HOMELESSNESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY

Chain of Misfortune

HOMELESS IN A LAND OF PLENTY

By Jack Random

[There are a thousand reasons for homelessness and a thousand ways to get there.  Every one of them has staked a place in the American landscape.  It’s something we deal with every single day.  We see it on the streets, in front of the grocery store, at the movies and in the parks.  We see it everywhere we go.  It is the dark side of the American story.  In a land of plenty at a time of prosperity the problem of homelessness escapes no community. 

What most towns and cities do and have done for a very long time is pay increasing amounts of money to shove the problem aside.  They used to provide one-way tickets to the next town.  Now they are compelled to allow tent cities under bridges and in parks.  But the homeless population only grows. 

There is an obvious solution to the problem:  Give the homeless homes and provide for essential needs.  Let them work if they can and will.  Whatever the cost it is less than the cost of doing nothing and more effective than what we are doing now.] 

LOUISE

Louise was in love.  Louise was always in love.  You might say Louise was in love with love.  The skeptic would say it was not a genuine love.  It was an infatuation.  The cynic would say she was in love with falling in love.  She fell out of love with the same immediacy as she fell in love. 

She was sixteen the first time she married.  It lasted eight months and ended with an abortion.  She moved back home with her mama who saw herself in her only child.  Her mama had lived with a series of men – each one a little worse than the last – and ended up alone in a trailer park for old people. 

Like mother, like daughter, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.  There it rots and crumbles into the earth and the cycle begins again.  Her mother was homeless before she died in a state sponsored home for the indigent and helpless.  Louise swore it would never happen to her. 

Then she fell in love.  Like her mother, she fell in love with the wrong man.  How soon did she know it?  It was hard to tell.  Denial was always such a strong force in her personality.  She considered it a strength and it served her well until it no longer served her at all. 

She awoke and knew something had changed.  The space in the bed next to her was empty.  That did not surprise her.  She stayed up late and her boyfriend did not.  He had to go to work early in the morning.  She went out with friends – or so she said.  She had a personal relationship with the truth.  The truth was what she wanted it to be.  No.  Not exactly.  The truth was what she needed it to be. 

The truth she wanted:  She fell in love with a kind and gentle man – a man who would treat her the way she deserved to be treated.  He was in love with her and they were moving in together. 

The truth she needed:  She went out with her girlfriends and had a good time.  What’s wrong with that?  A woman deserves to have a good time. 

The truth she knew but couldn’t accept:  She fell in love with a man who was not in love with her.  He had no intention of splitting up with his wife. 

The truth she didn’t know:  Her boyfriend knew.  A woman he knew saw her and her new man at the bar.  She saw them dance.  She saw them embrace and kiss.  She saw them climb into the back of his car.  They didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

Hung over and listless, she ambled into the living room, made coffee and saw the note on the kitchen table.  It was short and to the point:  I know.  I want you out by the time I get home.  She broke into tears without fully understanding why.  The truth was surrounding her, cornering her and pushing her out the door.  She looked around the familiar apartment and realized she was looking for options she didn’t have.  She’d been in this position too many times before and burned every bridge on her way out. 

She called her mother in tears and left a message:  Please mom!  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t have any money and Gary is kicking me out!  I know it’s a lot to ask.  I know.  But I need some help and I don’t know where to turn… 

A man called back and told her never to call again.  Her mother had told him all about her.  She wanted nothing more to do with her.  She had her own problems and was in no position to help. 

Louise could hear her mother crying and it broke her heart.  She had broken her mother’s heart more times than she wanted to remember.  But she did remember.  She remembered being stranded a thousand miles from home – no ride, no car and no money.  She remembered being evicted from her slumlord apartment with nowhere to go and no one to ask for help.  She remembered the time a collection agency repossessed her car at work.  She remembered every single time with an ugly, bitter taste.  She remembered telling her mom it wasn’t her fault and she believed it.  It was never her fault. 

It wasn’t her fault now.  She couldn’t help it.  She was born to make the same mistakes over and over.  The problem was she fell in love with the wrong man every single time.  She hooked up with the right man or at least the reliable man but fell in love with the wrong man. 

What could she do?  Maybe she could talk her way out of it.  She’d done it dozens of times before.  But she was older now and not as good looking as she once was.  Men were always more willing to believe the younger woman, the more attractive woman, the woman who knew how to satisfy her man. 

Was she up to it?  It took a lot out of her.  She would need all the energy she had to do whatever she had to do.  She had maybe five hours before her boyfriend came home.  She knew how that would go.  She was guilty.  He warned her many times that he would not stand for cheating.  There would be no discussion.  She had to get out.  She packed her travel bag and sat down to make a list of anyone who might help her.  She had about fifty dollars in her purse.  She could probably scrape up twenty more around the house.  If she had to, she could pay for a night or two at a cheap motel.  Months ago Gary cut her off of the credit card.  She couldn’t blame him.  She drank too much.  She spent money she didn’t have.  It was always that way. 

The first time she did this she had maybe twenty names.  It was easy for her to make friends.  It was not so easy to keep them.  She asked too much of people.  No, she demanded too much.  She didn’t even know she was doing it until it was done.  Now she could think of only three people who might answer the phone.  Would they help her?  Would they let her sleep on the couch for a few days?  Would they loan her a few bucks?  Not likely.  The saddest part was in knowing that if she were the one on the other end of the line, she wouldn’t help.  She wouldn’t answer the phone.  She couldn’t even pretend that it was any other way. 

She decided to eat something.  Maybe she’d have a beer.  She had a lot to think about.  If she wanted to survive the next 24 hours she had to put her mind right.  She fixed a sandwich, drank a beer and smoked a roach in the ashtray.  She dialed the first number and hung up before she triggered the message recorder.  It could wait.  She couldn’t handle another rejection today. 

She found a bottle of Jim Beam and had a shot while she rolled a joint.  What harm could it do?  She had hours before she had to clear out.  She might as well use them.  If Gary wanted her out, the least she could do was clear out his whiskey. 

When she woke up the sun was down and someone was behind her, pushing her out the door.  She was shivering from the cold.  She turned to see Gary tossing her a jacket, her purse and her suitcase.  The look in his eyes told her not to push it.  She was out on the street.  She blew it.  She wasted the entire day getting wasted on pot and whiskey and now she was homeless. 

Homeless.  She always knew it was a possibility.  The way she lived her life it was all but inevitable.  Still, she never thought it would happen to her – not in this lifetime. 

She took a look at his eyes as he stood in the doorway.  Cold.  Cold as steel.  She hadn’t known they had arrived at this point.  The affection she once relied on to get through these traumatic moments had vanished like morning mist in the midday sun.  She wanted to cuss him out but she could see it was pointless.  She wanted to start an argument that might lead to his arousal but it wasn’t in the cards. 

“Fuck you, Gary!” she said in almost a whisper.  She accepted her fate as she turned and flipped him off over her shoulder. 

“What next?” she wondered.  She started walking across town to where the cheap motels were located.  Her bones ached and her feet reminded her of how hopeless her situation had become.  She couldn’t remember the last time she walked three miles with a suitcase in her hand.  Now she understood why people bought suitcases with wheels while she stuck with the old school model.  Her arms ached as she shifted from one side to the other and kept on walking. 

“Hey, babe,” the man said through the window of his BMW.  “You need a ride?” 

She tried to gage his intent and came up wanting.  Her mind could no longer function in a logical way.  Tired.  She threw her suitcase in the back seat and climbed in while he looked her over.  She should have known right then.  Maybe she did.  Maybe she no longer cared. 

“Where you headed?” he inquired. 

“Seventh Street,” she replied. 

He smiled and she recoiled.  She knew exactly what that meant in the mind of this man.  He was picking up women and she was headed where women hung out. 

“What a coincidence,” he said. 

She rode in silence, not hearing whatever he had to say, wondering how she could get out of this without spilling blood.  His or hers, it didn’t matter.  Blood would be spilled and some of it would leave a mark. 

“Let me out,” she said in a quiet, measured tone.  She was not alarmed – not yet.  She was only acknowledging her mistake.  She took note of the signs she missed: the tattered upholstery and the man’s yellowed skin and eyes.  The car rattled like an old washing machine.  He wore his shirt partly rolled up and she could see tracks from where he shot up his poison. 

“No worries, babe,” he said as he pulled the car over and parked in an abandoned industrial section of town. 

She decided not to worry about her suitcase in the back seat and grabbed the latch to open her door.  It wouldn’t budge.  The asshole rigged it.  He’d done this before.  The questions that remained:  What did he want and could she take him?  She was a hell of lot tougher than she looked. 

“How much money you got?” he said. 

“Fuck you!” 

In a strange way she felt relief.  He wanted money so he wasn’t after sex and he probably wasn’t a rapist.  Then again she couldn’t rule anything out. 

“Look, babe, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said as he lifted his jacket, revealing a hunting knife in its leather sleeve.  “I just want your money.” 

She handed him her purse.  He pulled out her cash and smiled as he put it in his shirt pocket.  She felt the heat of rage rise up in her like lava in a volcano. 

She threw herself at him and grabbed his hands just as he pulled the knife out.  He looked stunned by her strength and fear entered his eyes.  She kept her left hand on his, holding the knife in place, and jabbed her right fist into his throat.  He caught it with his left hand and found the strength to raise the knife toward her.  She grabbed it with both hands and forced it into his chest. 

Bleeding, he opened his door and stumbled out onto the street.  The blood covered his shirt.  He lost all interest in the woman and her money.  He didn’t know how bad it was but he knew he needed help.  He took a few steps toward the part of town where people were before he fell flat, gasping for air. 

Louise held the knife in her hand, watching him as he stumbled and fell.  The fear of being assaulted was now replaced by the fear of being accused.  She knew what it looked like.  Her prints were on the knife.  His blood was on her clothes.  What were they doing in this part of town?  It looked like she was a whore turning a cheap trick.  It looked like she rolled the man for some cash and things got out of hand. 

She wanted to call the cops but she needed time to think.  If she didn’t handle this right she’d end up in jail on a murder rap. 

Is he dead?  She thought she saw movement.  She had to know.  If he was alive, bleeding in the street, she had to call.  She had to save his life if she could.  Otherwise she really was a murderer. 

She got out of the car and moved to his body.  She stood there for a moment, hovering above him like an angel over the scene of an accident.  She saw him breathe.  Even in the dim light of a distant street lamp, she saw him breathe.  She dropped the knife and pulled out her phone. 

Before she could dial 911 she felt the glare of a cop’s spotlight on her face.  She froze and realized she had just created the perfect frame of a guilty person.  

“Drop it!” the cop yelled.  He must have thought her phone was a weapon.  She complied and held her hands up, palms open. 

“Face down on the ground and put your hands behind your back!” 

They went through the ritual of arrest and detention as if it was a bad movie.  It unfolded in waves of slow motion and ended with her in a closed room with mirrors on one wall where a police detective questioned her.  They clearly thought she was guilty, wanted her to be guilty and pressed her for a confession. 

“Is he alive?” she wanted to know.  They wouldn’t tell her. 

“I want a lawyer,” she said and that put an end to it.  She was placed in a holding cell until a public defender could be located and brought to the station.  She waited and wondered and calculated her next move.  Before long she was stuck in the mire of self-pity and blame.  The whole world conspired against her.  Everyone had it out for her.  There was no one she could trust.  She didn’t deserve any of this. 

She heard a commotion outside her cell but she couldn’t make out the words.  She would later learn from her lawyer that a cop came forward to say that he knew the man who had been stabbed.  He was a hustler and a crook that had picked up women before, taken them to the same location and stolen their money.  The man hadn’t died and was likely to recover.  When he did, the cop said, he couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth. 

The cop had an argument with the arresting officer who wanted to pin an assault and battery charge on her.  When they ran a background check and she came out relatively clean, he dropped the argument.  They let her go. 

“What about my money?” she asked.  “He took my money!” 

“I don’t know anything about that,” the cop said.  “But I can I give you a ride.”

She fell silent and the weight of the world lowered upon her.  She had nowhere to go.  Absolutely nowhere.  She didn’t even have her suitcase.  The cop told her she could get it back tomorrow. 

She walked out of the station and sat on the steps.  So this was what it felt like.  The sense of desperation was just taking hold.  She hated everyone and everything.  Maybe she needed to feel that way just to stay alive. 

A cop offered to take her to a homeless shelter and that’s what she did.  That’s who she was now: a homeless person.  After a few days she got tired of the shelter’s rules and joined the growing community of homeless people under the local bridge.