For the moment, Charles is ok

"I saw the doctor, sir, and my feet are fine."

It was Charles standing in my doorway, wearing a new orange shirt, threadbare pants that were held together with duck tape, and worn flip flops that fail to completely cover the bottom of his feet.

Charles is my six-foot-three, African-American, mentally ill, former bank robber, current janitor at Union Mission and my "adopted son." I am his representative payee. We have been constant in each other's lives for the past eleven years.

A couple of weeks ago, there was growing concern on the part of Union Mission nurses that Charles' feet were swollen and that his health may be seriously compromised. At the same time, Charles was lobbying me hard to allow him to visit his home town of Augusta. I ordered him to see the doctor and he said that he didn't want to. For days, I would corner him and order him to see the doctor and for days he refused.

I got mad. And then for the first time in eleven years, he got mad and yelled at me in my office.

Charles is beloved among the staff and residents of Union Mission. He loves sweets, coffee and cigarettes and people are forever loading him up on these things. So I ordered them all to cut him off until he saw the doctor.

And I stopped speaking to him. We would pass one another in the hall and he would look at me with far away eyes and say, Morning, Sir" and I would just keep walking. After a while I could tell that it was bothering him because he would turn and look at me as I brushed passed him. Either that or he was detoxing from the lack of sweets, coffee and cigarettes.

Then over the last day or so, I noticed him repeatedly walking by my office door. Then Keller Deal came to my office and asked if Charles could have candy now because he had seen the doctor. I told her that I needed verification.

Then yesterday, Charles stood in my doorway, and with his eyes closed and one hand on top of his head, and told me that his feet were fine.

"Bring me a note," I told him. He shrugged and walked away.

Then I receive a text message that Charles was in the office of the psychiatrist. So the band gets lifted and he can resume his normal life of existing in multiple universes at the same time. And everyone will happily load him up on sweets, coffee and cigarettes.

I suppose that this is a victory of some sorts. I don't know. But for the moment, Charles seems to be ok. I've been looking for some ok in life lately. Thank you Charles.