Across the Great Divide

The Only Man with a Helmet.

Back in February, I shot this photo of my bike outside the Day Center to remind me of a brief conversation I had with my friend Kelvin.

He was having a hard day, which seemed to be a symptom of a hard year. Some of it had to do with being the father of a new son he couldn't see. He'd seen the boy once in the hospital before the infant was taken from the mother, who had some legal and mental health issues that required her to be handcuffed to the bed rail.

Someone, Kelvin had been unable to find out who, had dressed the child in pajamas with mock prison stripes. The insult of it was still raw months later.

We talked for a while outside. I did my best to convey my sympathy and sincere hopes that he might get things resolved, but I was aware enough of his situation to know that I really couldn't help him. Kelvin knew it, too.

He said, You ride up here on your bike with that funny British helmet on. I know you're happy to be here, but you don't have to be here. The rest of us, we don't wear helmets. What's the point? What would we be saving ourselves for? You get to leave and go back to your beautiful life. It is beautiful, isn't it?

Yes, I said. I've been very fortunate.

He wasn't scolding me or asking for anything. Just stating reality. Of the hundreds who walk through that door, I'm the only one who brings a helmet.

He walked off toward the soup kitchen then. I've only seen him in passing once or twice since. 

I hate leaving that moment hanging open, but today was my last day at the Day Center until winter. Leaving reminds me of how little control I have here, how little influence in the affairs of people we try to serve. When I return, things will be different, and I will have to gather up what loose ends I can.

Six weeks ago, I wrote about Ben showing up at the Day Center, worried about his missing EBT card. He got some help and I thought maybe "things will work out. He's a generous man and has friends who'll pitch in a little."

The last time I saw Ben, a few weeks later, he looked bad—red faced and fragile. He sat briefly in the vestibule but didn't come in. I asked another guest who went outside with him if Ben was all right.

"Yeah, he's okay," he said.

Besides being a gentle soul, "Uncle Ben" was a heavy drinker of the sort where drinking, once it starts, ends with obliteration and incontinence. One of his fellow campers told me when Ben was drinking alone by the river, he used to sit with his legs in the water up to his knees, so if he passed out, it would be easier for others to clean him up before dragging him to his tent.

Ten days ago, Ben died along the railroad tracks south of downtown. The coroner's news release said, "there was nothing suspicious regarding his death and it was related to a preexisting condition," which I suppose is a kind summary of a sad end, but also bloodless and sanitized beyond recognition.

The Big Girl borrowed our clippers so one of our new guests could remove the stubble that had grown out on the sides of her scalp while she was in jail. As she got her hair cut, the Tiny Girl came in to check her mail. T.G. was wearing fingerless leather gloves that looked like something from a ultimate fighting getup. She told B.G. she was taking self-defense classes and B.G. said if T.G. kept it up, she had a pair of boxing gloves she'd give to T.G.

Within an hour, B.G. was grousing about T.G. acting like a child and getting into her business. Before long, they were shouting at each other outside, T.G. accusing B.G. of messing with her man. B.G. swatted T.G. in the back of the head, and T.G., who weighs about 65 pounds, went down on the sidewalk, screaming at the top of her lungs.

There was no blood and the boyfriend chose to calm down T.G. instead of go after B.G., which was the right decision on several counts.

The new guy who'd trimmed B.G.'s hair had steered clear of all the drama. All he wanted to do was get to the animal impound building when it opened so he could claim his dog. He'd tried without success to find a ride. I told him I would have given him one if I'd driven instead of biking in. I gave him directions how to find the place, which is nine miles out of town.

Last I saw him, he had started walking south, a route that would take him right past where Ben's body was found.

I put on my helmet and pedaled back into my beautiful life.

 

 

I'm Not the Sugar Man.

Nathan was on something today and it wasn't the planet earth. It took him a full minute to write his name and when he spoke I could scarcely make out what he was saying. He brought two bunches of tiny pinkish flowers that gave off a a strong sweet smell—or so I thought until I sniffed them.  

He handed them out to women at the Day Center. We he ran out of flowers, he was able to replenish his supply fairly quickly, probably from a nearby vacant lot.

If he wanted something, I never did figure out what it was.

I've known "Kris" for two or three years, although she's been in town at least since 2011. Doing some research recently, I came across a video where she spoke at an Occupy Grand Junction rally. She announced that she was an abuse victim who was temporarily homeless because she'd just left her man. 

In the video, she seemed strong and confident, determined to get into housing. Now she's pipe cleaner thin and a shade manic. I think she camps and also lives in her truck. Having a vehicle that runs gives her a certain power and her easygoing manner lets her get away with mischief.

But today she asked if she could refill her sugar supply (a 16-ounce Coke bottle) with our sugar. Though I'm inclined to be generous, we buy sugar for the coffee and it's a much-in-demand commodity. Supplying her camp and shorting other guests doesn't fly.

I told her, I'm not the Sugar Man.

When we turn down requests like that, most guests get it, and you will find a great deal of sharing taking place among people who are homeless. A man who hangs with Kris had lent some of his winter gear to a young woman sleeping outside, for example. But there's also an undercurrent of theft. Sometimes it personal, and people get beat up, but other times it's just survival instinct. When something valuable appears, they just grab and don't think about it.

"Alysse" is another regular I enjoy talking to. She's living down the block now and told me a woman had traded a Rolex for the house next door to her. The owner had planned to tear it down but turned out to be loaded with asbestos and cost her more than the Rolex to clean it up. I used to think Alysse's only issues were alcohol and an overbearing mother, but today I had to recalibrate when she told me she was looking for oil riggers to go to work in Nigeria and anyone interested was supposed to leave their name with me. 

I'm not the Nigerian Oil Patch Man, either.

A woman sat in the vestibule with her twin toddlers for a few hours. The kids can't come in, so she and her husband passed back and forth, sometimes leaving the boy and girl unattended in their stroller. They seem happy, alert and well-adjusted. The little girl helped me clean chairs at closing time. I heard the mother singing positive affirmations to them. But I also heard the husband running down the mom. It's not a good situation for anyone right now, but the kids especially didn't choose this.

Sorry, we're not a day care.

 

 

The Newbie.

"Lisa" arrived late as I was vacuuming the entry. I took her for a social worker looking for a client with her notebook and leather purse stuffed with papers. 

"Are you the man?" she asked.

"I'm a man, but I can help you."

Last week the entire day went by with no intakes of new guests. Today, she was the first new visitor, walking in when everyone else had gone.

"I'm a newbie" she said. "This is my first day trying to figure this out."

This winter I've oriented dozens of first timers to the Day Center, but Lisa was only the second person for whom being homeless was brand new.

Of the people first coming through the door, some are quiet, some make a show of being streetwise, some are flat-out disoriented and virtually everyone is grateful. Lisa kept alternating between resolve and tears.

She admitted she'd gotten in with the wrong crowd in another town and made a string of mistakes, none of them major, but each one compounding the one before. A DUI, followed by drugs in the car with an impulsive decision to evade an arrest, and now an approaching court date. A not great marriage, children, abuse from a manipulative husband, who lured her into using drugs with him, then reported her to her probation officer. Leaving him, moving in with a sister here whose boyfriend kept hitting on her, the sister siding with the boyfriend and throwing her out.

"Family's supposed to support you," she said. "I'm clean, doing what I'm supposed to do, but everyone's turned their back on me."

There's more. There always is. To reveal more details from the past won't change her reality of the moment.

I took in her information, listened to her story and gave her some suggestions about what to do. Most of them she had already started working.

"I was aware of some of these things," she said, "but I didn't really pay attention because I didn't need them. Suddenly I'm homeless, with no money, no car and no job."

She asked me how long it usually took for people to get back on an even keel. I said I'd seen a couple turn it around in a week. Folks with worse records than hers and found employment and an apartment in three months of applied effort. For some, being homeless was probably going to be their life, others would drift in and out.

But the ones who succeed devote themselves to getting out, I said. They stay positive.

This brought a fresh flow of tears.

"I know. I am positive but then when things don't happen or I think something is solved and discover it isn't, I start to get upset and down on myself. I know I can't do that, but it's hard."

Just then I heard that a storage bin was being vacated. Three people earlier today had inquired but one wasn't available then, and we offer them on a first come basis. Lisa was the only guest in the place.

"Your luck has just changed," I said. "Take this as a sign."

Family, not social services, is the safety net for most of us. Friends and relations are the reason a sudden reversal or job loss won't make you homeless.

But sometimes, family and a bad circle of friends is part of the reason you're on the street. Then it's up to you to muster the resources, to try doors you once passed by, to trust strangers, and to ask for help without apology or guilt.

We don't expect newbies to carry on without some tears.