My morning walk to work takes me past a group of homeless men. Some, I don't know, so I greet them only with a smile and a nod. Some have troubled eyes and spirits - I don't talk to them; I am afraid of disturbing their demons. But some of the men regularly waiting there are just down on their luck, and to these, I say hello as I pass them in the street.
I first noticed KC earlier this fall. He stood out because he was reading a book as he waited for the library to open; the only one of these men I've ever seen actually reading. I've stopped time and again for a few minutes to talk about the story he is reading that day, to hear a bit of the story of his life.
He's on the street because of a dishonest roommate - the guy took $720, two months rent, and instead of paying the landlord, skipped town. KC found out about it when they came to post the eviction notice. He had just a few days grace period, time to move his things to a storage unit; not enough time to find a new place. And, with the rent money gone and no cash reserves, he didn't have the money to buy into another arrangement anyways.
He gets social security; is trying to save enough that he can get a new place, but rent is expensive these days, and he's having trouble finding an apartment he can afford. It's taking him some time to pull the money together - being homeless is expensive. (Food is really pricey when you have to buy all of it already cooked because you have no kitchen and no place to keep what you don't eat.)
This week, with Thanksgiving approaching, I invited him to join me for lunch on Friday. I can't fix his problems, but I hoped a good, hot meal would provide a balm for his cold and discouraged soul.
As we ate our hearty bbq sandwiches, he spoke just a little about some of the challenges he's faced these past few months. Hardest, he said, are the nights when the homeless shelter is full, and there is no room at the inn.
"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?", he asked.
"No", I replied, "What do you do when that happens?"
He continued his story:
There is a building near 12th and Oak that has a public outdoor area dug down into the ground about half a story. It has some places to sit; the kind where the tables and stools are bolted to the ground. I can feel almost safe there. When the wind is from the north and northwest, those are the coldest winds, the walls provide some shelter from their chill; I can almost pretend I am warm.
There is light there, light enough to read. I sit down with my book in this oasis in the dark, and try to lose myself in a story. I watch the courthouse clock across the way. 10:30, 12:30. The first few hours aren't so bad, but I know I won't be able to sleep, so I continue to read. 3:15. The night is dark and cold and long. The minutes feel like hours and the hours until morning stretch endlessly in front of me. I return to my book anyways. The story is better than reality. After an eternity, 6:30 finally comes, the light begins to return.
I give thanks for the ability to read; my books have guarded me from the terrors stalking the night. I gather my bags, and move on, grateful for the return of day.
As I listened, my eyes filled with tears. I don't know the rest of KC's story, why he has no one to turn to who will take him in. He didn't offer that part, so I didn't ask. I don't have the wherewithal to begin to fix his problems; I felt helpless, and a little shallow. And I thought buying him lunch might make a bit of difference?
But then, as we finished our fries, he thanked me profusely. He said the food was the smallest part of what I'd given him. More importantly, for the hour we sat and talked, he was a person again. No longer just another throwaway ragtag bum with his plastic bags, he was again a Someone. I'd listened to his story and found his story worth listening to. It mattered.
Good Is.
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