Tattered Pilgrims

By Steven H. Propp

How do YOU react when you see a homeless person?

Your answer may change after you read this novel.

Travel along with with Japhy Righter, a 34-year old homeless alcoholic, who now finds himself living on the streets of River City, where the City Council is trying to shut down programs that are striving to help homeless people.

At the same time, theres a serial murderer on the loose in River Citywho is preying on its homeless residents.

Follow Japhy, his companions, and the other citizens of River City on a journey of hardship, and regret; and yet, ultimately: hope

I saw more and more homeless people, walking the same path. To me, we looked like tattered pilgrims, making our way to a shrine after a long, arduous journeyonly without the promise of blessedness. (From the Introduction)

The authors earlier novel, Work, Death & Taxes, is an apocalyptic murder mystery of the near future that asks the question, What would it be like if your JOB became your LIFE? He is currently working on a non-fiction book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469750552

Steven H. Propp

Steve Propp and his wife live and work in northern California. He has written many other novels, as well as two nonfiction books (‘Thinking About It,’ and ‘Inquiries: Philosophical.’)

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Steven H. Propp

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

All characters and situations in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or organizations, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-19792-2

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5055-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

PART ONE

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

PART TWO

6

7

8

9

10

11

PART THREE

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

PART FOUR

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

Bibliography

Dedication  

With love and gratitude for having stuck with me through it all, to: Nancy Jones: my life partner, and sweetheart forever; Dorothy Propp: the world’s greatest Mom, in all circumstances; Susan Buzynski: the big sister who still remembers my birthday.

To all the people & groups that help the homeless, day after day; To all people participating in and supporting recovery programs, And to all those who should be participating, but aren’t—yet.

Acknowledgements  

My brother-in-law Darrel Buzynski; My niece Jennifer; My nephew Jason (still my favorite nephew); My uncle Wally and aunt Patty; Thanks for giving me a family to come back to.

Love and gratitude to all of Nancy’s ever-growing, ever-diversifying extended family—but especially to all the younger ones…

PART ONE  

Not Looking

Introduction  

God…why did I have to wake up?

(My first thought, as it is most mornings.)

But that’s how you feel when your back and knees ache from sleeping on a thin bedroll on the hard ground. It was cold, damp.

I struggle to sit up, my legs and joints stiff and painful. I had spent the night in the light brush near the river, close enough to the overhead freeway that I could duck underneath if it started to rain.

My stomach is empty, but I don’t want to even think about food. So I reach for the small bottle of wine next to my bedroll. Suppressing my urge to gag, I guzzle the remainder of the bottle, then toss it into the bushes. (Once you learn how to suppress your gag reflex, you can drink down just about anything, anytime, anywhere. Who says that alcohol doesn’t teach you any useful skills?) Soon, I feel the brief lift that comes from your first drink of the day. It’s too bad you can’t just keep this mild high all through the day…

I take out my glasses that I carefully packed away last night (in a styrofoam hot dog carton from a fast-food place), wipe them off with a napkin, and cautiously take my first real look at the weather. An overcast March day. It’s been unusually warm so far this month, so I’ve been able to sleep outside most nights—but now there are dark clouds gathering overhead. Damn.

By the sounds of traffic from the nearby freeway, it must be around

7:30. Turning my palms upward, I examine my hands: they had the usual morning tremors, but wouldn’t start shaking badly for another four hours or so. Since I only had seven cents in my pocket, that meant it was time for me to go to work.

My morning ritual is simple. When you sleep in the only clothes you have, you don’t need to worry about what to wear. I have no way to shave or shower, my hair is already tied up in a ponytail, and my beard is long enough that it doesn’t need combing. So I just roll up the bedroll, stash the hot dog carton in my backpack, and I’m on the dirt path heading downtown.

Another day in the life. Homeless in River City.

* * *

My name’s Righter: Japhy Righter. (My proto-hippie parents named me after a character in a Kerouac novel.) I’m thirty-four, originally from Washington. I’ve had almost two years of college; I was going to major in Modern Literature (I like to read; at least, I used to), but I flunked out because I missed too many classes. (You skip a lot of classes when you’re hung over every morning.) So I moved out of my parents’ home and got a job in an office, where I eventually met my girlfriend, Beatrice. After dating for several years, Beatrice and I moved in together. Then a few years later we had a beautiful daughter, Veronica—that I called Roni. Roni was born in April, so she would be seven, now.

But then I lost my job—and my next one, and then a string of other ones, due to excessive absenteeism. (Alcohol-related, of course.) Finally, I guess Beatrice got fed up with coming home after picking Roni up from day care to find me passed out on the couch, or on the floor in the hallway, having spent all her money on booze. So she ordered me out, shouting that she was raising Veronica alone, anyway. She’s moved, and changed her phone to an unlisted number, and no one at work, among her friends, or in her family will give it to me, so I haven’t seen or spoken to her—or Roni—since then. It still hurts to think about it—so I try not to.

My parents (who ultimately ended up as very conservative people) had given up on me once it became clear that the responsibilities of fatherhood wouldn’t straighten me out. (They never liked Beatrice anyway, and were furious when we had what they called an illegitimate child.) I haven’t had any contact with them since my younger brother (a spoiled brat) stopped me outside their gate, swearing he would beat me within an inch of my life if I ever showed up at our parents’ doorstep again. I had no other relatives in Washington—or, for that matter, anywhere else—that would have taken in a 29-year old unemployed alcoholic, so I didn’t have anywhere to go. I was able to sleep on the couches of my few remaining friends for a couple of weeks, but they can sense when you’re on a one-way path downward, and wisely cut off all contact with you. (After handing me sixty bucks and wishing me well, in the case of my last friend Bill—who couldn’t look me in the eye as he shook my hand goodbye.)

I used to wonder, how could anybody possibly alienate everyone in their lives, but now I understand; you’re in such a condition that no one—not even yourself—wants to be around you. Just looking at you depresses them, as they see how far you’ve fallen.

I decided to drive my old Dodge down to Oregon, telling myself that I just needed a fresh start. But it seemed like it was always raining in Oregon, so I kept going and eventually ended up in California. To stay alive, I took progressively worse jobs, with low pay, no benefits, and crummy working conditions. Still, while I had my car to sleep in, I managed fairly well this way for awhile. (I celebrated my 30th birthday by drinking a six-pack in my car, parked by the side of the road.) But when you have only three shirts and two pairs of jeans to wear, customers start to complain to the manager about your smell and scraggly appearance, and you can’t even keep a job on the weekend graveyard shift at a 24-hour convenience store in a bad neighborhood.

But the worst thing of all was when I started having seizures, caused by withdrawal from alcohol. Particularly after a long binge, when you suddenly have to completely go without alcohol (in order to go to work, for example), your body eventually reacts and shuts down, by having a seizure. Clearly, my working days were over—no one’s going to hire you if they think there’s a possibility you will fall out and injure yourself on the job, and maybe sue them.

After the Dodge broke down for good (I couldn’t even afford a couple quarts of oil, and I blew out the engine driving it), I was out on the streets. But realistically, it would have been only a matter of time before I’d have lost the car anyway, since the registration was almost two years overdue, and I didn’t have a driver’s license since my wallet had been stolen by a couple of junkies. (My license had probably been suspended or revoked anyway, because of my seizures.) So I can’t even prove my identity, any more. But as long as no one refuses to let me buy booze without an ID, I don’t really care; my identity is not something that I’m really attached to, anymore.

So, I began sliding further down the hierarchy of the homeless. At the top of the hierarchy are people who have a car, since this gives you both mobility and shelter—as well as a way of earning some money, even if it’s just running errands for people. (And if you were desperate, you could always sell the car for quick cash, of course.) Considerably further down the hierarchy are people who have a bicycle—this doesn’t take care of your need for shelter, but it has the advantage of giving you mobility and the ability to transport a few personal belongings; plus, it has almost no upkeep costs. Next level down on the hierarchy are people with a shopping cart they can carry their possessions in (although this also slows them down, and makes them a target for robberies). But the rest of us—the majority—have no worldly possessions other than what we carry with us each day. What you see is what you get—literally. You wear a heavy coat year-round because you have no place else to keep it, and you know you’ll need it next winter.

I wanted to apply for welfare (even getting a hundred dollars or so on GA or SSD would be better than nothing; it would keep me in beer money for a week, at least), but being a non-disabled single adult with no dependent kids, who doesn’t have any papers that would prove my residency in California, other homeless people have told me that I wouldn’t qualify.

Still, I went to the county welfare office one day to see if there was anything I could get. But ever since I started having seizures, I can’t handle being in crowds, or standing in long lines; the noise level and tension, the sharpness of certain sounds, even particular colors, make my entire body tremble. (I was afraid I would fall out right there, standing in line.) After about ten minutes of utter torture, I had to run out of the office, in a panic. Now, I can’t face the idea of ever trying to go back to that office; whenever the thought of going back occurs to me, all I have to do is remember my fear and paranoia, the cold sweats that made my body odor even worse, and the contemptuous way that other people in line looked at me, and I know I’d never be able to stand going back there again.

Of course, none of these trials and tribulations slowed down my drinking. In fact, it’s amazing: When you have nothing in your stomach, and aren’t too proud to buy the cheapest fortified wines, you can remain a practicing alcoholic for just a few dollars a day, which you can easily get by panhandling. In my sardonic moods (especially when I’m drunk), I tell myself that I have just simplified my life to an absolute minimum. (Those yuppies that write books on Living the Simple Life should hire me as a consultant.)

Hey, Japhy—where ya headed?

I looked forward to where the voice came from, and saw a balding, middle-aged black man with a two-wheel shopping cart, waiting on the trail ahead for me to catch up to him.

Hey, Robinson; where you think I’m headed? I replied, grinning, as I joined him, and we resumed walking, together.

Although some homeless people travel in pairs, I’m normally a loner—except that I like to hang out with Robinson, whenever we ran into each other. He had been in Vietnam a long time ago, so he was still kind of messed up from that, and he talked to himself sometimes (when he hears what he calls his voices), but he was a nice guy; plus, he was my drinking buddy. Whenever we ran into each other at a shelter, or in the food lines, we were partners. (A lot of the people you meet on the streets are cons, ripoffs, druggies, or certified psychos, so when you meet someone who is fairly normal and a fellow drunk, you value that relationship.)

Glancing around with a conspiratorial look, Robinson said in a hushed voice, Hey, Jaff—guess what I got? The path was empty, except for another pair of men walking almost out of sight up ahead. He stopped and pulled out of his cart a bottle of whiskey that was about one-third full, and shook it triumphantly.

For real? I asked with awe. Where’d you get that?

I was down at the freeway offramp last night; some college kids was out drinkin’, and one of ‘em gave it to me; practically busted my lip when he shoved it at me, but I ain’t complainin’, and he laughed, wiping his sore lower lip with the back of his hand.

I imagined the scene: Robinson standing meekly at the offramp with his hand-lettered sign, Vietnam Vet. Cold and hungry. Anything helps. God Bless. Some rich kids in a sports car had killed off half a bottle of whiskey while driving on the freeway, and needed to ditch it now that they were back in town. One of them says, Hey, old man—you want some’a this? As Robinson approached eagerly, they drunkenly tossed it at him, and he was struck in the mouth with the bottle, as they sped away, laughing. I saw that his lower lip was swollen, and he had a cut that might need stitches—but getting anything except emergency medical attention when you were homeless was pretty tough. You had to hike to the county hospital, sign in, then wait for hours and hours, while all the people with more critical conditions were handled first. No thanks.

Robinson opened the bottle, and tried to take a large swallow, but the alcohol burned his cut lip, and he spit most of it out, swearing vehemently; he handed me the bottle. Satisfied that I was doing him a favor by drinking up his booze, I proceeded to take a big gulp. My stomach churned violently as it felt the raw whiskey, and my eyes burned with tears, but I somehow managed to keep myself from puking. I handed him back the bottle, which he carefully stashed back in his cart. In a few minutes, the world had started to take on a nicer appearance. We resumed our journey, in a better mood.

As we crossed under a bridge leading into the downtown area, we saw other homeless people. We began merging in with the office workers heading for bus stops, elderly people out for their morning walk, teenagers wearing fast-food uniforms rushing off to work, and single mothers with several kids trailing them. When we had to wait for the stoplights to change, I occasionally couldn’t help but glance at the commuters whose cars sat idling. Most of them pretended not to see us; some of them glanced at us with a pitying look, as if debating whether to roll down the window and give us a dollar or two. (Probably deciding against it when they saw that there were two of us.) Then, about every tenth person would glare at us with contempt. (It’s amazing how some people can act as if they’re entirely above your social class, when really they may be only one or two paychecks away from being one of us.)

I sometimes wanted to shout at them, Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you think I know how I look? Or how bad I smell? Do you think that I like walking down these streets, instead of sitting in a nice heated car like you, sipping coffee and eating a doughnut? But thankfully, so far I’ve always managed to avoid the temptation. (Shouting something like that is sure to bring you to the attention of the cops, and I was in no mood to spend time in jail, or the county facility for drunks.)

I’ve been in the overnight drunk tank several times. Once, they had to take me to a county facility, when I got the DT’s. I vaguely remember being in some hospital bed and strapped down, while I writhed in fear from the sounds (which sounded like rats’ feet against a kitchen floor) underneath my bed. I can remember being dimly aware that I was having the DT’s, and I was actually able to think somewhat rationally during the attack. I recall trying to analyze things, and determine if this was real, or if it was all in my mind. But I became terrified as I realized that the sounds seemed to have spatial dimensions; you could hear the rats moving away, then running in a panic towards you, and then piling frantically on top of each other, directly beneath your head. It was your worst nightmare come true—where your mind is deceiving you, and you know it, but you can’t do anything to stop it.

It wasn’t an experience that I’d care to repeat. So immediately after I was released, I bummed a few dollars, bought some wine, and I was back in the cycle—and I’ve been here ever since.

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I’d tried to stay sober after being released. Having gotten past the DT’s, maybe the worst of it was over. But I knew it was hopeless: I was hooked—alcohol had too big a hold on me. It was impossible for me to even imagine life without drinking; your entire life cycle is built around it, from your first waking moment, until you finally pass out at night. Whether alcoholism is a physical addiction, a genetic predisposition, or just plain bad karma, I know now that this is my fate, and it will never change. All I can do is try to minimize the pain of living, until that day when I finally don’t wake up.

As an alcoholic, your body’s increased tolerance for alcohol keeps you from having traditional hangovers, but there is always a sort of dull ache behind your eyes, caused by the craving for alcohol. It makes it difficult to focus your mind on anything, except the question of when and where is my next drink? The only time the ache goes away is when you’re drunk, or close to it. But this constant dull ache is nothing in comparison to the sheer terror of going through withdrawal from alcohol: The sweats, the shakes, the panic and paranoia, then sometimes seizures and hallucinations. If given a choice between going through this, or just having another drink, you’ll always choose the booze.

Any state of reality can be an excuse to drink: You drink when you’re happy, to celebrate; you drink when you’re lonely, to hide the pain; and you drink when you’re neither happy nor sad, to help you cope with the boredom. But mostly, you drink to hold off the pain of not drinking. And in the final analysis, you drink because life itself just doesn’t seem like enough for you—not any more.

I’m not an atheist. But after years of having my attempts at prayers unanswered—for Beatrice to take me back; for not losing my job; for having the car keep running for another few days; even just for not having it rain today—it’s impossible for me to believe that there is some higher purpose behind all that I’m going through, or that there is some being who is planning and directing the events of my life. Those modern novelists I used to read are right: Life has no meaning, no purpose. And when you think about it, why should it have? Why would any higher power care about another lost drunk?

But sometimes, in the back of my mind there’s a sort of vision: A hope that some day, I might be able to stop drinking, and have a life again. During my suicidal times—which are frequent—this is often the only thought that keeps me going. I can still remember myself having a job, a family and friends, feeling like I was doing something worthwhile with my life. I miss the simple things, like having a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and something to eat in the refrigerator. But even these simple things seem like impossible fantasies to me now.

But fortunately, such is the saving grace of alcohol: It reduces your level of awareness to one that is able to deal with the pain of existence.

(Really, I don’t know how homeless people who aren’t drunks or addicts are able to handle it.)

***

As Robinson and I walked past a bus stop, I picked up part of a newspaper, which some commuter had probably discarded. I tore off several pages from the Classified section and stuck them in my coat pocket (for later use as toilet paper, or to blow my nose), then stuck the rest under my arm. Robinson (like most homeless people) never reads anything, but I prided myself on the fact that I always tried to read something every day—usually one of the free periodicals they had in dispensers all over town. I motivate myself by arguing that by keeping my literacy intact, I’m at least trying to make myself employable again someday. If nothing else, I’m able to tell myself that, I’m not just another illiterate bum from the street—I’m a former Lit major, for chrissake.

By the time we were in downtown proper, I felt the first few droplets. Oh, great—it was starting to rain. I used the newspaper to shield my head and face, and we headed for Lincoln Park, one of the few downtown which still has public restrooms.

The light rain began to increase, and we saw increasing numbers of others like us, headed for the same destination. We held on to our carts, backpacks, and bedrolls tightly, because in this case they literally were all that we had in the world.

From the top of a small hill overlooking the park, I saw more and more homeless people, from all directions, walking the same path. To me, we looked like tattered pilgrims, making our way to a shrine after a long, arduous journey—only without the promise of blessedness.

1  

A Day In the Life

Robinson and I headed for the shelter of the nearest tree; there was a fairly young black woman already standing beneath it. Robinson asked her, OK if we share this? but she remained silent, seeming not to notice us, as she stood trembling in the light rain. The tree provided only limited shelter for three people, so I held my bedroll and backpack against my chest, leaned back against the tree, and continued to use the newspaper to shield my head. There were several dozen homeless people in the park by this time, many of them Standing Room Only in the restrooms, without regard for the Men and Women signs. The rest were mostly huddled around trees like us, although a few seemed oblivious to the rain as they searched through trash cans and underneath tables.

Most of them had probably been kicked out of the shelters so the shelters could do their morning cleanup, and had nowhere else to go. You couldn’t wander around downtown while all the people were going to work and opening up their stores, as the police kept a sharp watch out for you. (I guess it’s understandable that stores don’t want a bunch of smelly homeless people standing underneath their awnings, which would discourage people from coming in out of the rain and shopping.)

I pulled my coat up around my neck the best I could. At least the bone-chilling mornings of the winter were over; when your breath made fog, and your hands were perpetually numb. I finally got over the cold I had through much of the late winter, after the warmer weather came. The worst time to be homeless is when it’s cold and you’re sick: trying to ask for money when you’re coughing, have a sore throat and a runny nose is unsuccessful and risky—people look at you like they were ready to report you as a menace to the public health, rather than show any sympathy for your situation. (I often felt like saying to such people, Hey, if I could afford to buy a box of kleenex and some cough syrup, I would.) But in general terms, I was fortunate to be relatively healthy. (It’s amazing how much less often you feel sick when you know that there’s no possibility that you can either see a doctor, or get some medicine.)

By now the newspaper I was holding above my head was soaked, I was starting to feel hunger, and my legs were aching from standing.

But more than anything else, I wanted a drink.

The whiskey I’d drunk earlier had worn off, and I was feeling the craving for alcohol again. But I didn’t dare ask Robinson to pull out his bottle in public so I could have another swallow, since this would make us an immediate target for robbery. And besides, Robinson had already shared with me this morning—the protocol of alcoholics demanded that I couldn’t ask him again; he had to make the offer.

Finally, the rain stopped. I threw away my soaked newspaper, Robinson and I filled up our water bottles and then we split up, since it was always better to do your panhandling by yourself. (People feel threatened when being asked for money by two men, and any time they feel threatened, you’re liable to get hassled by the cops.) I headed toward the main area of downtown.

I didn’t have any cardboard to make a sign with, so I just sat back against the wall of a store that had gone out of business, placed my seven cents on the sidewalk (seed money, to let people know that I wanted donations) in front of me and began my usual litany of, Spare change? Spare change? Thank you, God bless you, ma’am. Spare change? The intermittent drizzling rain was keeping most people off the streets, so I finally gave up and began wandering up and down the streets, searching for lost change on the ground, in vending machines, and pay telephones. Apart from one dime, I found nothing except pennies. (And there’s no point in keeping lots of pennies, since cashiers at many stores refuse to take more than ten at one time.)

The electronic sign showing the time outside the bank said it was 10:43, so I figured I may as well head over to the Good Samaritan Mission and get in line for their daily hot meal; they run out of food sometimes on cold days like this. The Mission is located at the northeast part of town, fairly close to the river (where a lot of homeless people camp out), but away from the heavier downtown traffic.

As I got closer to the Mission, the character of downtown changed: gone were the gleaming office buildings, the inviting restaurants, and the well-kept shops. Now you saw only seedy-looking storefront offices, pawn shops, bail bondsmen, and pornographic video/book shops. The only respectable businesses were warehouses, and retail establishments well past their prime years (whose owners probably couldn’t afford to relocate).

Arriving at my destination, I saw that although the Mission wouldn’t open its doors for another hour, there was already a line leading halfway around the block. I took my place at the end of the line, wishing I had picked up something to read along the way. Many of the people in line were like me: single men, ranging in ages from teenagers to the elderly. There were also a number of single women (mostly middle aged or older), a few couples, and quite a few single mothers with small children. I felt especially bad for the small children, and for the younger teenagers who were out on their own—gutter punks, they call them—the streets can be a pretty rough place, and it’s no place that you would want someone you cared for to grow up.

It was cold, but I wiped sweat from my forehead; I’d had nothing to drink since this morning, and my hands were starting to shake. My legs felt weak, both from lack of food and from my craving for alcohol. If I had enough money for even one can of malt liquor, that would have helped, but I still had only small change in my pocket. I considered heading back downtown to catch the lunchtime crowds, but then I would have missed out on the free meal, and I might not have any better luck panhandling than I had this morning. (Besides, I needed to save my money for booze, not food.) So I was stuck.

There was an older guy standing in front of me in line, with a newspaper tucked tightly under his arm. To try and distract myself, I tapped him lightly on the shoulder (causing him to jump and turn around fearfully, relaxing when he recognized my face as a regular), and asked, Excuse me, can I borrow part of your newspaper?

He looked at me suspiciously, then said, I want it back.

Sure, I said. I just want to pass the time while waiting.

He nodded, then handed me a section. There’s an article on that killer in it, he said, pointing, and I replied, Thanks, and took the paper he offered, not knowing what he meant.

Considering that I used to read several books per week (as much as a book a day during the summer), it was surprising how difficult it was to focus my attention on the page before me. I had to keep bringing my concentration back, forcing myself to understand the words. (No wonder most homeless people never read anything.)

I read the article that the older man had pointed out: a spokesman for the Police Department made a statement that the murder the night before last of a homeless man (which made the second murder of a homeless person within a one-week period) did not appear to be related to the earlier killing. (Yeah, right, I thought; we have two homeless people killed within one week, it’s just a coincidence.)

There was also a story about tonight’s City Council meeting. I noticed that Councilman Robert Bobby Manston—the biggest enemy homeless people had on the City Council—made a speech before some homeowner’s group calling for sanctions against the Good Samaritan Mission (in whose lunch line I was now standing), because of some kind of supposed code violation. (It was enough to make me want to register to vote again, just to be able to vote against him.)

Now the rain started to come down again, harder and steadier this time; I handed the newspaper back to the elderly man, who tucked it beneath his coat, and pulled his hat on tighter. A few people trotted off to find shelter, but most of us didn’t want to risk losing our place in line (and possibly missing our only meal of the day), so we stayed put. Some people in line seemed to accept the rain with a sort of serenity; others were just too crazy or self-absorbed to notice the weather.

I tried to ignore the guy three places ahead of me who stepped out of line to piss into the gutter. (It’s people like that who give us such a bad reputation in the neighborhood, I thought.) It was disgusting, but what could you do? I wasn’t going to be the one to say anything to him—he might turn out to be a complete wacko, and the last thing I wanted right now was to get into a street fight.

Finally (but probably a little early, on account of the rain), the doors of the Mission lunchroom opened, and we were allowed in. As usual, we were reasonably well behaved in terms of waiting in line, not pushing ahead of others, and so on. (I’ve stood in line at fast-food restaurants where people behaved worse than we do.) We were greeted by some volunteers as we entered, and we thanked them; it felt good to be somewhere warm and dry.

As I stood in line for the food, I saw that Father Tony Martin (the priest who ran the Mission) was already at the microphone, reading off some announcements that he hoped would be of interest to us. For the benefit of newcomers, he mentioned that the lunchroom was open from noon to one o’clock, seven days a week. Next, he mentioned the times and availability of showers, vouchers for haircuts, and places where you could get free clothing. Then, he told about the other programs that the Mission operated: counseling and support groups for drug and alcohol addicts, referrals for veterans, classes and tutoring for school-age children, and so on. Finally (as usual), he mentioned that we really needed to be considerate of the residents and businesses in the neighborhood; they’d been complaining (understandably) to the City Council again about transients leaving empty bottles and cans on their property, or urinating in the alleys behind their places of business. We don’t want to give Councilman Manston any more ammunition to use against us, he pleaded.

Then he concluded by mentioning the thing I was most interested in: the weather report. Intermittent showers, leading to rain by evening. (So much for the mild March weather we’d been having.)

Father Tony was a good guy (a little bit intense, maybe); probably about age 50, with a full head of distinguished-looking graying hair, and as likely to be wearing a sport shirt or turtleneck as his priestly outfit. But at least he didn’t give you the, Just ask JEEESUS into your heart, routine that you got at the Calvary Gospel Lighthouse, and places like that. Some homeless people worked Calvary and similar establishments as kind of a scam: All you had to do was turn on the tears and swear that you’d seen the light, and they would house you and feed you for months—or, until they discovered that you were still drinking or using drugs, or at least had no interest in leading an Overcoming Christian Life. But on the other hand, I knew that there were people who actually got off the streets thanks to Calvary and other church-type organizations, so I was glad they were around. (But I can’t see me ever becoming one of those fanatical, street corner-preaching fundamentalist types.)

I was handed my tray by a middle-aged woman (I think her name is Dorothy) with a perpetually buoyant personality.

Good morning; nice to see you. How are you doing? She asked.

Glad to be out of the rain, I replied, attempting to smile back at her.

I always made an effort to act cheerful with the people helping out at the lunchrooms and shelters, since I knew they were volunteers who really were concerned about us. And God knows they got precious little reward for their efforts, being presented with a sullen and often ungrateful crowd every day. (At some places, especially the shelters, some workers eventually became very cynical, and were openly contemptuous about the homeless people they served.)

There was not much choice about seating in the cafeteria-style tables. I didn’t see Robinson anywhere, so I found a seat as far away from Father Tony (who had found some more announcements to read) as possible. Except for one guy sitting diagonally across from me (who was quietly muttering obscenities to himself) my table mates were quiet, each lost in his or her own thoughts. (Good, I thought; I’m not in the mood for chitchat.) I stashed my backpack and bedroll beneath my feet, where I could tell if someone tried to steal them.

My stomach is a wreck from drinking for so many years, so eating was somewhat of a chore for me, but I always tried to eat some regular food every day, if there was anything to be had. (A lot of alcoholics basically subsist on the sugar from their alcohol intake, plus an occasional candy bar, or discarded hamburger salvaged from a garbage can.) As usual, the meal consisted of beans, mashed potatoes, rice, some tasteless vegetables, and a stale roll; still, it was better than nothing, and you couldn’t argue about the price.

At some other tables, there were animated conversations: Some people were intensely making plans for the day: We’ll head over to the center to cash in our cans; First, let’s go through the trash bins behind the Thrift Store for any throwaways; I’m gonna donate at the Plasma Center, then go by the Labor Office, and so on. (Roughly one-third of homeless people are primarily alcoholics or drug users; another third have mental problems that keep them on the streets. The remaining third are those who have been economically displaced. You could always tell the difference between them and the rest of us long-term cases; the economically displaced always had plans.)

Other people were mostly talking to themselves—long, rambling monologues, concerning some long-past injustice they felt had been done them. But as long as no one bothered them, they were fine. You got used to ignoring them, and eventually you barely noticed their presence.

Then I overheard that the table behind me was now discussing the two homeless men that had been killed, and how the police don’t give a shit, and that dude on the City Council prob’ly payin’ someone to smoke us, and more. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation. They didn’t appear to know anything