I relieve the strap of the duffle bag from my shoulder to heave myself onto the floor. I prepare three sandwiches and begin devouring them all together before I can hamstring-crawl to lean against the wall near the hood of my sleeping bag.
Six
I rouse from a pleasant dream of me and her enjoying an intimate evening walk at the park to early morning sunshine beaming through the bare opening in the wall that once functioned as a window. Its moderate temperature brushes against my left temporal lobe, like Jen oftentimes does with the smooth touch of her left hand, either along the side of my face or from the sternum to my defined core, the mornings her eyes open before mine.
I can envision the broad smile she makes at the sight of me becoming awake and me mirroring her expression at how amazing it is waking next to her. I feel the warmth from her bare, silky figure against me. I hear the sudden calmness in her breathing at the sight of my mouth rising. I picture her soul smiling, with each look into her eyes. I picture her looking in my face with the perfect smirk, illustrating how she appreciates me, or with an attentive gesture, wanting to hear what I plan to accomplish for the workday. I never thought I would ever be waking to mornings without her next to me, without my arm cuddled around her, in position to greet her forehead a good morning embrace of affection.
I slip from the sleeping bag to lean against the wall near the pillow, mushed on the floor just above the hood, quite careful not to generate audible sounds; Mr. Louis, comfortable on his side with his back to me, is still out like a light. Relaxing the back of my head onto the wall, I am finally able to view the bedroom in detail. It has charred discolorations on the ceiling, and the walls. The trashcan and months-old plate of food I was able to make out nights ago are how I remember, the timber floor as tough as nails, and ragged.
“Morning,” he speaks out of nowhere, surprising me.
“Oh! Didn’t know you were awake.”
“Yep.” He slides from his sleeping bag to mimic me on his side of the bedroom.
“Oh.”
“You alright?”
“First time getting a good look at the place.”
“And?”
“Was just looking.”
I notice him lower his face in my peripheral vision.
“Lemme share something with you, young buck. Ain’t no preacher, or nothing like that. Hear me out, because I’ve been where you are. The color of our skin may be different. Our backgrounds, our personalities, our characters, our ages, our minds, too. But life happens the same exact way. Puts us in predicaments we never see coming. Puts us in places we thought we’d never be. I’d the same look on my face my first time seeing this place, like you. Early one morning, a little over three years ago. ’On’t blame you for feeling the way you feel. Know it’s easier said than done, but it’s what you make out of it. You can sit ’round, pout, be sad or depressed or feeling sorry for yaself. Or you can take it with a grain of salt while you learn what He”—Mr. Louis points a finger in the direction of the ceiling—“tryna show you. Because, it’s obvious, He tryna show you something. It’s obvious. There’s sumthing He need you to see. What, why, I dunno. But take it from me, someone who’s been there, done that,” he says, lifting his face to fix attention straight ahead in a zone. “When the movie playing, it’s better to be an attentive actor to the moment than ask questions about the next scene.”
Pondering the wisdom he gained from firsthand experience, I acquire a long moment to determine how the words can make a difference in what I am going through. I understand my circumstances to be a phase but never thought about it in that particular manner – Him needing me to see something that can hone me as a man. Mr. Louis hit the nail on the head. Sitting, pouting, being sad or depressed or feeling sympathetic for myself will not make things better. What I am going through is not meant to be understood right now; it isn’t clever to ask questions about the next scene of my life when God has His reel rolling. Tampering near those pitfalls can mislead me farther from what matters most; and I cannot afford to squander time in unwarranted places because I am not aware of His intentions for letting homelessness into my path.
“Hongry?” Mr. Louis uses the floor and the wall to facilitate his movement up onto his feet, grimacing as if his leg and back muscles ache from the race he had from the fuel station yesterday.
“Starving.” I rise from the floor as well. “Hold up, you ain’t talking about—”
“Man, nah! Ain’t talkin’ ’bout stealing. Talkin’ ’bout something from the Point.”
“The Point?”
“Trust me,” he grins. “You going or not? Need to hurry ’fore they run out.”
“Of what?” I express interest in knowing.
The next thing I know, Mr. Louis leads me in the direction he took the previous morning, after asking me to something to eat. I follow him deeper into the impoverished neighborhood of small homes, making a left here, a right there, a right again at the end of an entirely different street, before I find myself being led up onto the sidewalk of an unfamiliar, mucky section of downtown. I don’t bother asking questions. I don’t bother wondering because he hasn’t given me reason not to believe in his word. I just keep silent, following, noting the number of early morning-ers traveling on the stretch of sidewalk – mostly all on foot, one on a bicycle, one on a skateboard – either on their route to work, home, or someplace else like college.
Noticing the structure, one consisting of two intersecting lines, one upright, the other transverse, above, I follow his lead into a ragged entrance door that opens out onto the sidewalk. Scarred brick makes up the exterior of the building, and the interior is in dire need of furniture, ceiling, and wall remodeling. I am led through the distance of the aisle of the stale, stuffy, and dusty sanctuary, through four doors, into a standard dining hall of less-fortunate people seated at the tables, eating, and volunteers standing behind a long, white-clothed serving table, their hands fitted into disposable gloves while dispensing food onto the trays of the people moving accordingly along the line with their trays, on their ways to sit and eat.
After joining the end of the line and having our durable, disposable compartment trays filled with fried chicken and three sides, yams, asparagus, and a block of corn cake, I follow his lead to an unoccupied table to sit and begin eating, making use of the disposable utensil I picked from the serving table.
“Not a bad place here,” I say, chewing.
“Tell me about it,” he says, seated across the table.
“Nice to see people not placing judgment because of status.”
Instead of responding, Mr. Louis continues gorging on his food.
“Must be outta ya damn minds,” exclaims a petit man, who stands near the end of the serving table. Smudges tarnish his loose, long-sleeved, collarless pullover and his ramshackle jeans as he bores his narrowing eyes at the volunteers, having grabbed the attention of all less-fortunate people at the ungrateful tone of his voice. “Starving like hell and this all you gii me,” he says and then pauses for a response, prior to hurling the tray at the polite, sincere elderly ladies volunteering their time, provoking me up from my seat to go snatch hold of his unmindful existence, shove him and his trembling response to the floor.
“These polite ladies, from the bottom of their hearts, are volunteering their time, here, to make sure a coward like you gets a hot meal, when they can choose to go be a blessing somewhere else. If you’ve a problem with them, you’ve a problem with me. I refuse to sit by, let you mess this up for the rest of us. So, you can either clean up the mess you made, show respect and be thankful, or leave, or get thrown out how you came. Your choice.”
As a man, nothing irks me more than a supposed man disrespecting a woman, an elderly woman at that, especially when their intentions are polite, sincere, and when their intentions are to ensure he has the same privileges as those more fortunate than him, than us, all of us, because I, too, am homeless. I’ll be darned if I would sit there and let this coward disrespec
t these noble, charitable elderly women as if their hearts disguise underlying stratagems. Before me becoming homeless, I witnessed disrespect numerous times at women. But I opted not to overstep my boundaries. Not this time, not this moment; it involves me and some man attempting to rob me of privileges someone wants to give me and all other homeless people in this dining hall.
It’s because of persons like him that people, who are in position to help the less fortunate, choose not to. It’s because of persons like him that those same fortunate people stereotype the homeless as unappreciative, grumpy, and ungrateful, when it’s the exact opposite, because, and I know I can’t speak for everyone because I’m not as familiar with their circumstances and perspectives on life as much as I am with the person who invited me here, but, there are quite a few phenomenal-minded homeless human beings out there, who, like everyone else, experience adversities in life. I’m not saying there aren’t unappreciative, grumpy, ungrateful homeless men and women out there. I’m simply applauding the ones who are grateful and do appreciate the help. It takes a great deal of character to do so, when you’re buried in adverse circumstances.
The man scrams from the place in response to me making my hands into fists.
I head back to sit and finish eating. I then head to one of the smaller parks in Chicago to amble around until the gentle pace helps me think my mind clear. I have a seat on a timbered bench, alongside the paved footpath I have ambled on many times before, when my soles begin burning from the distance I have gone. Not the park I went to see a recent time. A different one. The dining hall altercation and present circumstances of mine disheartening me, I heave a sigh – out of frustration. In the distance, I notice a fulfilled prime-aged gentleman enjoying time with a woman, carefully holding an infant boy as he and she sit intimately on a unique covering that blankets a section of shaded grass. I notice his smile. I notice his perfect place in life, the pleasure he illustrates through his grateful gestures for her – someone who means much to him in his heart, based on the band on her left hand – and child.
In an unshaded area of the same field, a distance from the gentleman and his wife and child, a gentleman a decade older, possibly, in athletic attire, relishes time teaching catch to a dark-complexioned little boy wearing a professional football jersey. From the earnest thrill the gentleman has for instructing the little timid boy how to cleave together his hands so a catch can be made, I can see he appreciates fatherhood – or whatever relation he has with him. He must have dreamt of becoming a father long before it became an actual realization.
I know Mr. Louis encouraged me not to harp on current circumstances, and I’m giving my best effort not to, but it’s impossible for a man to function when the woman he loves is not in sound health to be near his side. Ever since that seizure turned out the light on me, all I ever do is imagine her – her smile, her laugh, her voice, not having that listening ear, not having her here to envelope me in words of encouragement. To be elaborate, I appreciate the people in my life now who inspire me with courage, no matter where or whomever it comes from. However, and I am not qualified to speak for men as a whole because I am only one, but, as for me, trillions of words from trillions of people all combined mean less than three words from her. Nothing compares to words from the light of my life.
“You alright?” Mr. Louis speaks out of nowhere.
I was so detached from reality that I didn’t feel or hear him have a seat next to me on the timber bench that provides a sanded-smooth place to rest our legs. “I think.”
“You think?” He gives a brief look at me, in my peripheral vision.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Know what?”
“I was here.”
“I didn’t.” He fixes his attention straight ahead. “One of my favorite places to come.”
“Oh.” Giving a best effort not to let present circumstances claim the best of me, I lower my desolate face to the grass, bordering the paved footpath, to try and remind myself of the beautiful memories me and her share, hoping a smile finds me.
“I come here and just walk whenever I got sumthing on my mind I can’t shake.”
“Me too. Parks in general.” I have a minute to gather myself; not having my girlfriend here, with me, by my side, has been claiming the best of me. “I, once upon a time, had everything a man could want. Strong faith, amazing woman, chief executive officer for a booming corporation; and now I’m poor as a church mouse.” I pause – taking a moment to remind myself about the graces I should be smiling about. “If this is what it’s going to take to be able to spend the rest of my life with her, I’ll make due. Rather be homeless and her have chance to be alive again than have everything and spend the rest of my life without her.”
He raises a hand to point at me. “That’s it.”
“That’s it, what?”
“Where I know you from,” he says, lowering his hand back to its place.
“Where?”
“Was wandering ’round outside this corporate building. When you came out, you was getting in a Mercedes. How can I forget,” he says, memories sparking an impression of tears in his voice. “Hadn’t eaten in a few days, four I think. Asked you for a few dollars so I could get me a bite to eat somewhere. You reached inside yo’ pocket, yo’ wallet, handed me four hundreds.”
“Oh! Now that you mention it, that was you. Forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.” He gives a pause – I assume to impermanently suppress tears from his voice. “Never got the chance to tell you this, but I appreciated that. You ain’t have to do that. But you did, out of the kindness of yo’ heart, when you could’ve talked down on me like errbody else did that day. Was able to get me some syringes, was able to walk in the grocery store for the first time, for the first time in my life, in eight years, with money in my pocket, and purchase me something to eat. Thanks to you. Didn’t have to worry ’bout stealing, didn’t have to worry ’bout going to jail.” He cracks a smile. “Didn’t have to worry ’bout that cockeyed loss prevention lady following me. Was able to go in there, get what I needed, stand in line like errbody else, like a normal person, to pay for my food and leave. Have you any idea how good being able to walk in there that day, and do that, made me feel?” Mr. Louis gives a grateful look at me. “Like I mattered, and not like I was some worthless lowlife off the streets. I felt human. It felt good. I felt like for the first time in my life, He didn’t walk past me to go bless someone else. I owe that to you.”
I had no idea that my decision made that major of a difference. I was pressed for time to handle a business deadline that dawned on me at the last minute. I was climbing behind the wheel of my automobile when he wandered up to me. At first glimpse, my heart went out to him. He was miserable. He was famished – his stomach was growling like a lion. He was wearing the exact t-shirt and jeans he has on now, soliciting for a few dollars – three or four, I believe – to purchase a quick bite from someplace not far from where we were standing, just from the open automobile door. Although a recent experience had somewhat rattled my cheerful belief in being a blessing to the less fortunate, a small voice inside of me told me he wasn’t like the middle-aged gentleman who had scammed five hundred dollars out of me the evening before, and I listened.
I find certain moments in life astounding. Had I chosen to be demeaning as everyone he had asked that evening, I’m almost certain he wouldn’t be being nearly as altruistic toward me. I’m not certain if he has been pondering the idea of having seen me someplace before, but had the event that evening happened differently, I’m certain he would have identified me sooner. If anything, I would be the person having a difficult time identifying him because, not only did I fail to get a name that evening, his hair, his beard were significantly shorter, therefore making it near impossible for me to identify him nights ago when I had bumped into him, helped him stand.
I’m proud I chose not to place judgment. I’m proud I chose to be a blessing rather than a curse. I’m proud I was
able to distinguish between him and the man who scammed me because the more familiar I am becoming with his gracious morals and clever perspective on life the more I’m beginning to believe, had I acted differently, I would’ve judged myself out of a future blessing. I’d still be roaming the streets for someplace to lay my head between sunset and sunrise. I’m not sure if we would have crossed paths. I’m not sure if he would have tried to help, rob, shove, or punch me. I wouldn’t have blamed him for wanting to rob, shove, or punch me because all parts, in that case, would have been understandable. I’m not saying I would have allowed myself to be pummeled. I just believe either repercussion could have been justifiable – based on how much bitterness could have lingered from that evening.
We speak for half an hour more, or so, about life. We stand from the bench to start home, walking, and along the course of traveling main-street sidewalks, begin joshing about the expression he had on his face when he stole from the entrance of that fuel station as if a mean-tempered Doberman pinscher were chasing him, and in the process of bantering in a teasing way I sense a friendship being birthed into existence without the need to be rushed or pressured for the sole sake of our impermanent living arrangement.
The experience seems quickly and surely to be transforming my perception about the homeless, not that I thought badly of them when there was a legal roof over my head.
I’m accustomed to treating people – no matter their race or financial status – how I want to be treated. This experience is improving that attribute of mine even more. Before encountering homelessness, I never thought a homeless person could be so levelheaded and sober-minded and down-to-earth. I know it’s not right to make assumptions about people you know nothing about, but from some of the postures and expressions I saw in the past, I determined some of them have been scarred by gruesome life experiences that stripped them of their faith and hope, and they have not been able to turn the corner from the past. Not understanding – or even attempting to educate myself about – the extent of each homeless man and woman’s reasons, it’s impossible to prevent random stereotypes that pop into the mind from nowhere. Even though I have always believed in helping the less fortunate, I couldn’t control the thoughts that would sometimes emerge in me at the sight of a homeless individual, wondering who broke them to the point where recuperation is believed to be impossible.
My Bridge To Forever Page 9
