Suicide on a bike

He rode up on a bike.

He was the type riding a bike not because he’s cycling for recreation or to do his part for the environment by putting away his car keys in an effort to minimize his carbon footprint on the Earth. He was the riding a bike is “my only means of transportation” type not by choice, but by default.

I thought nothing of the man on the bike pedaling along Gentilly Boulevard near the Fairgrounds when I saw him approaching this early Sunday afternoon. It’s pretty common to see older folks on bikes getting around the city.

We all know the types. Missing teeth. Hair and clothes disheveled. Dirt caked up underneath their finger nails. An overall unkempt appearance. Maybe even a stench and the sorrow and loneliness of addiction glowing in their eyes and plastered on their faces. Some refer to them as “crack heads.”

Anyhow, I continued my conversation.

When he stopped in front of me and my friend, I just knew he was going to ask for money; and I was all prepared to say, “NO!” or “I ain’t got it,” but to my dismay he did not. He asked for a light instead.

It took a split second for my friend to fish one out of her purse, but by that time, he was already well into his Katrina story.

Noel -- I believe he said his name was -- said he had just arrived in New Orleans for the first time post-Katrina 10 weeks ago. He said he had exhausted the last money he had to his name, $15,000, on food and lodging. He continued that all that was left of his Ninth Ward home was his stoop and the overgrown lot where his home once stood. He said before Katrina he had a job as band director of Alcee Fortier High School. But now, at 49, he said his life has no value as he was broke, homeless and unemployed.

He blasted FEMA, the government and all the usual suspects when it comes down to Hurricane Katrina and the way evacuees and the displaced is and was treated. He didn’t ramble. He spoke clearly and concisely; and he shared with two complete strangers how he thinks of suicide often. He said he can’t take living on the streets, living the way he has been and that death is his only option. He said he fantasizes about riding his bike in front of an 18-wheeler or maybe even a bus. Yet, he said he hasn’t for the fear of surviving such a horrible accident; and then, living severely injured.

He spoke with such sincerity. He was so engaging that although it was uncomfortable to hear and made you uneasy, you felt like you owed it to him to listen through the awkwardness.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but didn’t have the energy to. So many things I wanted to know about the well-spoken, articulate gentleman, who was someone’s son, someone’s friend, possibly someone’s father and grandfather.

I didn’t know if I was looking into the face of an addict, a mentally ill man or that of a man so down on his luck that he would rather die than exist in his post-Katrina New Orleans.

My friend and I didn’t say anything. We stood there listening to the man, who before he stopped to bum a light for his cigarette, was basically invisible like much of the despair, the poverty, the lingering effects of Hurricane Katrina, addiction, the mental health care crisis, and homelessness have been in the Big Easy; where day-to-day living is hard .

We stood there confronted with his reality and that of the down-trodden. I pulled out my car keys as we were talking. I’m not sure why. I guess it was a way to refocus and avoid looking into his haunting light colored eyes. He looked at me and made another request before he rode off.

“Would you please get in your car and run me over, and can you promise me that you won’t miss?” requested Noel. He didn’t appear to be joking or sarcastic, but pleading for an escape.

I’m sure Noel isn’t alone. His story probably parallels that of others here in the Crescent City; the invisible ones that live among us.