I was standing by the Café's cash register when he walked through the front door to place what I thought would be a take-out order. I had never seen him before, but I was struck with the overwhelming sense that someday, in some fashion, this man would work for me.
So, I was a bit taken aback when he said, moments later, "You need help here?" He had a slight southern drawl to his voice. "I can do most anything."
I stared at him for a brief moment while I gathered my thoughts. "Not right now, but this is the restaurant business, so anything could happen by the end of the day."
"Okay, then. Mind if I fill out an application?" he asked.
Trying not to reveal my astonishment, I said, "Sure. As soon as something comes up, I'll call you."
He filled out his application, handed it to me, and left. Still a bit stunned from the premonition, I glanced at the paperwork. His name was Bruce and I noticed that he actually had quite a bit of experience, with some longevity, which was a good sign.
Remarkably, less than a week later, one of our cooks decided to "no call, no show" which is, unfortunately, typical in the restaurant business. After discussing it with my husband, I called Bruce, and on the other end of the line was an answering machine for a church office. I left a message and, within the hour, he was back at the restaurant, in person.
"You ready now?" he asked as he walked through the door. We both laughed.
Bruce was a born-again Christian and had "found Jesus" after having seen the error of his ways during his wild, former life. During one of our many conversations about Christianity, I told him I was Catholic. He said "I won't hold that against you," and gave me a huge grin.
He had quite a history, which he was reluctant to share. Every now and again, however, he would give me a glimpse into his past, which was mostly scandalous. He had been a drug runner to and from Mexico, had spent time in prison, and he took the fifth on any rumors that circulated about him in the State of Idaho. He also expressed a great deal of pride that he was using his actual social security number for the first time in his life.
Bruce was fiercely independent and definitely his "own man." There was nothing soft about him. His rough edges concealed a huge heart, for I found out soon that he would do anything for me. Most of the time, I didn't even need to ask.
He just did it.
He was a recovering addict – one who used to shoot heroin into his knee caps so that track marks wouldn't be obvious when he wore short-sleeved work shirts. He also had a taste for vodka; a taste that never left him. He had been homeless for reasons he never clarified, and was living in a pup tent on the property of the home of a pastor from a local church. The pastor and his family had adopted him, in a way, after his successful stint at the Atlantic City Rescue Mission's "Work Readiness Program."
In addition to being a recovering addict and alcoholic, he was also bi-polar and had numerous health issues associated with his mental and physical conditions. I remember him telling me about the voices in his head, and how they never relented; they'd quiet down after the right combination of prescription medications, but never shut off completely.
Despite his history of mental illness and his notorious past, there was something very likeable about him. I wanted him to succeed and I intuitively knew that life was simply not easy for him. The years of abuse, while admittedly "Quite fun, Miss Penni!" were starting to take their toll.
During his employment with us, Bruce had three relapses which landed him back in rehabilitation. He'd do his best to stay clean, but without warning, something inside him would snap. Once, he decided to mix ample amounts of alcohol with his prescription medications which ultimately led to a medically-induced coma. I sat by his bedside at the hospital, holding his hand, praying over him – something I never thought I'd be doing as an employer.
I later learned that this wasn't an "accidental" overdose; he had attempted to take his life and failed. In retrospect, I recall him telling me that "God had bigger plans" for him than he had for himself. Unbeknownst to me was the truth and the weightiness of his words.
After Bruce's failed suicide attempt, he eventually admitted himself into a three-month treatment program. As soon as we learned he had returned to the area, we approached him to see if he'd be interested in returning to work, and he agreed.
He was actually on a good road and, after some encouragement, he signed up for classes at the community college to become an addictions counselor. He did very well at school, though it would take him hours to complete his homework. He once shared with me that, due to the amount of drugs previously put into his system, the toll was heavy on his ability to comprehend. What would take about an average classmate about a half-hour to complete would take Bruce at least an hour. But, he persevered, and became an "A" student.
In November of 2004, Bruce said something to me that I now recall as distinctly as if it were said to me yesterday. He was sitting at the counter on break and shared an outrageous thought:
"Sometimes, I just want to get a whole bunch of money, go to the casinos, blow it all, then blow my fucking brains out."
"Are you kidding me?" I was incredulous. "Don’t talk like that."
"Don’t you ever wake up and say 'what’s the point'?" he questioned.
It was clear to me he was agitated, and he had said some pretty outrageous things in the past, but this comment was somehow different. After I had shared this conversation with my husband, however, we decided to let it drop. As his friend, we should have conveyed his comments with the pastor he was living with, but as his employers, we felt it would be a breach in confidentiality. Had we known that his earlier hospitalization (in December of 2001) was an attempted suicide, we certainly have had a different reaction. Simply put: we didn’t know. We were as uninformed then as we would be in February. Things are not always as they seem.
In the beginning of the winter months of 2005, Bruce had been showing signs of easy aggravation and withdrawal. In February of 2005, on Ash Wednesday specifically, we received a call from the pastor he was living with. The news was not good: Bruce had taken off and left a note saying that, although they were like family to him, by the time they would be reading the note, he'd be out of the state. He had taken all of his savings, but left all of his personal belongings.
How could this be? We just worked together the previous day and he was as normal and upbeat as usual…just bought a car…two months left of schooling before he received his counseling certification...
I soon learned that Bruce spent his day off (the Monday prior to his disappearance) being very ill - vomiting all day, severe depression/mood swings - and that he attributed it to the new medication he was placed on. I know from conversations with him that the medication he was on to control his bi-polar disorder would not have necessarily given him these types of side effects. However, his liver had been so damaged from prior drug abuse that his toxicity levels may have reached a dangerous level. He may have been unable to metabolize what he was taking, which could have potentially brought on his severe reaction. His antidote to that would be to stop taking it altogether, which in turn, probably threw him into severe withdrawal symptoms.
I also learned that he had a difficult time at that Tuesday at work focusing on everything and he had described his moods as "bouncing." The nausea, however, wasn't as persistent. As I stated before, I worked with him on Tuesday and he seemed very normal to me; it was all so confusing.
On Wednesday, he was seen by someone who knows one of my servers. His attitude and demeanor were very clearly that of his "manic" phase, since by then, most of the medications would be out of his system. He was "all over the place" in his speech and behavior, and that was the last time anyone we knew personally had spoken to him.
Bruce committed suicide that night. He left a note in his hotel room which simply stated, "May God accept my soul and I pray all forgive me." It was a drug overdose, again combined with alcohol. We learned a lot about his final hours due to the casino surveillance tapes. Interestingly enough, the man who held things in so closely had his last day preserved on film in what could best be described as a "documentary." I know he’d probably laugh at the irony of it himself.
Looking back, I remember how Bruce took great pains to work through Step #8 of Alcoholics Anonymous' 12-Step program and "made a list of all persons [he] had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all." He tried so hard to make amends for past hurts done at his hand, by his own admission; sadly, he never saw fit to forgive himself.
Suicide has far-reaching affects on those left behind. We've been told not to try to figure out what went wrong with Bruce or what we could have done further, because there is no way to do that. One of Bruce's friends, an Associate Pastor who worked with him at the Rescue Mission, told us that Bruce had the susceptibility to snap at any minute: he could have been completely fine and then, out of nowhere, could have developed a thought in his head to commit suicide, and that thought alone would have been enough of a trigger.
Since I knew the voices never shut off completely for him and one of those thoughts passed through his head as recently as the previous November, it wasn't a matter of where or how. It was just a matter of when.
I have a hunch that the reason why he didn't reach out or say anything to us is because we were like family to him, too. The last people he would want to hurt would be those who meant the most to him.
Bruce's exit from my life was more abrupt than his entrance. After all was said and done, he did things in his own unique way and continued to be his own person.
Even to his death.
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