Having lived in New York City, I'm used to homeless people. There, subway stations, church steps, and apartment vestibules are peppered with lost souls. You need to visit the bowels of Underground Manhattan to understand the complex living system homeless people have established. I've seen it once and it brought me to tears. Multiply what you see above ground by ten-thousand, and that's what's living below ground in utter silence.
When commuting, I made it a habit to fill one pocket with what I called "mercy money" and the other pocket with my daily spending money. By the end of the day, my mercy money was usually gone, and what was left of my spending money, I'd turn into mercy money for the next day. I favored certain homeless people; they were usually the ones with dogs or the women who fed the pigeons in park. Once a month, I'd go through my pantry and fill plastic Path Mark grocery bags with canned foods and cereal, and leave them at the cardboard entrances homeless people called home. On Sundays, the local fire company would hand out bars of soap and turn on their hoses for homeless folks to bathe. One year, my friend Wendy and I even made "Squeaky Clean Hygiene" kits. They were baggies with travel size soap, shampoo, safety razors, shaving cream, mouthwash, tooth paste, tooth brushes, tampons, condoms and diaper wipes. We'd give them out instead of money sometimes and the look of appreciation on their tired, sun-worn faces was priceless. There's a lot to be said in the silent thank you of someone who is truly thankful.
There was a drunken homeless man who took up residence in my apartment's foyer. He figured out if you ring the bell, someone would inevitably buzz you in without asking your identity. There, he was safe from the rain and cold and was so happy, he would sing himself to sleep in his cheap-whisky-laden, delirious voice. Mostly, he was benign, but he wasn't the doorman we all wished for, either. After months of his serenading us into the building, I decided to play a cruel trick on him. Once I got safely inside my apartment, I pushed the intercom and had my roommate bellow in the deepest voice he could muster..."This is GOD! You must stop drinking NOW! I command you go to to a shelter NOW!.." We peeked out the window and saw the poor fellow frantically staggering away from our apartment building while scrambling for his few precious belongings; awestruck in all his drunkenness that God had actually spoken to him. He never returned to our building, and our foyer rang with silence.
When I moved to Florida, the homeless population, although apparent, wasn't everywhere; street corners mostly, and downtown. On my way to a craft convention with Wendy, we saw a homeless family: a young pregnant woman, two small children and a man. They were panhandling from corner to corner. Convention Center security had moved them away several times from the front of the building. Their faces, filthy, their shoes were lace-less and all hope had been drained from their souls. We approached the family and told them to wait on that corner, and that we'd be back in under an hour. Our request was met with mistrust, but a lingering thread of hope. Wendy and I went to the nearest supermarket and bought everything we could find that could be made with water including powdered milk, oatmeal, pasta, and Ovaltine. We bought canned goods and a can opener, bread, Pop Tarts, Hi-C, some socks, a ball and Frisbee, and filled up ten grocery bags with portable food. When we returned to the corner, our family was gone. We drove for two hours around and around downtown until we finally found our family on the green of the public library. We parked illegally and waved to the family. They were wary of us and kept their distance. We unloaded the van with the brown paper sacks filled to the brim with food and left it on the sidewalk. As they approached, the little boy squealed... "Oatmeal!!!.." They each took some bags and walked across the grass, where in a storybook ending, it would look like they were going on a family picnic. The mother turned to us and gave us the slightest nod of her head, and with glistening eyes, she turned to catch up with her family. We drove home in a grateful silence.
Later that year, Wendy and I invited a group of students and friends to dinner who didn't have a place to go for Thanksgiving. We cooked enough food for an army, but knowing college students, they'd relish a home-cooked meal. Plus, they'd all take home doggie-bags. Having re-filled our plates several times and stuffed ourselves past our waistlines' limits, we passed around paper plates for them to take home leftovers. We told them to fill their plates high. We then topped their plates with plastic knives and forks and bounded them tight in plastic wrap. Then, we took the students on an unexpected field trip. Nine of us loaded ourselves into Wendy's van, each with a plate on our laps. We drove a short distance to a corner where there's always a group of homeless people. With no explanation needed, one by one, we got out of the van and offered our Thanksgiving feast to empty eyes with empty bellies and shaking thankful hands. We drove home in a powerful silence.
Yesterday, while mailing a package at a convenience store, a homeless man held the door for me as I entered. Although it was already ninety degrees out, he was wearing several shirts and a jacket. His brown hair was wild and tangled. His beard was long and densely matted, but he stood tall and nodded to me when I passed him. He made eye-contact with me and his eyes were intelligent. When I left the store, he was curbside organizing his sleeping bag, clothing and plastic bags. He had everything perfectly folded and balanced. His sleeping bag and clothes were in a multi-layered rectangle. Four plastic shopping bags hung heavily from each corner. He had made a cardboard backing to keep it sturdy and it was all wrapped tightly with odds and ends of rope. As he hoisted his life across his back, I thought about how hot he must be. I had just been grocery shopping and had an 8-pack of water in my back seat that I could easily give him. When I approached him offering the water, I felt silly. Why give him more to carry? So, I apologized for adding more to his load, but since it was so hot, I really wanted him to have the water. He smiled and said thank you. I counted five teeth; two on top and three on the bottom. I only had five dollars in my pocket, so I gave him that, too. He told me he was going to walk to the U-Save and buy apples, that he really wanted some apples. How ironic. What I really wanted was to take him to the barber for a shampoo and shave, but I knew no barber would take him no matter how much I paid. I looked at him for a moment wishing I could do more. He said, in the nicest voice, "You know, ma'am, you are very kind. Thank you." Then he turned and left in silence.
I sat outside and had an apple and a glass of water for lunch that day, wondering what his life is like.
