Night 5: She

As I said before, I am in love with a woman who lives far away in the Southwest region of the United States. It’s a big country; that’s a long ways away from old New England.

Distance didn’t stop us from getting to know each other over the course of seven years. We first met in a poetry chat room and have been exchanging emails ever since. Last year, we graduated to sharing MP3s. This January we finally exchanged photos of each other and resumed instant messaging, in which we had dabbled a few years ago. We fell in love. We began talking on Skype. We fell deeper in love. The finale to this long introduction was meeting each other face-to-face for the very first time, in Hartford, Connecticut, about 45 minutes north of New Haven, on March 15th. The first time I saw her, I was surprised and disoriented by her being taller than me by an inch or two, even though I already know the fact of this. She was beautiful, walking through the gates. I looked into her soft eyes and was speechless – an ontological state with which I am altogether unacquainted. My loss for words came with the rapt staring similar to that of a child to a fascinating stranger. I took her into myself and the love just kept doubling.

We met under less-than-swanky circumstances. The very same day I met her at the Bradley airport, I had left my apartment once and for all, from which I had just gotten evicted. (More on that sordid little Ides of March saga later; this post is about her.) Suffice it to say that when I met her I was carrying every worldly thing that I owned in a backpack and a suitcase and my various clothing pockets. This included all of 40 dollars or so. My pride was a circus lion who had finally snapped and was threatening to rend me limb from limb; my willpower was a whip and a stool for keeping the lion at bay as long as possible before it grew bored and sauntered off to the other side of the cage.

“Getting to know each other” in person felt to me like the last 20% of the introduction. We had already done the math and realized we had exchanged multiple millions of words over the years, many of which occurred during January, February, and March of this year. Our topics of online discussion touch on all things. We share similar spirits and common interests yet vastly divergent specialties. We teach each other things. We revel in the love we have developed for each other. Without ever so much as laying eyes on her, I felt I knew her like the back of my hand. Yet there was something about meeting her, and seeing her face and holding her body close in that airport, that led me immediately to believe she was even stronger than I had previously known. Even in her feminine delicacy and moments of “weakness”, there is an ineffable strength I cannot begin to comprehend or emulate. I can only stand back and observe the unique power therein.

Despite her strong sense of personal finance, she took up most of the bills for the week. Our hypothetical New Haven vacation at my now-gone apartment turned necessarily into a week-long excursion in the west Farmington Avenue section of Hartford. We stayed in a youth hostel called America House a.k.a. Mark Twain House, not far from the Mark Twain Museum, the outside of which we skirted one snowdrift-laden night, walking around, her ubiquitous camera in tow. We ate in, we ate out, we rented a movie. We ate Ethiopian/Eritrean food in the traditional way: with our fingers. We had a Strongbow cider in an Irish pub called the Half Door. We held each other close. We kissed. Everything was lovely.

But interlaced with these new experiences and get-to-know-yous was the ever-present fact of my being broke, homeless, and without a plan. My beautiful girl and I talked at length about it. She was so patient and forgiving. I did pretty well with fighting off my pride, though there were moments when I thought it would get the better of me and just take over the whole circus. The sudden realization that my wallet was missing while waiting at the bus stop with her to accompany her to the airport for her return journey to the opposite side of the continent forced a hasty goodbye. I rushed her away, not wanting her to miss her flight on my account. I stood on the snow in the sidewalk and watched my girl get on that bus with her bags and ride away, my suitcase open next to a snowbank by an H&R Block. I felt utterly alone. After much frantic scrambling and emptying out of luggage and searching of the room we had stayed in, I eventually found my wallet at the Irish pub we had visited the night before. It was on the bench in the half-booth we had occupied. What are the odds of that! Disaster averted. Even my Social Security card was in there.

Back in New Haven via $12 Peter Pan bus, I found my bearings, got myself into the shelter, and here I am, almost a week later. Writing in this blog. Sitting in this coffee shop. I reconnected with some of my old friends and acquaintances here. I go about my business climbing out of this hole. I think of her constantly. She deserves a man who can stand up on his own two feet. I am working hard and am on a path which, if I can just keep walking, will take me back into some money, means, living quarters – a life I deserve. How long will it take? I don’t know. I need to visit her before July, or perhaps in July itself. After then, her paid internship in a museum ends and she leaves for greener pastures (literally – she’s in the desert). My plan is to follow her and move to whatever city or country she ends up in for her next museum post.

I am homeless and in love – and she loves me too, no matter how bad things look for me right now. She believes in me, trusts I will find my way out of the jungle, come to her, and take her up in my arms. I am the most blessed man on the planet.

Prayers, please. Or Om. Or whatever y’all do for hoping. I’ll return the favor anytime you need it.

Note: Names withheld to protect the reputations of their bearers.

Night 5, Part Two: Concepts and Concerns in My Experience in Homelessness (A Partial Glossary)

ACC: Ambulatory Containment Console. Big suitcase with wheels. Blue, small rip in near the bottom, telescoping tow handle. I towed that blue monstrosity around town my first two days, then learned I could keep it at the shelter daily, as long as I return the next day. If you leave your allotted one bag on your bed and do not return the next day to claim it, the staff will automatically throw it out during daily maintenance and cleaning procedures. Sometimes they will leave it alone, but a rule is a rule, and if it gets in the way, it’s gone. Three nights ago I saw two guys rummage through the dumpster out back in search of their tossed belongings. They didn’t complain. They knew the rules. Another hazard is that one of the residents will steal or rummage through and select items for themselves to keep.They are good people but they are desperate.

Community Soup Kitchen: A large side room in a church where you can eat lunch five days a week, 11:30 am – 1 pm. The same non-profit organization also serves breakfast at a different location on Saturdays. It is located across from the Barnes and Noble bookstore in the Yalie shopping district of the Broadway crossroads. The staff is paid, not volunteer, and it is the only soup kitchen where second helpins are not given. This is OK though, because they serve every single day of the week except Sunday.

Curfew: Most shelters have entrance and exit deadlines for each day. At Emmanuel Baptist, you must be in the shelter by 11 pm to get a bed. Even then, you’re not guaranteed entrance, because the place can fill up. However, during the winter months, or whenever the weather is below freezing, if they have room, they will not turn you away if you come in late. It’s a good idea to arrive early if your schedule allows. You can enter as early as 4 pm, but men start lining up at 2 pm. That way you get first dibs on the freshly blast-washed shower room. In the morning, you must be out of the shelter by 7 pm. If you are still in bed at that time, a staff member will most likely say, “You’ve got seven days,” which means you are barred from entrance for a whole week. You’ll have to try and find another shelter, a friend or lover or family member to stay with, or a nice plot of concrete under a bridge or something. You could die of freeze or violence if you sleep outside. Or you could wind up on someone’s private property like Frenchie did (railroad yard) and get charged with trespassing. Therefore, you should probably observe curfew if possible.

Den of Thieves: My name for the Emmanuel Baptist shelter. Upon entering, and when people find out you’re a newbie, they shower you with warnings: Watch your stuff, Hold onto that bag, People will steal that, etc. It’s probably the very same people who give you the advice that do the actual stealing. I’d bet you a dollar on that.

Downtown Evening Soup Kitchen (DESK): The most popular night spot for dinner. Its location floats from church to church up and down the one block of Temple Street directly behind the New Haven Free Public Library. Just look for the people going in.

Emergency Shelter Management Services: The name emblazoned in blue over the front doors of Emmanuel Baptist shelter.

Emmanuel Baptist Shelter: The official name of the shelter where I am staying. It is located by the African American projects on Grand Avenue in the Fair Haven section of New Haven. Emmanuel Baptist houses seventy-some beds, plus a handful of cots when the place fills up. The shelter is staffed by black guys predominately in their 30s and 40s, most of whom are gregarious and helpful and command the respect of the men who stay there. The main sleeping quarters appears to be some sort of huge former factory or garage or warehouse; the conversion to a homeless shelter was well done, it appears to me, as the concrete floors are clean and smooth and the temperature control is plenty comfortable. The lobby or lounge area is in the front, with the attendants stationed right by the front entrance to the shelter. I don’t know how long the place has been operating, but I do know it is many years, if not a decade or more. A hot meal is served every day at six. Despite the name, Emmanuel Baptist shelter is funded primarily by city funds.

Family: One of the top three concerns of most homeless people. The other two are jobs and social services.

Frenchie: The nickname of the French expatriot who stays at the shelter. Excerpt from March 25th Character Sketch entry: “‘They call me Frenchie.’ He’s from. Guess. According to Frenchie, he fought in the special forces in Viet Nam, has a 19-year-old son who attends UCLA on a full ride and who he speaks with every day, blames his wife for robbing him of millions of dollars and a gigantic plot of land, took pictures for National Geographic, and has an IQ way higher than 150 (I had guessed 150). He showed me his Medal of Honor. “I had two but someone stole the other.” Frenchie slept on the top bunk adjacent my top bunk my second night on the Reservation, as Frenchie refers to the shelter. He is not too far off base in this playful moniker. Only instead of Indians, we are whites, blacks, hispanics, a Frenchman, and an India Indian. When Frenchie cracks a joke, he laughs at himself heartily and swings a hand out for a sideways high-five with Lawrence or Larry, a black man and Frenchie’s good buddy. Frenchie chatted me up my second night.”

Gary: An aging white guy with bad teeth and a generous spirit. Pours some of his two-liter of Coke into your Styrofoam water cup at the soup kitchens if you ask him. Works at a grocery story in North Haven, a suburb of New Haven. He catches a $23 Greyhound bus and buffet package for the Mohegan Sun casino almost every payday. Usually checks into a room and blows the rest of his money on bingo. A.A. and N.A. guy. Member of the Church of Latter Day Saints (known by non-LDS members as Mormons). Friendly. Able to perceive subtle humor and laugh at it.

Grand Avenue Hotel, The: Gary’s name for the Emmanuel Baptist Shelter.

Homeless Person: A man or woman who sleeps in shelters, with friends or family, or outdoors. He or she often has a job or sometimes two. Some homeless people are part-time.

Labor Ready: A day labor staffing agency on State Street. You can stop in and apply Monday through Saturday, I believe, during regular business hours. You have to fill out a bunch of tests and questionnaires, along with tax forms and other bureaucratic minutiae galore. You also take a keyed-in electronic multiple choice test of 73 questions. Example question: “When is okay to punch someone? A. When they annoy you, B. When they hurt your feelings, C. When they boss you around, D. Never.” Apparently, this personality test full of obvious questions actually weeds out a full 25% of applicants. Isn’t that incredible? That basically means that 25% of those who apply at labor ready have sociopathic tendencies. The rest are fine, from what I hear.

Laptop: The only object of market value I own. Almost nobody knows I am both homeless and in possession of a laptop. People know I am homeless and people know I own a laptop, but those people are rarely the same person. When I am in the Townie or Yalie world, I blend in with my Yuppie duds and laptop. When in the Homeless world, I blend in by wearing loose-fitting clothes and keeping my laptop Top Secret.

MCU: Mobile Containment Unit. Backpack. I take it with me every day. My laptop is in it, along with my headphones and computer microphone for talking on Skype. Only one man at the shelter knows I own a laptop: the man who searched my bags on Night 2. I told him not to tell a soul. So far so good.

McDonald’s: You can get a free, no-obligation-to-buy-anything-else, small, Newman’s Own coffee with cream and sugar at the Fair Haven location across from C Town Supermarkets off Grand Avenue between the hours of 5 am and 8 am. This is becoming a morning ritual for me. One of many ways to save the money you earn at your job and get up and out of the system eventually.

Overflow: A shelter on Howard Avenue, at which I have never stayed.The guys at Emmanuel Baptist speak of Overflow in positive tones. There are fewer rules there than anywhere else, but there are fewer beds.

Part-time Homeless Person: A man or woman, but usually a man, who stays at the shelter on weekends or just occasionally. Oftentimes a woman will kick her man out of her apartment for whatever reason – usually for a combination of not paying rent or contributing financially to the household, coming home drunk, and getting into an argument.

Paul Kaiser: The general New Haven case worker for the destitute, known by hundreds of poor people across the city. His office is in City Hall. Call and set up an appointment. Show up, tell him your hard luck story, get 20 free bus ride passes and whatever other services or information you’re looking for. I love his name. I think I will nickname him Kaiser Paulhelm, because he is a powerful man to know. I have not met him as of this writing (March 26th).

Poppy: Term of endearment, mainly Hispanic. Similar to buddy, man, dude, etc. One man actually just calls himself Poppy. Excerpt from March 25th Character Sketch entry: “Poppy. Hispanic. 41 years old. Rotund. Face like an arrangement of fresh baked pastries. I chatted him up outside the shelter. He launched into this story: At age 18, his mother suspected her son of heroin use. She made him strip naked. Affronted, he told her, “If you find a hole, I’ll go willingly to jail. If you don’t find a hole, you will not see me for a very long time.” She did not find a hole. Sixteen years passed. He showed up drunk at his mother’s home then. “Who are you?” she said. “Don’t you recognize your own son?” She was elated and bowled over and proclaimed her love for her son. Then he met his younger sister. “Who are you?” she asked. “Don’t you recognize your own brother?” She grabbed him and held him and cried and cried. Then his uncle: “Who are you?” “I am your nephew. I respected you. You never respected me. Now you will respect me.” Then his grandmother. She half-fainted onto the couch. “She is 97 years old today, she is still alive.” Poppy stays in touch with his mother to this day, seven years after reunion.”

Race: Perhaps the most racially integrated sector of society is the poor and homeless. Read that last sentence one more time. Are you surprised? Do you believe it? There are plenty of whites and Hispanics amongst the blacks. And in the shelter, I see ZERO evidence of racial prejudice. If colorblindness were possible (and it is most certainly not, nor should it ever be), the poor and the homeless would be the ones to achieve it. The bottom of society doesn’t waste its time with shallow racism. It’s plainly counterproductive. I’m starting to think racism is the product of middle class and rich people who are bored and looking for something to bitch about and blame their own psychological vapidity on. Perhaps the cure to racism is for everybody to give up all of their worldly belongings and then try to survive for even a single week. Don’t get me wrong; poverty is undesirable and I would not wish it on anyone. I do not hate rich people or middle class people. I just think personal desperation and devastation builds character. A side effect of this proposal would be to eradicate racism.

Reservation, The: Frenchie’s nickname for the Emmanuel Baptist Shelter.

Shower: Upon entering Emmanuel Baptist, you are required to take a shower.

Soup Kitchen Schedule: A detailed, Monday-Sunday, Breakfast/Lunch/Dinner schedule of all the available soup kitchens in the New Haven area, with locations and times. Includes two lunches during the week for women and children only. You can pick up a schedule at the Community Soup Kitchen; just ask. With this schedule I have stayed alive. The meals are always nutritious, respectably tasty, and well balanced, often including dessert, coffee, and other precious luxuries. In fact, I eat better now than I did before I was evicted.

Townie: A person who is not a student and who works for a living and rents and apartment. This type of person can generally relate to the characters you might see in sitcoms. Typical Americans.

Underground: The unseen system of sustenance and survival used by homeless and poor people.The underground contains shelters, soup kitchens, case workers, free bus passes, free clothing, and so on. Word of mouth is the chief means of communication and urban navigation. If you don’t talk and you don’t listen to the grapevine, your chances of survival in the underground plummet. This use of the term is not to be confused with that of independent artists and musicians, who, when they say “underground”, really mean “not marketable.”

Yalie: A Yale student. They generally stick to the cleaner, commercial areas of town.