs. Toby called me down from my office to visit with Bobby. He was looking for a handout. I did not invite him up to my office. We talked there in the lobby a while. I explained we didn’t give out money, but we’d really like to have him come and join us for a Bible study on Wednesday evenings. To my astonishment, he showed up. He came to the Bible studies for a number of weeks, and I learned a bit of his story.
He had flunked out of high school. Did odd jobs here and there and tried not to get drunk. But it was hard. He was living on the street. Surviving. But alcohol was winning the battle. His attendance at the Bible studies became infrequent. Usually, he would come by at odd hours and ask for me. Mrs. Toby would call me down and we would visit in the lobby. He always asked for money. Always told me stories of disasters and problems heartbreak.
In mid December I invited him to come and stay in my apartment. We would fight this monster together. There was just one condition: he had to stay with me 24/7. If he went back out on the street, he was on his own. He agreed.
I was thrilled and nervous. Would he steal from me? Would he be able to resist the allure of alcohol? I was motivated in part by a story I heard about some minister who was a conference Health and Temperance Director. He had read some statements by our prophet about the importance of “personal work.” It was not enough for us to [find a quotation]

In obedience to this divine command, this minister invited an alcoholic into his home. He took the alcoholic with him to the office. The alcoholic sat with him in committee meetings. Everywhere the minister went, his alcoholic friend went, too. After some months, the alcoholic was able to move back into the regular world of work and family. What a wonderful outcome. What a terrific story. What a challenge to put the principles of Jesus into actual practice.
I fixed up a bed for Bobby in the living room using blankets I had and a mattress I found in a storeroom. Trying not to be obvious I checked over the apartment for any times that might tempt him to steal. I put a few things out of sight. I slept very fitfully that first night. But in the morning Bobby was still there and nothing was missing as far as I could tell.
We ate breakfast and had worship together in my apartment. Then we attended staff worship together. Afterward, Miss Harding informed me she was not thrilled about the idea of having a bum staying in the Center. I assured her I would keep an eye on him. She protested I was putting other people at risk. We had single women who worked in the Center. There were a couple of families that lived there. The Center was their sanctuary from the dirty, dangerous world of Times Square and Eighth Avenue. We couldn't afford to spoil that by bringing bums into the private areas of the Center. I assured her Bobby would never be out of my sight. She relented, very reluctantly.
It lasted two and a half days. Midmorning on the third day, he told me he needed to leave. For just a little while, he said. He needed to see a friend, then he would be back.
“If you leave, you can’t come back.” I said. “You know and I know that what you really want is a drink. Why throw everything away for a lousy drink. You’ve got three days invested in being dry. You can make a new life. Get your GED. Get a job that actually pays something. You can have an apartment to live in instead of living on the street. You can be free of your addiction. Why don’t you stay?”
He wasn’t belligerent or loud, just hopeless and insistent. He had to leave. He couldn’t stay. As he talked his face spoke of hopelessness and resignation.
I talked and talked. He listened. Offered short responses to my long speeches. Finally, he got up. He was leaving. We walked to the elevator. Rode down to the lobby. I opened the door and watched him walk west toward Eighth Avenue.
Mrs. Toby was at her desk. “So you couldn’t get him to stay?”
“No. I tried everything I could think of. But he insisted he had to go. I know he’s going to go right out and get drunk.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he’ll come back.”
“No, I don’t think so. And even if he does, I’m not going to take him back into my apartment. That was our agreement. If he left, he couldn’t come back.”

Several times in January and February, Bobby came by the Center. He always smelled of alcohol. He’d ask for money, then visit awhile. He whined about life on the street. Protested I didn’t understand how hard it was. Promised he'd pay me back. Argued I wasn't being Christian. I argued he could change his life if he chose to. There were other ways to live. God could help him change. Maybe AA would help him. If he was hungry I would take him upstairs to my apartment and make him a sandwich. Usually he wasn’t interested in food. He was just depressed and wanted someone to talk to. And, of course, wanted money.
In late February he came by about five thirty one evening. It was a miserable day. Raining, in the low forties. Because of the overcast, it was already dark, the wet streets reflecting headlights and street lights. Bobby was depressed, said he was thinking of suicide.
I talked to him about God’s love and the possibility of a brighter future. I asked about his family, but he was alienated from them. Our talking did nothing to lift his spirits. If anything it seemed the longer he talked the worse he was. I tried every tack I could think of. His darkness was scary. He was insistent. He was going to commit suicide. There was no point in living..
After a half hour or so, he abruptly got up. “It’s no use. I can’t stand it any more.” He pushed open the glass door and stepped out onto the side walk. He stopped at the curb, a lost soul on a dark and rainy night. As I watched him standing there, I could hear a truck coming up the street. It was accelerating. Bobby glanced to his right toward the sound of the truck. He stepped into street and then, just as the truck can into view, leaped forward.
The truck hit him squarely and threw him forward. The driver slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop just inches from Bobby’s limp body.
I raced out the door. The driver, climbed out of his truck, visibly shaken.
“He just came out of nowhere. I never saw him until I hit him.”
“I know,” I said. “I saw him jump. It wasn't your fault.”
I was sure Bobby was dying or dead. I ran into the Center to get Dr. Dunn who had an office on the sixth floor and to call an ambulance. Then went back outside. Mrs. Tobey brought a blanket and we covered him. Dr. Dunn arrived. Checked him over, didn't seem too worried. “He'll make it.”
The ambulance arrived and they hauled Bobby away.
I gave my name and phone number to the driver.
Some time later I got a calls from a couple of different lawyers. I told them what I had seen. I was never called to court. I presumed there was no trial. A couple of months later, Bobby came by the center. I asked him why he had sued the trucking company.
“It wasn't my idea. There was this lawyer visiting people in the hospital. He told me he could get me some money. Sounded like a pretty good idea to me.”
“Bobby! That's stealing! How could you sue the company when you deliberately jumped in front of the truck?”
“I don't know. The lawyer said it was a good idea.”

Five or six years later I ran into Bobby on the street. He had a job and an apartment. He looked good. Change happens.