FOURTEEN HOURS
Motivation is a strange beast. Some become motivated to do things in life by love, kindness, concern, restlessness, a desire to make a difference, even greed, fear, and jealousy… a whole gamut of inner cravings.
Some even by mere curiosity. Many people might believe what I chose to do was taking an unnecessary risk. Though I might refer them to those brave people who decide to put personal risk aside in order to bring the world reality in pictures and stories from far off places, even at the expense of their own safety. What I chose to do was kindergarten stuff by comparison.
I spent a total of 14 hours with the two of them. Of course, that included breakfast the next morning where they are required to eat in 15 minutes, which by the way is quite a walk from the shelter. As is where they eat dinner I hear. Homeless do a lot of walking from place to place.
All I know when I walked up to the small crowd in front of the homeless shelter in Santa Rosa that night, carrying my guitar and smokes, was that I was curious. Curious about what homeless people were about… what they went through, their daily routine, how they felt about life… were they homeless by personal choice, personal consequence, or just a victim of circumstance?
I remember that evening in January was cold. The few people I chose to encounter were huddled rather closely approximately 50 yards from the shelter. The shelter resembled army barracks. You know, those huge half-dome metal huts. I saw five men and two women, low voices muttering, some talking to themselves. I was unnoticed until they realized I was walking toward them. One seemed to wave and the rest stood silently. My mind raced with greeting possibilities, however I chose silence instead. I stood next to them awhile, head bowed to the ground.
My hand reached for my cigarettes and I lit one up. Then eyes were on my pack of cigarettes and I found myself handing them out to all who desired one. One by one, the cigarettes were lit and smoke rose into the cold air. We smoked in silence. Only two didn’t wish a smoke. After what seemed an eternity, one of the young men broke the silence. His voice was soft, yet obviously weathered from the outside cold. He may have been a smoker or he may have had that cough and slight hoarseness due to being sick, or maybe both. “Thanks for the smoke. Name’s Alan. I see you brought a guitar.” He kept staring at it, and didn’t say another word. You know how some moments seem like forever? Finally, I smiled and opened the guitar case and five of them hovered over to look. I removed the guitar carefully, a custom Yamaha folk guitar. I asked him if he played. He replied he did and that his own guitar had been stolen a few weeks back. I held out the guitar to him. He tilted his head slightly and shook his head, politely declining. I shrugged somewhat confused, but held my tongue.
It was around 8 PM when I showed up and only twenty or so minutes had gone by when Alan introduced myself. I felt quite comfortable so I sat down and started to play. My self-taught ability was scant, so what I knew didn’t take long to play. It was enough, though. Alan smiled broad this time when I asked him aloud if he would honor us all with a song. He agreed by sitting down and accepting the guitar. His songs were a bit country and blues sounding. He even composed a few of his own. By this time others had joined the huddle, and around seven were sitting on the ground with the remaining five or so standing. All the while smokes were being passed from the three packs that I had brought.
It seemed music and chain smoking was the order of the night. No one even asked who I was.
Then I was told “they” would have to be going by 9:00 because all homeless people who wanted a place to sleep had to be bedded down, calmed down, and in the shelter by 9:00 when the doors closed. So I asked Alan if he would watch my guitar for me as I wished to go in and speak with the people who ran the shelter for a few minutes. His face stiffened and his eyes flared open. “You would trust me with your guitar?”
I laughed and nodded. “Could you please just make sure no one takes it?” I asked. He smiled broader than broad and I felt the guitar was safe. Even if it wasn’t, I thought, someone has to show trust.
As I walked toward the shelter, the guitar playing seemed to increase in volume and tempo. I could hear a dance tune and even some of the homeless were humming along. I didn’t look back.
Inside the shelter, over a hundred mats with small pillows and gray flannel blankets were laid out uniformly over the floor. Many were already lying down, some even asleep. Some just lay there with a vacant look staring off into space or at the ceiling. Off in the far left corner was a television playing some movie, several chairs crowded around it, with all eyes on the final moments of the show. I finally noticed a shelter volunteer by the coffee, tea, and water table. He came up to me asking what I was doing there, and I replied I really didn’t know.
He asked me if I needed a place to stay, and I said “no”, I lived in a nice condo a few miles away. I really didn’t know how to tell him I was there more out of mere curiosity. I suppose I suddenly felt guilty for having that kind of motivation.
He seemed to have a keen sense of intuition when he said, “You know we don’t get many drop-in visitors who just come to visit. If you are just curios about the homeless and the shelter, feel free to look around. It’s actually unusual that you cared enough to come see.” I nodded rather sheepishly and thanked him for his time. I looked around some more, spoke with four people who were not asleep yet, after apologizing first for intruding. No one seemed to think I was crossing any boundaries or intruding.
They all seemed to talk very genuinely and one shared a brief story with me about being homeless. Not one of them seemed happy with the condition of their lives.
I left the shelter as they were about to close the doors in a few minutes. Had almost an hour passed since I arrived? I sauntered slowly over to where Alan and the others were. The guitar was now neatly placed back in the case and locked and Alan was holding it as if guarding it.
As he saw me coming, he stood up directly and placed the guitar in my hand without hesitation.
The others headed towards the shelter, no introductions were ever made, however smiles and nods accompanied their departure, and two more smokes were lit, the rest of the last pack handed back to me. I looked at Alan, asking him if he was also going to the shelter. He didn’t answer the question, instead asking, “ Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?” I actually blushed. Then I found myself confessing, “Oh, my name’s Jody. (long pause) To be honest I am here mainly out of curiosity. Perhaps to know more about what it means to be homeless, perhaps to talk with one or two of you about your lives if any of you are willing, and for the selfish reason that I love to write human interest stories.” Confessing that last part floored me, as I thought that might make Alan uncomfortable and ask me to leave.
Instead it did just the opposite.
Alan is nineteen years old. He stands tall, lean, and has piercing green eyes with short, yet wavy, auburn hair. He talk is direct and out on the table. “Fine, you can talk to me all you want.
My friend Mark would probably talk with you, too.” Not two seconds went by following that comment when a dark-haired rough looking man in his mid-twenties stood by Alan’s side from the shadows. His almost black eyes penetrated my surprised gaze and he laughed. “Sure I will talk with you,” he said simply. I just stood there mesmerized for many moments. Then out the blue I asked if they were hungry. Mark and Alan looked at each other and then down. I realized what I had done. My mind raced with the appropriate comment to take away any embarrassment I might have caused by my statement.
Of course they were probably hungry, but without money. Many homeless have a sense of protocol and pride, just like any other human being. Character and ethics are not defined by position in life. The way Alan handled the guitar perhaps showed me he could be trusted. Only a second passed for me to process the response, “How about I treat you two to dinner somewhere inexpensive and in exchange you can share your stories with me. Let me interview you and I will consider us squared.” That’s all it took. Nods were exchanged as if making a silent agreement. Mark rode with me and Alan rode on his very old used bike. Denny’s was our next stop, a few blocks away.
Apparently, Mark and Alan hang out sometimes in the evening together at the shelter. Alan normally slept there, whereas Mark had a “place of his own.” Mark would leave at 9:00 and then walk to his “place” a few miles away. This particular evening, Alan opted to stay out of the shelter in hopes of talking more to me. This became clear as Mark and I spoke in the car.
Mark divulged Alan was impressed that a stranger would trust him with her guitar to watch while she was out of view. I told Mark it wasn’t so much that I trusted him, but that I felt he wouldn’t run with it. Mark asked me what the difference was. I laughed. He was right. It was an act of trust.
We all entered Denny’s around 9:20. The waitress did give me a strange stare that I chose to ignore. We were seated at the back in a round booth. I sat left, Mark in the middle, and Alan across from me. We didn’t wait for the waitress to take our order before we were immediately immersed in conversation. Mark relayed his story first. Mark was so quiet at the shelter I didn’t even know he was there, and yet away from the shelter he opened up quickly, spoke succinctly, and even seemed the more outgoing of the two in some aspects. Alan interjected comments but never took over the conversation.
The two had an obvious connection, perhaps friends, or perhaps survival buddies. Whatever it was, they respected each other.
Mark is Native American. He preferred his real name and tribe remain anonymous. Essentially his father was abusive and an alcoholic. They lived in a very small house when he was young with two rooms. He never knew privacy.
He left when he was 15 to seek an alternative life. He fell into using drugs, was arrested, he never admitted to selling drugs, and he said he was now clean from them. He had served his time and was trying to get back on track with his life. He spoke of many good things about his tribe and its traditions, and yet spoke of some confusion of what he believed himself. He was not homeless by choice in his opinion, but a victim of hard times and circumstance beyond his control. He has been homeless for over two years. He didn’t say exactly how old he was, just that he was in his mid-twenties. His face was older looking and yet one could tell it was the product of a hard life. One day he wants to get back to his tribe with something to show for himself. He doesn’t feel he can return until he accomplishes this. He dreams of getting “a break” in life and getting the real help one needs to get back on their feet. His voice was soft at some points, seemed frustrated and tense at others, resigned and even hopeless at others. He said he felt he might even carry some inner anger, yet he knew it didn’t help anything.
Intermittent while Mark was speaking, I was writing taking notes, and the waitress finally came to take our order. They looked to me. They wanted me to order first. I ordered a BLT with fries and coffee. They ordered the same, yet with no coffee. I mentally noted the respect they showed and the subtle way they made sure they ordered no more than I did. I smiled at them both and they both suddenly just seemed to completely relax. I really didn’t notice that they were apparently somewhat nervous or apprehensive before!
BLTs were delivered and they were both talking to themselves about the current situation with some other homeless friends while we were all eating. I sat quietly and listened. Then at one juncture, Mark looked over at me intensely gazing into my eyes and remarked “You know, one thing you might write about is that many of us resent being called homeless!” Alan nodded his head almost immediately.
“Why?” I asked.
Mark didn’t hesitate, “First of all, just because one doesn’t have walls, floors, ceilings, and rooms does not mean we don’t feel at home in a sense. “Home” is where we make it, feel it in our hearts, and for some of us it’s merely wherever we lay down for the night. We are not all really “homeless”. Some of us have “places” of sorts and when we go to them, some of us do call it “home”. It might be a stairway, a tent, or even a car, yet it is “home”. Wouldn’t it be more respectful to call us something like “Locationally Disabled”? Or how about “Nomads by Choice”? Others of us are “Forgotten Roaming Victims”. Then Mark’s face suddenly softened and he winked. He was dead serious, but not without seeing the humor in it all.
Alan took the cue and piped in “Wandering Woeful”! Now I had to laugh. They were lightening the mood with their humor, yet I could feel an underlying sincerity and truth in what they were saying.
“Ok, ok…now you are telling me we should be calling you by your individual circumstance or choice that found you homeless? What would you have society do? Ask each of you individually how you got here and title the politically correct term?” I smiled back letting them know I heard, saw the irony, yet took them seriously.
Mark nodded and then shook his head. “Yes. And No. Bottom line is: Society should remember that we are people, too. Instead of labeling us ‘homeless’, like outcasts and rejects, realize we have names. Instead of treating us like dirt because we don’t fit the standard of society most people are fortunate enough to live by, realize we are not all here by choice. Sure many of us have made bad choices that put us here. Some of us do in fact live here by choice. Some of us are sick, mentally ill, and don’t know how to get out of this situation. Some of us are alcoholics, shunned by the very addiction that we are too weak to overcome without help. Some of us have chemical imbalances so that without proper medicines, we don’t even know how to make the right choices because we think from an abnormal perspective. Some of us have just left the world, the rat race, the games people play, expectations that are too high to reach. Some of us just don’t care anymore. We are just damn tired. Apathy has won. And yet, we are still human beings. Are ethics defined by social standing? It would be a great help if we were treated with a little more respect. We do have names and we do have feelings, even if we don’t show it. Even the high society rich man who gets caught stealing, selling drugs, and cheats on his wife wants to be forgiven if he’s got any brains.
He may have to do his time, but when he gets out, he just might want to turn his life around. If I could get a job where someone would trust me enough to hire me, I would jump at it. No previous experience, no home address, finding a place to bathe, and getting some decent clothes for a job interview would be a great start. But you know few people will give dirty, smelly, ‘homeless’ people a break. I am not saying the drunk who begs should be given money. I am saying to discern between the drunk and the homeless who desire to change. I am asking for a second chance at life. Some people might be asking for a third chance or even fouth…so what?”
Suddenly Mark got very quiet. He almost looked flushed. Alan pierced his lips and put his hand on Mark’s arm. “Mark. It’s ok. Let it out.” Silence for several moments followed. Mark wiped his eyes and composed himself. I thanked Mark for sharing and explained I would try to write all of it. He again asked his name be kept anonymous and his tribal name not be named. I nodded.
Alan spoke up immediately relating his agreement with Mark’s thinking. Many people would just prefer to be called even “Locationally Disabled” or anything other than “homeless”. He explained it leaves a void feeling. Living in the circumstances they were in was void enough. Certainly it’s not like we haven’t changed “labels” to more suitable descriptions that do not cause offense in other people’s situations. Has not “retarded” become “developmentally disabled or challenged?” Alan smirked, “The Temporarily Dislocated!” Now I liked that one!
Alan has been homeless off and on since he was 16. He left his own home environment by choice for much the same reason as Mark. Alan succumbed to stealing and was put in juvenile detention awhile. He stole again after another bout with homelessness, said he was incarcerated a few months and had just been released 5 months ago. He was not hopeful about much. He did have a guitar that was stolen and about the only thing that meant anything to him was playing guitar and singing. He didn’t share his story the same way Mark did. Alan was more aloof. He attempted to make it appear things were just fine and would work out. In his eyes though, were years of worry and stress. He did speak directly and shared freely concerning his upbringing, his father’s abuse to his mother and himself, the failures in school, the problems making friends, and never really feeling happy about anything. He knew he had self esteem issues. He really just didn’t seem to care about getting out of his situation like Mark did. He liked Mark very much, however did not emulate the same values. He did show trustworthiness with the guitar. Then I asked him about it. He smirked and admitted he did think about keeping it, however, because I showed trust first, he could not bring himself to not fulfill the “gift”. I said, “Gift”? Alan nodded, “Yes, “gift”, because you didn’t know me and you “gifted” me your trust.” And that was the first time I ever heard that term, “gift someone your trust”. I have been using it ever since.
Alan made it quite clear he was not always honest. This was a confession to him. He admitted he usually says it like it is now, however sometimes circumstances arise when stretching the truth saves him from trouble. I asked him for an example. He was not willing to give one. He said it’s more a survival thing on the streets. He said to just take that at face value. It doesn’t matter the example. Sometimes street living is a matter of getting through the day. I accepted his answer and left it at that.
It was getting late and time to leave. Suddenly, Mark took off his ring, one his dad had given him, and handed it to me. I was about to say “no” when Alan looked at me sternly and whispered, “don’t you dare not accept a gift from Mark, he will be deeply hurt.” I realized what Mark was doing. He was thanking me in the honorable tradition of his tribe. I gratefully let him put it on my index finger, and he explained to me about the ring, how he came by it, and that he was giving it to me because he had never met anyone who had treated him so respectfully and kindly and without prejudice. I was floored. I had to deny all those things he said of course, as I really was talking to them for personal reasons, too. He said that did not matter. The conversation and concern was real.
Almost two hours later at 11:30, we left. I was about to say goodbye, when Mark abruptly confronted me. He said if I wanted to see his “place” where he slept, that I was welcome. He relayed that the place had been trashed, clothes stolen, but that he felt I was sincere in wanting to know as much as I could about the homeless condition through homeless eyes. I asked Alan to come and he agreed. We parked his bike and I drove both of them not less than three and one half miles. This section of town was not really safe looking. Mark warned me to park the car “here”, and we got out and walked another 2 blocks or so.
Now we were facing a chicken wire fence: broken, slashed, and bent down in the mid-section. The house to the immediate right had cracked and broken windows, one covered with a blanket. It was dark. The sign on the fence obviously said “No Trespassing”. Inside I groaned. But the look in their faces kept me going. One by one we hopped the fence. It was closing in on midnight as we walked on a narrow deer trail adjacent to the house and then beyond. The moonlight and gathering clouds split the stars. On the left was a river five to ten feet from the path as it twisted and turned. We walked on like this between trees, under branches, slipping down mud spots, and just a little less than a quarter mile arrived at “his place”.
“His place” was actually quite wealthy according to many homeless standards. He had an old tent, a sleeping bag, even a pillow.
Clothes were strewn in one corner of his “place” in the mud. One picnic bench quite weathered and cracked stood below a canopy that attempted to keep out the rain. Beyond the small camp were large boxes flattened. He said they were to walk on “when it rains bad” when he had to go take care of personal business. Large tree branches hung over the camp and the embankment of the river sloped gently down to where the river widened just beyond his camp. The setting was peaceful and serene. “His place” was down the path far enough behind the street that no one would likely find it easily.
Yet someone had stolen clothes and strewn things around. He said it was sure to be another homeless person who needed something. He didn’t seem to mind. He was more embarrassed about the appearance of his place to me, than angry someone had ransacked it. He seemed quite content to live there for now. He had found his private sanctum!
The rest is history. We talked about life in general with no particular insight, like three old friends spinning yarns under the moonlight. Around 2:00 in the morning, Mark fell asleep.
Alan was not far behind. I was offered the sleeping bag, which I declined. I told them, go ahead and fall asleep. I may just walk out and go home. Around 4:00 in the morning it started raining. Agentle soft, soothing, almost warming rain fell onto the tent, the canopy, the river, and of course on me. I just stood there, hands in my black coat pockets, watching the river. I felt light headed, in a different world, content, and yet completely strange.
At sunrise, I was still standing there. I had watched the moon diminish, the stars peak out of the clouds parting after the rain, the sky turning black to lighter early morning hues, and the first rays of the sun playing light dances upon the water. Time seemed as an illusion that morning. Not long after, apparently early risers, Alan and Mark came to life. They stared at me quizzically.
Then both broke out laughing, “What are you still doing here?”
I winked and said, “I don’t know… keeping vigil?”
Then I added, “Hey! Are you two hungry?”
Jody Anne