Minds Alike, Minds Amok

Omar looks defeated. He's sitting with his back to the Valencia Police Precinct wall. He's got a small platic bag of stuff on his left. In it are his personal belongings with can of tobacco on top of it all. On his right side is his guitar. He's wearing his uniform: the faux zebra fur trench coat, tight black jeans. He's the unofficial mascot of the Mission. Compared to him, mariachis are common troubadours from unmelodic lands.

I ask him what's wrong.

Omar tells me people have been yelling at him all day. And yesterday was especially horrible. It rained all day.

"They think I'm homeless. They think I'm pan handling."

His voice is raspy and every word is said with a grimace. He stares ahead as he talks. His nose is permanently scarred and sunburned.

"They just don't know you, Omar," I say. "They must be from another part of the City. Everyone knows you in this neighborhood."

He goes on to explain, "This is my music. I work hard like everyone else. This is my first break of the day."

I've never heard him speak so clearly. He must be medicated and working closely with a social worker. I've seen him talking with lucid people on the street, but most of the time he's stumbling drunk dodging cars or yelling at unseen visitors. Every once in awhile he's sane enough and sober enough to perform a set.

Right now, he looks astonishingly honest, like he's really trying to swim through the peat bog in his head. I think of how crazy he is at this very moment, how even with his apparent diagnosis, I wasn't far from this a couple of months ago. Today, he has thoughts clear enough to sort out one by one. It's a daunting task, even for me sometimes.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the sky.

"Okay -- I'm not gonna lie."

"All I need is fifty more cents so I can buy a beer."



For Omar, it must be a diabolical challenge.