There was a guy I met at Oliver Gospel Mission by the name of Marcus Clinkscales. He was my second-best friend on the street. My first best friend was Bruce. Both were very creative people. I seem to gravitate toward creative people. Marcus was a great writer, but he had issues with depression and family. We talked about that stuff, as we had a lot in common.
When I got off of the street, I tried to help Marcus get off too. He couldn't hold down a job, because he would get angry easily. He needed some form of income to get off of the street. It was a HUD requirement. He tried to get disability but was turned down. He blamed the lawyer handling his case, but he really didn't have much of a case to start with.
Early in the morning one day, I got a call from him. He was in a gazebo in a park. He was threatening to kill himself. I told him to not do it, until I could get down there. It was pouring down rain that morning, and I took the bus downtown and then walked several blocks to where he was. He told me that no one would help him, and it would be better if he just committed suicide. I asked him to give me three hours, before he did it. I called a guy, who had helped me get off of the street, to see if he could help Marcus. Tom found Marcus and got him admitted to the hospital. Later that morning, I called the Suicide Helpline to ask them for help for Marcus. What could I say to him? They gave me some good tips, and they asked me for Marcus's phone number to keep up with him. Tom got Marcus into an apartment and into the USC Supportive Housing program. The same one that I had been in.
The apartment was a few miles from where I lived. It was a short bus ride to visit him. I tried to go to see him as often as I could. He was also in treatment for his mental issues, but he didn't like the therapist. Marcus was put on medication for his depression. Unfortunately, he also drank beer. I told him that he shouldn't drink beer, because it caused the medication not to work. He didn't care, but he couldn't figure out why the medication didn't work. He didn't believe me.
To pass the time, Marcus would write. He was working on a screenplay about zombies. I read some of it, but it was a little too dark for me. He asked me to contact some of my friends in the movie business to see if anyone would be interested in his work. No one was. He did perform portions of his work at a couple of showcases in Columbia. They were well received. He got a job washing cars at a local carwash. That helped with the HUD requirements.
I asked him if he would like to join my church. He agreed to do so. He knew a woman in the choir. He only came to a service once, as he was kind of freaked out by the crowd. However, he did read the Bible and was a Christian. He was moved to another apartment in a worse neighborhood in town. It was near a liquor store, as well as a den of drug dealers. He kept telling me that he was coming back to church, as the new apartment was closer. He didn't. I contacted a church near where he lived and asked them to reach out to Marcus. They sent someone to visit with him, and he talked with that person. But, Marcus wanted to live his life on his own terms. Sitting at home and drinking beer. Writing his screenplay and wondering why the meds didn't help.
One day, I got a call from his case manager at USC Supportive Housing. She told me that Marcus had died. My immediate thought was that he had listened to the demons and killed himself. I found out later that Marcus had a clot in his lung and had a pulmonary embolism while walking on the sidewalk near Providence Hospital. Somebody found him and rushed him to the hospital, but he was gone. His case manager called his family, who lived out of town. I called the church to see if they could set up a memorial service. It all came together.
Marcus had an infectious laugh. He wrote a song about me that I hated, but he would sing it anyway. He had a creative soul. He was one of a kind.
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