Of all our many adventures, the trip to the golf course in Griffith Park might be the most memorable.
Mr. Nathaniel Anthony Ayers likes an outing, and although the musician in him is partial to concerts at Disney Hall, he likes variety too. Batting cages, bowling alleys, Dodger games, trips to the beach: He's up for anything. But his recent request to visit a driving range took me by surprise.
"No," he replied, but he wanted to try something different.
A golf course is a rather proper place, with customs and fashions peculiar to the sport, and so my friend kind of stood out, you might say. He was in military fatigues, with combat boots, a flower lei, ball cap with sunglasses fixed atop it, and a fluorescent vest on which he had scrawled, in a display of neighborhood pride, "SKID ROW."
Eyes followed us into the clubhouse shop, where I bought a 6-iron, and out to the range, where I bought a bucket of balls. I chose a cubicle far from other golfers, but they crept closer to us, indulging their curiosity.
"I'm no expert," I told Mr. Ayers, "but you need to keep your head down, watch the ball, and take a smooth, easy swing. Don't overdo it."
"OK, Mr. Lopez," said my friend, who ordinarily wields a violin, cello or trumpet rather than a golf club.
Determination drawn tight across his face, Mr. Ayers waggled the club, shifting his weight for the right balance. Not once. Not twice. But forever. I felt like Jackie Gleason in "The Honeymooners," waiting for Norton to get going. I looked at my watch, looked at the large bucket of balls and suggested Mr. Ayers make his move.
Ignoring all my advice, he wound up as if he were trying to kill a rattlesnake and swung from his heels, practically falling over. The tip of the club caught the ball, sending it rocketing into the bucket. Balls exploded as if from a popcorn machine, and Mr. Ayers dashed onto the range in his combat gear to retrieve them.
"Mr. Ayers, come back!" I yelled, fearing he'd be struck by a line drive off another golfer's club.
He made it back from his mission in one piece, got the hang of golf, more or less, and launched some impressive drives into the soft blue heavens.
When people ask how Mr. Ayers is doing, two years after being coaxed off the streets of skid row and into the apartment where he still lives, I'm more inclined to tell them stories like this one.
But there are dark days too, when shadows fill his face and storms gather. On those days, I wonder about the bargain we've struck, and whether his outbursts have something to do with the strange experience of having his story shared with the world.
Last week, my book about our three-year relationship was published, and there was a wrap party for the movie based on the book and columns. Mr. Ayers attended the party, and he has also read the book. His first reaction was negative, and he told me so in no uncertain terms.
I was not surprised. The story of Mr. Ayers' spirit and courage would have no resonance without intimate details of the daily challenge he has faced for 35 years, when voices and visions crowded his mind and he was forced to leave Juilliard in the midst of a promising career. I was relieved when he later called to say that with a full reading of the book, he saw things differently.
"Parts of it were difficult to read," he said. "But I felt like I needed to."
I explained to him once again that I saw "The Soloist" -- both the book and the movie -- the way I've seen these columns, as a tribute to him and our friendship. My intent, as well, was to humanize Mr. Ayers -- and in the process, thousands like him -- and to help destigmatize mental illness.
Mr. Ayers drives toward a mulligan
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