Being a "street person" means waking up on the floor in an 8 by 10 room with eight other people. The smell of bodies that aren't washed as often as they should be is just as strong as it was the night before, but you are a little more used to it. It means hitting the street at 6:30 A.M. and taking a hike over to the Burger King to use the john. If you have the price of a cup of coffee, you walk in the front door; if not, you sorta ease in the back.
The call of nature answered, you hit the street again. There is still a little tobacco and a couple of rolling papers left, so you roll a smoke and ask a passerby for a light. You nod your thanks when he gives you the book of matches--there are six left--and you walk on down the street. Today is going to be different.
When you hit C Street, you turn south. No way are you going to spend all day walking up and down the alleys or hanging around Bean's Cafe. Maybe you can walk out to the unemployment office.
You envy those who have unemployment checks. If you had a few bucks, maybe you could share a room with a friend. Then you could maybe keep a few changes of clothing so you could stand a chance of getting a real job.
You once overheard a cop saying that nobody had to live on the street. That cop was probably right. If you had a place a stay and clean up--God, you need a haircut and shave--maybe somebody would talk seriously to you about a job. You had one once upon a time. Was it only a few months ago, you had a new car and a nice place to live? Seems like a lifetime ago, when the old lady said she couldn't handle it anymore and went to her brother's to live. For a while you kept in touch, but why bother? She is better off where she is.
The last letter said that she and the kids were doing okay and she hoped that the Child Support people didn't give you a hard time, but that she had to give them your name and stuff so that she could get welfare.
Being street people means that pretty blonde joggers give you a wide berth as they come by with a polite good morning. You can't blame them. Why would a lady like that want to stop and talk to a bum in smelly clothes? Bum? Are you a bum? Well, if taking a free meal when you can get it, or looking for a warm place to sit for a while makes you a bum, you probably are. But you don't stand on the corner bumming quarters to get a drink; you aren't that low yet.
Aw, who are you kidding? You don't mind taking a drink from someone who has promoted a jug. You'd do the same for them. Remember when you found that twenty-dollar bill?
After you bought a stocking cap and had a big omelette with pancakes and all the coffee you could drink at Leroy's, you still had enough for a couple of packs of smokes and a bottle of decent wine. What are you supposed to do with six bucks? Save it for your old age maybe?
You get to the unemployment office, only to find that it is a holiday. Remember those? You actually got paid when you had a day off to go fishing or just mess around the house. Now you just mess around all the time. The ache in your gut is like the way you felt when your mother died years ago. Come to think of it, you've had that same empty feeling ever since you lost that good job. Remember when you thought you would never see another poor day?
So you walk back downtown. Cops look at you pretty hard when you are out of where they think you belong. Not that you are afraid of them. So what if they lock you up for a few days; at least it's warm and you won't have to sleep on the floor.
The clock says 10:00 A.M. when you walk into Bean's. The place is already full. You get a cup of tea and walk back outside to roll a smoke. It is still two hours until lunch. Smells like salmon again. Last time, you almost choked on a bone. But it filled you up and it was hot, so you really can't gripe.
Here comes the crowd outside. It's cleanup time again. You take one of the blue plastic bags and start picking up pull tabs, popsicle sticks, and crumpled cigarette packs. A few minutes of this and it's back to your sunny spot. One of the first things you learned when you hit the street was how to find a warm corner out of the wind where the sun shines on your face and reflects off the wall behind you. If there was a dumpster on one side to reflect more heat, so much the better.
You walk back toward the avenue, Maybe you'll see an old buddy who has a job that may help you get on too.
What you notice--not for the first time--is how the street whores flick their eyes across you and instantly dismiss you as worthy of their attentions. You remember when a friend told you about having peanuts thrown at him when he was approached by one of the ladies when he told her he was hoping that she would spring for coffee. Oh well, everybody has to have somebody to look down on.
One more time you think about how you hate taking charity. Even though it's really not that simple, you have decided that there are four basic reasons why people are charitable.
There are those who are really good, dedicated people. They help others because they must. They don't preach or blame, they just give of themselves. Then there are those who help because it makes them feel good to do it. They can go home feeling a little better about themselves and not feel guilty about all of the unfortunate people. After all, they do what they can, right?
There are those who help because they want something in return. Some of these will feed you if you listen to the preaching. What they want to do is add your soul to their collections. Some of this bunch are professionals. They get paid to help others. When a man's belly is growling, he will listen to almost anything to get fed.
Then there are those whose charity seems to be their way of saying "See, I'll give you a sandwich--shouldn't matter that the bread is stale--and that shows that I'm not poor as you!" This kind of charity really bugs you the most because you know that a lot of people are only four or five missed paydays away from joining you.
You step over a drunk sprawled across the sidewalk and wonder why nobody seems to really want to get people off the street by giving them someplace to go. You don't care about hanging out around the walk-in center, but you can't understand how closing it makes things better for anyone.
Maybe the merchants have a legitimate bitch, but sending people back to just walk the streets won't help. It is almost as if they think the problem will go away if they refuse to admit it's real.
Nobody downtown that you want to see, so you amble back to Bean's. The line for lunch is already outside the door, so you know you've got a wait. Seems like all you do anymore is wait; wait and wear out shoe leather! At least you've got decent shoes and a warm coat.
When you first found yourself on the street, all you wore was a jacket. After shivering all morning, you asked where you could get a warm coat. Someone pointed out one that had been abandoned for a few days and you found it fit just fine. You could even live with the essence of the previous owner. You were happy to have it and only wondered briefly what happened that such a good coat was left behind. No matter, it's yours now.
All you own is what's on your back. You could get plenty of free clothes, but what's the point of hauling a bunch of dirty clothes around in a pack? Again you wish you had a permanent place to stay. Maybe jail isn't such a bad idea after all. But meager as it is, you still prefer the freedom of the streets to the security of the pokey.
You finally work your way to the steam table and get your plate more or less full of food. It ain't great, but it's a meal. Then you see something that disgusts you.
Even before the last people in line have eaten, you see some young ones trying to get back in line for seconds on the fish. They are called down and told to wait until everyone has been fed, which they do with mumbling and dirty looks toward the world in general.
These are the guys who plow through the sandwiches at the shelter, picking and choosing, leaving the peanut butter and jelly for the less aggressive and quick-of-hand.
These are the same guys that scramble with no regard for anyone else for a place in the line at the mission after the preaching is over. You figure that sooner or later the cops will get these guys off the street, so you shrug and let it be. After all, they don't push you around; you are still fit and strong.
You wonder how long that will last. That cold keeps your nose running all the time you are outside now. That cough is probably just from too many cigarettes, but you think about people you hear coughing all night in the shelter. You wonder just how contagious TB really is and if anyone has it.
You use to worry about crabs and body lice and you still check every time you get a chance to shower and change clothes. You still make it a point to avoid sleeping close to anyone who appears particularly filthy. But you realize that crabs won't kill you; hypothermia will, as it has many others in the past.
You don't have much trouble understanding why so many street people drink. Maybe you don't drink much but that's probably more because of a weak stomach than anything else. At least those people who spend all day long bumming quarters until they can pool enough to get a bottle of cheap wine have a goal for the day. Then when the glow hits, it ain't so bad for a little while.
Somehow you make it through the day and you find yourself standing once again outside the shelter with the crowd growing around you. There is some conversation but not much. Mostly, everybody just wants the door to open at 7:00 so they can get in out of the cold.
When the door opens, you file up the stairs and give the man at the desk your name. You almost patiently wait for your turn at the sandwiches. Just your luck: peanut butter and jelly again on stale. You take a couple anyway and find a place in one of the cubicles. You mark your place with your coat and carefully put your sandwiches under your coat, next to the wall where they won't be stepped on--maybe.
You go to the TV room and decide to pass on the coffee. Lately, it seems to keep you awake. With the chorus of snores and groans, not to mention the light in your eyes, you know that a good night's sleep is only a dream anyway. So you watch the show and try to get into it, but somehow all that glitter and glamour seems too remote to relate to anymore.
You see a few couples together on the floor, and you miss your wife and at the same time are glad that she's not there with you. You wish the couples well, and hope that someday they may have more than just being able to lie on the floor with 50 or 60 other people.
A little commotion behind you and you look around. You see a family group and some clean-cut teenagers come to visit the shelter. You know that they have probably brought cookies and your mouth waters a little. You miss sweets. You know too that they have brought themselves. They are telling you just by being there that they care.
You wonder how these nice clean people with shining hair and fresh clothes can stand the smell of socks and bodies and booze being sweated out. You have to give them credit for guts and you are glad they are there. You are glad that there are still nice people who aren't afraid to be around you.
You look at a girl sitting by her boyfriend--you can tell they like each other a lot by the way they tease back and forth-- she sees you looking and smiles. You smile back and go hunt your part of the floor and lie down. Your pillow is your boots and your blanket is your coat and you just don't think about the stiffness in your shoulders.
As you lie there, listening to the snores and wheezes, trying to keep the light out of your eyes and wishing everyone would quit talking loud and walking up and down the hall, you make plans for tomorrow. You figure to try the unemployment office again. Maybe, they will have something for you. You know that you can't give up. You know that when you decide to give up, you will kill yourself. You simply cannot endure the thought of spending every day for the next twenty years on the street. You wonder if any of those people who think you are on the street because you want to be, have any idea how hard and demeaning it is to be street people.
As you drift off into restless sleep, a part of you wishes all of those who look down their noses could have a taste of it. The decent part of you hopes that they will never know what it means to be street people--God, you want out of it!
Copyright ©1994 1995 David F. Norman