Bible School Chronicles – The Homeless (Chapter 2)
With no license and a limited appreciation for public transportation, I would walk as far south as the public library and as far north as my favorite record stores. Neighborhoods would change from block to block, according to ethnicity, economy or lifestyle. I walked over musty smelling sewer grates and under makeshift scaffolds. I walked across the bridge and ventured down along the riverside.
Older students and faculty held that one should not merely hand money over to the homeless, as doing so would enable habits of alcoholism or drug addiction. I recall one gentleman with a reddened face and broad smile who held a cardboard sign that read, “Money for beer.” Refreshingly honest. For a long while, I gave a little money to whoever asked. Sometimes a story would accompany the request, like he or she ran out of the money needed for a return bus trip home. I can’t recall whether I believed it or not. Anyhow, it was said that a better practice would be to take the individual for a hamburger or what not, purchasing it directly.
It was a good spot, sitting on a bench a number of feet below all of the activity. I took some reading with me, focusing intently until a black man large in stature approached, scowling down at me and asking what I was doing. I explained that I was just looking for a quiet spot to study.
He introduced himself, Howard, and told me one story after another. He told me that at some point, gang members had thrown him onto a train track. He showed me the scars on his abdomen. His mood shifted a bit as he would talk, sometimes becoming a bit angry. I just went with it, seemed an interesting opportunity, a nice enough guy. After some time, I did try to make my exit, though.
“Where are you headed?”
“The bible college downtown.”
“Why didn’t you wear a jacket today?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t quite know I’d be gone this long.”
“I’ll just walk with you back there.”
And he did follow me all the way from the near-South side back downtown. I got a bit of insight into his upbringing, with occasional, sudden sparks of indignation. He also asked me about what I was studying, which might have been the biography of the school’s founder or some poetry that I was reading for myself. He walked through the gate with me at the school and reminded me that I needed to grab a jacket. I told him maybe I would see him around again and walked back into the dormitory.
I had several such incidents as a student, meeting some very interesting people, including a former professor at an Ivy League university. In my self-guided reading education, I discovered that the public library held books I was interested in by Bukowski, Anthony Burgess and certain Beat writers. In the fiercely cold winter, I walked southward to the library to pick up a few such novels and chip away at a research project. Nose running, I wandered into the restroom for some paper towels.
“Oh, excuse me. Do you have some change I could borrow for a coffee?” He looked a bit like Allen Ginsberg—a bit overweight with a wild beard and receded hairline. His face was chafed from the weather, and he wore a brown trench coat. I handed him some coins.
“Would you like to join me for a coffee?”
“Sorry, I’m looking for a few things then I have somewhere I need to be.”
The conversation somehow drifted to how another library has a lot of good music, like Bob Dylan, as he followed me out to my desk and sat across from me. The line of questioning also got a little personal. I might have cut my research a bit short to move along. Oddly, I saw this same man at a concert sometime later, I would swear at least. I tried to avoid contact as best I could.
In fact, as time has passed, I think of renowned poet Thax Douglas. He will read short, oblique works titled after whatever band is playing that evening: “This is Califone number five.” The poem may have words like “diurnal.” No connection to the band, no clear central thought. He will end with, “Thanks, friends.” This is not to say that the person was Thax Douglas, but he was Thax Douglas-like.
My parents would love when I would tell them about such encounters, but after a while, like virtually everyone else, I became less quick to hand over a few dollars and more likely to mumble, “Sorry.” Most recently, a man approached me outside the train station asking for a specific amount. “The McDonald’s is right around the corner,” he assured me. We walked and walked, with no McDonald’s that I could see. He abruptly said, “I don’t have a knife or anything.” I said, “Well, I hope not.” Finally, I said, “I’ve got to go. Here’s five dollars.”
“But the meal is six fifty.”
“Look, would you rather have some money or no money?”
“I’ll take the five bucks.”
It doesn’t take long before initial intentions fade and you’re left with utility and pragmatism. I can in fact recall a school administrator extolling the value of pragmatism and my thinking, “Well that’s rather cynical.”
(I have journal entries of these incidents that would add better details, but I just can't find them right now, unfortunately).
Older students and faculty held that one should not merely hand money over to the homeless, as doing so would enable habits of alcoholism or drug addiction. I recall one gentleman with a reddened face and broad smile who held a cardboard sign that read, “Money for beer.” Refreshingly honest. For a long while, I gave a little money to whoever asked. Sometimes a story would accompany the request, like he or she ran out of the money needed for a return bus trip home. I can’t recall whether I believed it or not. Anyhow, it was said that a better practice would be to take the individual for a hamburger or what not, purchasing it directly.
It was a good spot, sitting on a bench a number of feet below all of the activity. I took some reading with me, focusing intently until a black man large in stature approached, scowling down at me and asking what I was doing. I explained that I was just looking for a quiet spot to study.
He introduced himself, Howard, and told me one story after another. He told me that at some point, gang members had thrown him onto a train track. He showed me the scars on his abdomen. His mood shifted a bit as he would talk, sometimes becoming a bit angry. I just went with it, seemed an interesting opportunity, a nice enough guy. After some time, I did try to make my exit, though.
“Where are you headed?”
“The bible college downtown.”
“Why didn’t you wear a jacket today?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t quite know I’d be gone this long.”
“I’ll just walk with you back there.”
And he did follow me all the way from the near-South side back downtown. I got a bit of insight into his upbringing, with occasional, sudden sparks of indignation. He also asked me about what I was studying, which might have been the biography of the school’s founder or some poetry that I was reading for myself. He walked through the gate with me at the school and reminded me that I needed to grab a jacket. I told him maybe I would see him around again and walked back into the dormitory.
I had several such incidents as a student, meeting some very interesting people, including a former professor at an Ivy League university. In my self-guided reading education, I discovered that the public library held books I was interested in by Bukowski, Anthony Burgess and certain Beat writers. In the fiercely cold winter, I walked southward to the library to pick up a few such novels and chip away at a research project. Nose running, I wandered into the restroom for some paper towels.
“Oh, excuse me. Do you have some change I could borrow for a coffee?” He looked a bit like Allen Ginsberg—a bit overweight with a wild beard and receded hairline. His face was chafed from the weather, and he wore a brown trench coat. I handed him some coins.
“Would you like to join me for a coffee?”
“Sorry, I’m looking for a few things then I have somewhere I need to be.”
The conversation somehow drifted to how another library has a lot of good music, like Bob Dylan, as he followed me out to my desk and sat across from me. The line of questioning also got a little personal. I might have cut my research a bit short to move along. Oddly, I saw this same man at a concert sometime later, I would swear at least. I tried to avoid contact as best I could.
In fact, as time has passed, I think of renowned poet Thax Douglas. He will read short, oblique works titled after whatever band is playing that evening: “This is Califone number five.” The poem may have words like “diurnal.” No connection to the band, no clear central thought. He will end with, “Thanks, friends.” This is not to say that the person was Thax Douglas, but he was Thax Douglas-like.
My parents would love when I would tell them about such encounters, but after a while, like virtually everyone else, I became less quick to hand over a few dollars and more likely to mumble, “Sorry.” Most recently, a man approached me outside the train station asking for a specific amount. “The McDonald’s is right around the corner,” he assured me. We walked and walked, with no McDonald’s that I could see. He abruptly said, “I don’t have a knife or anything.” I said, “Well, I hope not.” Finally, I said, “I’ve got to go. Here’s five dollars.”
“But the meal is six fifty.”
“Look, would you rather have some money or no money?”
“I’ll take the five bucks.”
It doesn’t take long before initial intentions fade and you’re left with utility and pragmatism. I can in fact recall a school administrator extolling the value of pragmatism and my thinking, “Well that’s rather cynical.”
(I have journal entries of these incidents that would add better details, but I just can't find them right now, unfortunately).
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