My minor claim to fame here is that I’m the resident homeless columnist (“resident homeless?”), but there’s only so much I can say on that specific subject, and I’ve basically said it already. The theory is that I might have a slightly different perspective on other subjects, based on or colored by my homeless experiences. Maybe so, hard to tell, but I’ve discussed topics ranging through pets and cooking to noise pollution and the value of libraries.
This time I’m bringing the focus back to homelessness itself, hoping to avoid repeating myself too tediously. I asked for questions from strangers, in person and on Facebook, and while few were very insightful or interesting, I’ve selected five to reword somewhat and answer.
“Why don’t you get a job? asks an unpleasant Facebook participant.
Who said I don’t have a job? It’s a dire misconception that homeless equals unemployed. Statistics show that around half the homeless have some form of employment, but that doesn’t mean they can afford housing. That said, it can be difficult, even when able-bodied, to get a job when one is poorly rested, unshowered (resources are limited) and in dirty clothes. BTW, I need a job.
“Do you have a dream or a goal? Where does (homelessness) end for you?” asks a dog-walking old fella at a city park with more energy than I had when I was 17.
To be realistic, it probably ends badly, since I’m 61 with health issues, but let’s not dwell on that. My dream has remained constant since I was a kid: to write for a living. My goal, if nothing changes before then, is to reach retirement age, collect Social Security (which will be utterly inadequate to support me, even assuming it still exists), secure some sort of dwelling and publish a book or two to supplement my poverty.
“Do people try to help you, give you stuff? What do you need most?” asks a late-night hang-around at a convenience store.
I ask for nothing. I have never panhandled or waved a cardboard begging sign. That said, I’ve been given blankets. I’ve been given money -- $5, $20, once a $50 bill. A gentleman recently bought me lunch at a local burger joint. A casual acquaintance hunted me down one day and presented me with a six-pack of canned ravioli that had been earmarked for a church food drive, but which he decided I could use just as well. One rather scuzzy individual offered me free room and board, my own room, shower facilities and all the amenities, in exchange for what I leave you to imagine; in any case, I declined.
As for what I need most? A roof, a sofa, a cot in a garage with a space heater, an unused trailer, a guestroom, something along those lines without a compromising price tag attached. I understand of course why these are not offered, even if the charitable urge occurs. I’m an unknown, I could be any manner of clandestine malefactor, how is anyone to know? I could be a disagreeable person once I get comfortable, or hard to get rid of, once the charitable urge subsides. It’s a trust issue, and who can blame anyone for that, even with references?
“How did you become homeless?” asked another homeless person at a campfire.
Without going into details, I lost my home of 18 years to a remodel. I lost my job of six years to embezzlement. Got another job, then the pandemic happened. Bought a trailer, lived in it for three years, car broke down, sold trailer, lost job to a changing vendor contract, was a live-in caretaker for a dying friend, back on the street after that. Up, down, indoors and out, I haven’t been able to reestablish my grip. Got old and became sickly. Up to date.
“Why don’t you just kill yourself?” was another charming contribution from Facebook.
Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. Why doesn’t anyone? Hope, that final wretched escapee from Pandora’s Box, evidently springs eternal. I have things to write, a few friends remaining with whom to share a beer, books to read, meals to cook and enjoy, kittens to play with, and SOBs to outlive.
Will I make it? Who knows. Does anyone?
