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by Marcus Green
When I was in school I once talked to a homeless man. He told me that he
had fallen asleep the night before and woke up the following morning with cold
feet. Someone had stolen his shoes. I hope no one steals my shoes if I get
to sleep tonight.
I feel like a Bruce Springsteen song come to life, or maybe Bob Dylan wrote
a tune about me years ago. People who aren’t from Florida imagine it to be
beautiful and sunny year round, but it does get cold here too.
No major mistake got me on the streets of Tallahassee. It was more a series
of small mistakes, which individually meant nothing, but together
spelled out a painful fate for a once-promising young man. I feel like I
was playing one of those pool games where you seem to miss every shot by no
more than a quarter of an inch. I’ve been close, very close, but at the end
of the night I am still the loser.
I think the hardest part of being where I am is, first of all, the way
people look at me, or rather don’t look at me. It is as if by not looking they can
avoid me asking for money, or pretend that they didn’t hear me beg because
I’m hungry. I wouldn’t ask them for money.
Harder still are the memories. Memories of jobs that I took for granted haunt me. The jobs I had while I was still in school could at least feed me, but I was too good for those
jobs. I had a future. "Sure I can go out and miss work tonight. It’s a
shit job anyway." I was going to be something someday.
Memories of the girls that I let go for no good reason at all haunt me now. Just one of
them to hold would make these nights so much more bearable. Some were so
sweet, they might have stuck with me, even all the way down here. When I
had them, I could let them go so easily. But, those were better days, back
when we had it all figured out, when I used to throw people the way people now throw me a dime.
The cold hurts. It’s so fucking cold. I think someone said it was in the
teens. It snowed today. It was cold but nice. It only snows here every ten
years. It was nice.
I can’t even tell right now if I miss people or the times that I used to
have with them. I did have great times, once upon a time. If I saw someone now that
I knew then, what would I do? I would love to speak to them,
remember old times, and hear of how great they are doing now. But how could
I possibly let them know that this is what’s become of me. As Jacob Marley
surely felt, I would fear telling my friends of my fate and their possible
fate. The cold hurts.
Of course there are programs for people like me around here, but once the
hope is gone it’s gone. No matter what programs The Shelter or The Mission
offer, they just don’t seem to offer what I need. The job programs at those
places do promise work, but what would that mean. Meals more often, yes,
but what else. There is no more hope for that "American Dream."
The
idea of a wife and 2.5 kids surrounded by a nice white picket fence just
isn’t going to happen to me. If I did have that option right now, how would
that feel? At least now my only worries are food to keep me alive, and
staying warm enough to breathe. After knowing that I am capable of surviving at depths
like these, how could I possibly accept the responsibility of caring for
others? What if my history of choices led me right back here? I couldn’t
possibly bring others into the abyss of me. I need hope and it’s just not
there.
What horrible thoughts. The cold hurts.
I smoke. People see me and are disgusted. How could a man hungry for food
possibly spend any money on cigarettes? Well, it’s simple. They bring me
comfort, sometimes more comfort than food. The warm feeling of smoke in my
lungs helps warm me. Standing by a fire, even if it is just the fire of a
smoke, makes me think of warmth. Besides all of that, a man in a white
Chevy pickup gave me this particular cigarette, so, piss off judgemongers.
I sit here on this convenience store sidewalk looking at the people walking in
to buy gas, buy smokes, or buy beer. I remember when I was on the other side,
when I was the one looking down into the eyes of the hopeless, seeing eyes
of despair glaring up. When I was on that side, everyone I looked down to
on the sidewalk would look back up. But now, from the sidewalk very few look
my way.
I just noticed a reflection in a window, such a bitter and hateful face. I
remember my own reflection. It was nice, kindhearted. I was shocked to
find out, when I went into a restroom, that the bitter face was probably my
own. Somewhere between the cold and poverty my face learned to display
bitterness rather than the compassion that I remember from my youth. I
never thought myself a bitter person, but in retrospect I can see the
gradual shift in my personality. Again, it was no major event, as the
movies would have you believe. It happened slowly.
At one time, I could
listen to anyone’s problems for hours for the simple reason that I believed
that it made their life easier to unload their problems on someone who would
listen. Now, that face I see in reflections tells a story of hatred, a
story of bitter despair, a story that has no time for other stories, a face
that is cold. A face that has no time for problems, not even its own.
Speaking of my problems, I’ve got one now. It’s late. A big problem
is finding a safe place to sleep. There are shelters here in Tallahassee, but they are crowded. I think I may have a
solution for the night. A simple place to lean. Sleeping with my feet
folded under me, my shoes just might be safe.
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