From Riches to Rags: My Direct Approach to Solving Homelessness and How I Got My Ass Kicked

By Matthew Bjonerud

I’ve volunteered at soup kitchens
and homeless shelters, but it was never enough. Right after I
graduated from Georgetown University, I landed a job
at a top consulting firm and finally had the resources to do something extreme.

I spent months hanging out in homeless camps in an effort to devise the perfect strategy. All the while I was laying the foundations for one of the greatest deceptions since General Patton's D-Day surprise during World War II. Well, maybe not Patton, but close. I readily changed my image to suit my double life as both a successful corporate consultant and an impoverished Baltimorean ghetto dweller.

Without the knowledge of my coworkers, parents, or landlord, I set out to a street corner and brought a homeless couple, Cheryl and Paul, home. Our adventures were set in a small house, inconveniently rented from a hotheaded cop, in a West Baltimore ghetto. It was a dangerous life and an even more dangerous neighborhood, so I took precautions. Every day in the depths of an underground parking garage, I disguised myself in baggy pants and a torn hoodie. I stored all my suits, and other clothing staples in my cubicle, much to the disapproval of management.

However, all the trouble was worth it. Together with Cheryl and Paul and I had an awe inspiring adventure. One day we would drink beers with Jimmy the rapist and the next we would dine with priests. Some nights I snuck them into corporate seats at the baseball games, while other nights we drank out of paper bags on our stoop. We talked, shared our lives, and broke bread together. We depended on each other to make it to the next day and learned how to become a family.

Read this true story and learn how difficult it is to break the cycle of homelessness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Bjonerud
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465723208

Book preview

From Riches to Rags: My Direct Approach to Solving Homelessness and How I Got My Ass Kicked.

By Matthew Bjonerud

Copyright 2012 Matthew Bjonerud

Published by Smashwords

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions therefore in any form whatsoever. This story is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 1469906651

Cover image courtesy of Lars Christensen & Dreamstime.com

Cover by Joleene Naylor.

The author is donating 30% of his net proceeds from the book to agencies fighting homelessness in Baltimore, Catholic Education, and the Church.

Dedication:

I dedicate this story to all of the teachers and mentors that I have had throughout my Catholic education. Without your presence in my life, I am certain that I would not have had the inspiration, discipline, and guidance to live out this adventure.

To my brother, Eric, for always being there to support me throughout this adventure and all the ones that came before it.

To Dad for showing me what it means to be an honest man who always tries to do the right thing.

To Mom for deciding to look the other way.

Table of Contents:

Introduction

Chapter 1: The Warning

Chapter 2: The Baltimore Mission

Chapter 3: The Beginning of the Adventure

Chapter 4: Disguises

Chapter 5: The Invitation

Chapter 6: 40 Days

Chapter 7: Day 41

Chapter 8: Jimmy the Rapist

Chapter 9: Job Progress

Chapter 10: John the Epileptic

Chapter 11: Repairs

Chapter 12: Beer and Knives

Chapter 13: Intervention

Chapter 14: Security Flag

Chapter 15: Landlord Woes

Chapter 16: The Feast

Chapter 17: Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 18: Dragon Boats and Charity

Chapter 19: Smoking Gun

Chapter 20: Purple Sea

Chapter 21: Just Getting Started

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

I could hear her sobbing as I limped down West Ward Street. Streams of dark blue eyeliner ran down her cheeks and bright red lipstick smudges covered her chin. As I got closer, I noticed that she smelled overwhelmingly of roses, fields and fields of roses.

Cheryl, what’s wrong? I asked dropping my duffle bag on the sidewalk.

They sent me home, she sobbed.

My heart sank.

Why?

My name. It’s flagged in the database.

What for? I questioned though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

They won’t say. All they know is that I have one week to figure it out or else I’m done.

She looked at me with a pained expression, which I reflected right back at her. We were out of options now, but that wasn’t the problem.

I raised an eyebrow, You don’t have any idea what it could be?

Cheryl sat back, waited for a second, and then answered, No.

I plopped down on the stoop a step below her and faced out towards the neighborhood. I knew she wasn’t telling me everything. If she didn’t trust me by now, then would she ever trust me?

I hated to see her cry so I pretended to watch the neighborhood kids play catch. I felt a twinge of sadness at the pathetic sight of kids using a large wad of blue tape for their game. In this neighborhood, households that found themselves with extra money would never squander it on luxuries. A small stout boy wearing his dad’s torn wife beater ran out for a long pass but was too slow. The ball bounced off a car windshield and landed in the gutter amidst discarded chip bags and shattered beer bottles.

Cheryl’s new situation was a game changer. Unfortunately, I knew exactly why the police had flagged her name. I folded my arms over my knees and put my head down to remember the words that changed everything.

Two days before, my phone vibrated roughly on my desk. The number appeared as unknown, but I recognized it and abruptly jumped out of my chair. I walked briskly down the hall and scrambled to the office lobby to find someplace where no one would hear. There were only seconds before the call would go to voicemail and I doubted that he would leave one. I slammed my body into the brass swivel doors and burst out into the cobbled plaza startling a flock of pigeons.

Hello, I answered.

This is Scott.

His voice sounded younger than I had expected.

Scott, it’s good to talk to you. I just---

He cut me off, Don’t ever send me an email on my work address again. Do I make myself clear?

Um, errr, yes, I said, put off by his abruptness.

Tell me how you found my mother.

I’ve been living with your mother and father for some time now. I just wanted to let you know that they’re okay.

It wasn’t until I heard the fear in Scott’s voice that I realized he probably thought I was trying to blackmail him. Whenever anyone found anything ugly about a politician or a politician’s family, it automatically threatened their career. This was especially true for Scott, who had recently won his campaign by championing family values.

Do not call Paul my father. That man is not my father, he said almost growling.

Okay, okay.

I had forgotten that Paul wasn’t his real dad, but I couldn’t be expected to keep track of all Cheryl’s marriages. At the young age of 47, she was already on her third, while at the age of 23, I had not yet had my first.

What kind of program is this? A halfway house? Scott asked.

No, it’s not a halfway house.

Who do you work for?

No one, I said.

So, whose house is it?

It’s my house.

Well, how on earth did you find my mom and Paul?

They were panhandling on the side of the street.

Scott paused for what seemed like a long time, though it was probably only a few seconds. I imagined that his mind was working furiously to figure out what I really wanted.

You there? I asked breaking the silence.

After another long pause, Scott finally asked, Why are you doing this?

This question prompted an overflow of responses. It would take me hours to sort through all of them, so I used the simplest one I had.

Because I can.

This answer was followed by a few moments of silence as Scott probably tested it for any kind of malice or ill intent.

That’s nice of you. Yes, very nice. His voice softened and I imagined him wiping his brow with relief.

They’re good people, I said trying to turn the conversation into something positive.

They’re also very dangerous people. You should watch yourself, he said in a stern voice.

Dangerous? I asked trying to restrain a chuckle. I couldn’t picture a little old married couple as being a threat to my safety.

They’re both on the local county’s most wanted list. Do you hear me? Their pictures were on TV and everything.

I stopped smiling and stared ahead at the pigeons milling about the square. This was an unexpected comment. He could very well be telling me the truth. As he spoke, I began to realize that he was probably right.

Why are they wanted? I asked, hoping for something innocuous like drunken revelry or speeding.

Among a slew of other things, G.T.A, said Scott.

G.T.A.? I asked, unsure of the acronym.

Grand theft auto.

Is that a joke?

I’m afraid not.

I brought my hand up to my forehead. It was almost comical to think of mild- mannered Cheryl stealing someone’s car in cold blood. What did she do? Hold the owner up with a rolling pin?

There’s something else you should know, too.

What’s that?

They both have been addicted to heroin. We did everything we could to help them. I spent tens of thousands of dollars on legal fees and rehab.

And it didn’t work?

Towards the end, Mom begged us to stop helping. She said that she liked the drugs too much.

She actually said that?

I couldn’t believe anyone would ever say that. I couldn’t tell if Scott was telling me these things to scare me away or to protect me. I decided to change the subject back to the original purpose of the phone call, which was the communication of good news.

She just got a job at the hospital in the medical records department. It pays benefits and a good wage.

After a long pause Scott said, I’ll believe it after six months of paychecks.

Well, I just figured you should know. She’s trying.

She’s a good woman. Scott paused before saying, She was a good mom. His voice was cracking. She could have the world, but instead she hangs out with that deadbeat, Paul.

She can make it out of this. You’ll see.

Scott’s voice quivered as he said, Do you know, they used to live out of a van? That’s no way to raise three small children.

I heard.

The kids are finally happy. They haven’t missed a day of school since they’ve been with me. They have friends now, and they’re even going on a camping trip this weekend. Don’t ruin this for them. The uplifting tone of the conversation changed. Again the phone went silent.

Scott? You there? I asked, but I knew he was there. I could hear his breathing.

Then he spoke, Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want you to ever contact me again. I can’t risk having the kids get unsettled again. They don’t handle it well. That was the last word he said before the line went dead.

By now, things had gone off plan so often that events like this were expected. Yet, I still couldn’t help but find it funny how a brief phone call could so drastically reshape reality. I sat on the park bench and reflected on how I had gotten myself into a situation where I was accidentally threatening politicians, unknowingly harboring fugitives, and randomly living with heroin addicts in a Baltimore ghetto. If I had to pinpoint the beginning of this adventure, I guess the best place to start would be the day I graduated from a Jesuit University.

It was sunny day, and I could see my parents waving. I nodded slightly. Dad, a large camera around his neck, nodded back, while Mom sat next to him glowing with pride. My grandfather held his camera firmly between his hands with a finger resting on the trigger button. He had flown in all the way from Vegas. Vegas! That’s almost a five-hour flight. I figured that there was a good chance that Dad would watch the whole thing through his camera lens and witness not a second in person. Couldn’t risk it. He might miss it, the one moment. Never! Everything must be photographed. Documented. This was important. A momentous occasion.

At the base of a large eighteenth century stone building, a slender woman with short red hair read aloud from behind a podium reciting names from a long list as my classmates walked across the stage. Large iron bells rang out, announcing the hour from the stone clock tower above. Underneath my black graduation robes, little sweat streams ran down my legs and into my knee-high socks. Time seemed to stand still as the woman took a sip of water and adjusted her circular spectacles.

But then it happened. The woman called my name bringing to an end term papers, final exams, and all-night study sessions. No longer would letter grades rule my life. I was free, free at last. Only twenty-two years old, I now possessed youth, health, and a very expensive education. My whole life was ahead of me, and I had complete freedom to do anything I wanted. Become a sky diving instructor? No problem. Teach history? Great. Work in a large corporate consulting firm? Perfect.

If that wasn’t enough, my parents shouldered all of my college debt so that I could concentrate on building a comfortable life for myself devoid of worries or cares. The Plan was for me to buy a new car, live in a nice neighborhood, and maybe play some golf on the weekends.

My first year out of college did not go according to The Plan. Not at all. And now, after only eighteen months of complete freedom, I sit here and struggle to explain myself. I am not yet completely sure how the idea came into my head. Maybe I had always dreamed of doing something great, or perhaps I had always wanted to be part of something beautiful and worthwhile. Regardless of the reasons, all I know is that after college, I didn’t care about cars or houses or nice neighborhoods. All I wanted to do was to change the world, a symptom, I suspect, of eight years of Jesuit education. My only problem was that I had no idea what to do or even where to start. So, late on a cold September evening, I looked out at the moon and whispered a prayer asking God, who I had heard was experienced at this kind of thing, to tell me what to do. A few days later, I had a plan and set myself to the messy work of saving the world.

Chapter 1: The Warning

St. Vincent’s, a small white church, stood alone at the end of a massive, concrete office building. I swung open the wooden door and stepped inside. Light streamed through the windows and illuminated the dust in the air. The wooden boards beneath my feet squeaked as I walked over to the main hall of the church. Cobwebs littered the rafters of the tall bare ceilings and the stained glass windows cast glimmering shapes on the walls.

There was no telling how badly things were going to turn out, but I imagined very badly. Still, if success were possible, it would be worth it. I had, after all, arranged several of these meetings already. All of them had been with other city leaders; all of them had ended the same way: consult Father Lorenzo. When they realized that I had no idea who he was, they did their best to bring me up to speed. They told me he was a one-of-a-kind character and that he was a complete and utter slob. Not a single moment of his day was wasted tending to issues of cleanliness, physical appearance, table manners or the funny business of matching one’s socks. I should expect to be interrupted by burps and other flatulence, depending on what he had had for dinner the night before.

Contrary to outward appearances, however, I was also told that he was a genius regarding homelessness. Undoubtedly, he was heralded as the smartest man in the entire city. For over forty years, he had fought for the homeless and for the poor. He had made significant progress, and gained vital experience. Experience I didn’t have. Experience I probably should have had. Everyone I met deferred to his judgment and wisdom, and they encouraged me to do the same.

A door crunched open on the far left, and a large man with a big, bushy beard walked into the church foyer. Almost waddling, he struggled under the weight of his own stomach. His shirt had dried pasta sauce that had run down the side of it, and the hems of his pants were frayed. The man’s gut and beard made him look like Santa Claus except that this Santa was wearing a ragged, old flannel shirt and oversized elastic pants.

Hello, the man called.

Father Lorenzo?

I am, said Father Lorenzo as he walked over. Mr. Bjonerud, I presume.

Yes sir. Good to meet you, I said, as we exchanged a firm handshake.

Did I pronounce it correctly?

Pretty close, but the best way to say it is ‘beyond’ then ‘rude.’ Just stick them together and you get ‘beyond rude.’

Ah, very good then, Mr. Beyond Rude. Just give me a minute to lock up these outside doors, he said. Some of the homeless tend to wander in here.

The locking of metal bolts echoed throughout the church as Father Lorenzo sealed the front doors.

Do they ever steal things?

Sometimes, but I am more worried that they might use one of the corners as a rest room, he chuckled loudly.

Has that happened?

Sadly, yes. It was a mess.

Oh, I managed to respond.

After the doors locked, I followed him through a maze of corridors. The church had an old-fashioned house attached to it with a colonial dining room and a somewhat modern kitchen containing shelves that went all the way up to twelve - foot - tall ceilings. The sink was filled with dirty plates and trays. A large window above the sink let in dim rays of light that fell on old newspapers, books and other clutter lining the counters. In the middle of the room stood a large table with a red-checkered plastic tablecloth. Open bottles of jam and a dish of butter, possibly rancid, were clustered in the middle of the table where a thin, grey cat lay on its stomach.

Father Lorenzo maneuvered over towards the coffee pot.

Coffee?

Umm, sure. Well, only if you have sugar, I added.

Over there on the left counter, behind that dirty pot, said Father Lorenzo, pouring me a cup.

I went over and grabbed the bowl that had an army of ants trailing behind it. I decided that I didn’t need sugar, at least, not anymore and pulled a chair up to the table. My fingers stuck to an oily film along the back of a chair as I carried it over. I cringed at the thought of getting oily residue all over my cashmere overcoat, but I sat in it nonetheless.

Father Lorenzo pulled up his own chair, sat down slowly, and began to stroke the cat which now lay sprawled upside down on the table. Then he bit into an English muffin covered with so much jam that it oozed onto his fingers and fell down his shirt. It looked like strawberry jam, though I am not a jam connoisseur. It could have been raspberry.

In between bites he asked, So, what brings you here?

Well, I’ve been referred to you, I said.

By whom?

By everyone.

Really? Father Lorenzo perked up. Some jam had gotten lodged in his beard.

Anyone who knows anything about this city says that you’re brilliant and you have the knowledge to advise me on the best way to accomplish my task.

Father Lorenzo sat back with a slight smile.

And what task might you have?

I produced a thick packet of paper from a black leather portfolio concealed in my overcoat, displaying it all proudly on the table. Here was my plan for success with its blank, white sheet for the title page along with plenty of strategies diagrammed with bullet points, pictures, and figures. After reading it, I was sure he would say that it was beautifully done, well thought out, and impressive. In light of his forty years’ experience, I trusted he would confirm that my plan was, in fact, foolproof.

Father Lorenzo picked it up and began to flip through its pages. As he read them, his brow would occasionally furrow and then relax. After some time, he tossed the now jam covered packet back to me.

He paused, took a breath and said, You are an idiot.

I tilted my head but did not respond. How could he have said that? Did he not read the plan? This was so simple. What, I internally raved, could possibly go wrong with renting a house in a dangerous ghetto to live with homeless people? I would invite them into my house and help them get jobs, pulling them right off the corner and giving them a life. Right off the corner! It should have been easy enough. They’d come, they’d shower, they’d eat, they’d sleep, and then they’d find jobs. It was all in the plan! There would be a merit system complete with rewards and punishments, chores and responsibility, goal setting and follow-up. What was so hard about this? Clearly, it was a no-brainer.

You have no idea who you’re dealing with or what you’re doing, he said as he eyed my black pinstripe suit, and silk tie.

I never said I thought it would be easy, I responded, sitting back in my chair.

I give you two weeks before everything falls apart, said Father Lorenzo.

I remained still, nonplussed by the comment.

Your phone, your fancy clothes, your computer, everything will be destroyed or stolen.

I’m prepared to take the necessary precautions, I responded.

Father Lorenzo, looking visibly frustrated, slammed his hand on the table and raised his voice.

When I say everything, I mean you will come home one day and find all the lighting fixtures gone, the wiring ripped away, and the very pipes of your house torn out of the walls.

The cat jumped off the table and ran out of the room. I just stared at the table, shaken by the image in my mind. The walls broken, the house ransacked, the fridge and stove missing -- no, stolen. Everything stolen. The pipes gone, the plumbing sold on the black market. I would find the front door broken, wide-open. No, the front door would be gone, also stolen. The bathroom would be on fire -- no, the whole house would be on fire. Yes, it was possible. Even probable. I’d come home and find it all burning. Everything in ashes.

Father Lorenzo, as though his point had hit home, grabbed the old notepad next to him and began scribbling a list as he spoke.

This has been tried before, and it’s gone very badly for a lot of people. If you were smart, you would take your time, do some research, and live in the city a bit. There’s a lot of money being spent to accomplish the same purpose. There are a lot of people doing things in other ways. You should meet them.

He handed me the list when he was finished writing. I glanced over it and saw the names of volunteer organizations scribbled all over the page.

So, you’re saying that my plan will fail? I asked, filing the list in my portfolio.

I am saying that things are the way they are for many reasons. You shouldn’t think that you can just waltz in and change all of that with the snap of your fingers, he said.

Still, he had not explicitly said no, so I had heard everything that I needed to hear. Staring into my empty coffee cup, I tilted my head up, looked Father Lorenzo square in the eyes and said, Well, thank you for the advice.

Good. Well -- I was defiant, spurred on by the breadcrumb he’d left me, and I cut him off, declaring, Unfortunately, the decision has already been made. And with that, I picked up my portfolio and walked out of the church.

As I headed back to work, I couldn’t help but wonder if things would have gone better had I dressed down. Maybe if I had worn some jeans and a ratty t-shirt, it would have looked like I knew what I was doing. But I couldn’t help it. I worked at a consulting firm where people are expected to wear suits and ties, and I was running late for a meeting.

Later that night, about 15 miles away in the suburbs of Baltimore, in a two-bedroom condo with a bright red door, the smell of sizzling steak wafted through the air. It was a peaceful place, cozy on winter nights and breezy on summer mornings, the kind of place that’s relaxing to come home to after a long day’s work. Its large master bedroom had plenty of extra space to accommodate the king sized bed, large wooden bureaus, and walk-in closet. It even had some of those nifty electric blinds that opened and shut by remote control. The smaller bedroom, which couldn’t fit much more than a futon, had none of these amenities. So it was a good thing that I kept it completely unfurnished. It was in this room that I spent months planning, strategizing, and weighing the risks of the choices I was about to make. The walls were bare, the floor space was uncluttered, leaving nothing to distract me from complete and total focus.

The smell of delicious spices filled the living room where a flat screen hung above the fireplace. A mouthwatering scent crept underneath the door of the small bedroom where I lay curled up on a pile of unfolded clothes. I woke up from my evening nap salivating. Drool had run down my chin and had formed a dark pool on my shirt sleeve. After taking a big yawn, I rubbed my brown eyes with balled up fists and scratched my rumbling stomach. Throwing on some mesh shorts, I stood up, patted down my messy brown hair and began hunting for steak.

Emma, one of my housemates, busily added seasoning to the meat in the frying pan.

Good morning, Matt.

Good morning to you, too, I responded. It was 6:00 PM.

So glad you could wake up in time for dinner, she said.

Well, it’s the least I could do, I said, reaching for the frying pan. The steak would be juicy. Tender. It would melt in my mouth and be tummy rubbing delicious. Emma tried to slap my hand away. She missed, and I grabbed a choice piece of steak, a hotter-than-molten-volcanic-magma piece of steak. The grease burned my finger, and I dropped it on the ground. Sir Grady IV, her beloved Brittany spaniel, gobbled it up, and Emma turned on cool water to run my hand under.

How was your day? I mumbled from between my fingers.

It was boring, said Emma.

Did you do your yoga practice today? I asked.

Yes, she said, which started us laughing hysterically.

Last week I had come home early to find Emma in tight spandex lying on the ground sweating while Sir Grady watched from his perch on the couch. His head tilted to the side, confused by the TV where a bunch of scantily clad women and men were all assuming strange positions. Positions I had never seen. All wore spandex while soft, sensual music played in the background. Somewhere between the music and spandex, it dawned on me that I had interrupted an intimate viewing of soft-core pornography in the living room! Mortified, I jumped back outside and slammed the door.

Emma opened the door and put her hands on her hips. It was an exercise tape. An exercise tape? Yes, of course, I knew that.

So, Matt, when are you getting a bed? she asked.

Umm, I’m not sure yet. Soon, I said, shrugging my shoulders. I wasn’t in the mood for this conversation.

Well, at least maybe you should focus on getting a bed or something, she said.

Yes, I should probably focus on that.

I mean, you’ve been here for a couple months now.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I said in a tired tone.

I just figured you’d be tired of living out of a bag by now.

Emma had finished preparing dinner and placed the plates down in front of Alex and me as we watched the TV. I plunked down a $5 bill for the food and service. Trained by