HINJFCA Part X

So I hope all of you and yours had a Merry Xmas or Happy Holidays, or whatever PC euphemism you prefer.  Just managed to stop by the library long enough to do some last minute blogging to ring out 2011, a year that your humble narrator would just as soon forget.  The Mayans said 2012 is the year the workl ends but my personal Armageddon arrived a year earlier.  Well, big deal.  If the Mayans were such know-it-alls, why'd they get wiped out?  Guess they didn't see that coming, did they?  But I digest ...

Did you get all the stuff you wanted for Xmas?  I got a secondhand watch and a pair of socks, but I'm not complaining.  I actually did need the socks.  They came courtesy not of St. Nick but an SA volunteer whom I will dub St. Matthew, or Matt.  SA volunteers come in two varieties:  Some come from the $8 a night dorms where I originally stayed (btw, those beds are now free from now until the end of winter at which time normal pricing will resume.  Not surprisingly, that dorm is full up.  In fact, while I essentially breezed into the SA program, there is now a considerable waiting list for the same thing.  Like they say, timing is everything).  Those dorm dwellers can volunteer to work on the SA campus as kitchen workers, maintenance workers, etc, in return for a free bed and one free meal a day.

The other type of volunteer comes to SA as part of their community service in exchange for paying a fine (or jail time) for, say, too many DUIs.  These workers usually stay from 2-5 days depending on their court deal.  The dorm volunteers can stay on for years.  Perhaps because they're working for room, board and food, I've often noticed the dorm volunteers often work harder that the regular clients like myself.  There's a guy who is at least 80 who arrives in the kitchens at 4:30 am to make coffee and help out, then leaves at 7 only to return again for a shift that lasts from 1-7 pm.  So far as I know he hasn't missed a day.  His name is Nick and while he is a dependable worker, I wonder if he's missed his calling.  Standing around 5'7 and 140 lbs, Nick has a wizened wrinkly face and speaks with a gravelly NYC accent that would make him a natural character actor for a Scorcese mob flick.  The fact that he curses like a sailor doesn't hurt his image.

Anyway, back to Matt.  Matt is a really nice guy, around 60ish, with a bright face and cheerful disposition.  He usually does the cleaning chores around the kitchen, wiping down tables and mopping floors, etc. Matt is also what some might term a 'Jesus freak', although that might be harsh.  Judge for yourself.  Remember I said I got a pair of socks from him?  When I mentioned to him that I really needed a pair, he said, "God knew you needed that pair of socks, and he guided them to you.  I had nothing to do with it."  Or if you give him a compliment about how he mops the floor he'll reply with, "It's not me.  It's the Lord working through me that makes the floor so clean."  Or when he once invited me to attend his local church services (which I can't because it conflicts with my schedule; no, it really does) he said, "God is guiding me to seek out people to attend this church."  And so on.  Basically no matter what you talk to him about, Matt will find a way to weave God's guidance into the conversation.  Let's say that certain people find the habit annoying. 

Some have apparently been offended when he leaves for the day saying, "God bless you."  I've never found that offensive, but I have been somewhat amused by his constant evocation of the Lord's presence in everything he does.  I've sometimes wonder if God occasionally rolls his eyes and mutters, "Jesus, Matt, give it a rest."  For the record, I'm not making fun of Matt.  To be honest, I actually envy him.  I envy the fact that he has found a higher power he can surrender himself. I envy that he can be so devoted without questioning his faith.  I don't doubt his strong faith keeps Matt's disposition amicable and has resulted in a youthful look in his face.  If his faith makes it possible for him to find peace within his heart, cause harm to none and simply attempt to share the blessings he has found, who is to say he's wrong?  I honestly wish there was something to which I could offer my blind devotion.  I expect I'm too much of a doubting Thomas to ever allow myself to do such a thing.

Some other things going on:  Over the past couple weeks, my routine has settled down a bit.  And that makes me nervous.  You see, I don't want to get too comfortable living in what is essentially a homeless shelter.  Yet I see many of my fellow clients settling into what seems to be a kind of domestic bliss.  They view their time in the vocational program as normal everyday life.  They hang out with friends, watch TV in the common room, play foosball and pool, and generally seem to enjoy themselves in this Salvation Army environment.  Is it me, or does this seem unnatural? 

Speaking for myself, I didn't come here to watch TV, trade DVDs  or play games.  While I prefer people like me, I didn't enter the SA program to win Facebook friends or have a vacation.  I came here to go through the program, re-enter the work force and rebuild my life; and trust me, there's a lot of painful rebuilding ahead.  To me it seems abnormal to view this living situation at SA as 'normal'.  To me, it's a temporary living condition that I want to escape as quickly as possible. I can't tell you how much I miss living alone, on my own schedule.  While it pales in comparison to my former plight, it actually gets tiresome passing in and out of checkpoints while security guards breathalyze you.  In all honesty, though, I don't have a problem with SA.  They've been very helpful and have provided me with a foundation on which I can re-examine myself, learn new skills, and resume a normal lifestyle.

Another problem I've having isn't with SA per se, but with the general neighborhood itself.  While I've described how this area is infested with all types of indigents due to the preponderance of charities and cheap beds, the number of homeless people seems to have grown as the weather has turned colder.  This is evidenced by the 'settlments' that have multiplied recently.  To the east on Owens Ave you can find a 'strip mall' of tents and shelters erected against a freeway overpass.  A few steps farther and you'll find a large open gravel lot.  Around this lot are ringed more tents and shelters.  Even a few cars are parked there;  they presumably belong to homeless people who are sleeping in their vehicles (there are actually websites devoted to living in your car. Google the subject if you don't believe me).

It's strange to see these people milling about like they're out for a stroll in their neighborhood.  Stranger still to see trucks and vans filled with food and clothing roll up and hand out the items to the occupants.  Why do I say this?  While the intentions of those donating the items is no doubt pure, couldn't such actions be viewed as actually enabling the homeless to maintain their current level of existence?  One could argue that the homeless are in effect being rewarded by receiving items for free simply because they've chosen to live outside the mainstream of society.  Perhaps this is coming off colder than I've intended, but I do feel there is a point where such donations can do as much harm as good.  I've seen how the homeless come to depend on these handouts, and it seems to eradicate any compunction on their part to rejoin society. 

They know that sooner or later some charity will roll by with free food and clothing (not to mention blankets, toiletries, etc.).  While handing out free meals to the homeless at SA, many of them brag about never having to buy a meal all day.  They know when churches serve free meals. and they know when and where to go for plenty of handouts.  For a time I also stood in line for various stuff, but I've since given that up.  I don't like standing in line with a lot of those guys anymore because I don't want to be associated with them.  I also don't want to need handouts from anyone, so I've given up on the freebies.  I'm not saying it's wrong, just not something I wish to partake of any longer.

Walking westward on Owens Ave to the corner of Las Vegas Blvd North you'll find the largest homeless settlement.  Located across the street from a cemetery (the one with the black rooster) it's a sprawling piece of undeveloped acreage that is increasing populated by more and more tents and shelters.  Here you'll find a community of homeless so large that food trucks regularly stop by (maybe they take food stamps?); if the settlement gets any bigger, it'll need its own zip code.  You'll find families living in makeshift shelters, with their kids using the dirt and gravel  lots as a playground.  Pieces of furniture like sofas and tables are strategically placed to keep tent fabric from flying off. Drug dealing and prostitution is evident even though NLV cop cars regularly patrol the area. 

Oddly, the cops seem more fixated on running off panhandlers than cracking down on the other vice going on in the area.  Occupants use the area as a kind of public toilet as well.  It's not uncommon to see any of them doing their business in broad daylight.  I recently witnessed a sight so disgusting I couldn't eat lunch that day.  (No doubt it'll show up on YouTube.)  A sewer-like smell is becoming ever more noticeable.  You'd think sanitation concerns would be enough to shut the site down.  And you have to wonder about the effect this has on the local property values.  Many homes are located near this settlement.  Would a selling point be, "Offers excellent view of the daily activities of the homeless camp.  Watch transients go to the bathroom from your living room window!"

The biggest irony, imo?  This homeless camp is located smack across the street from a brand new construction project with a sign that proudly beams, "Welcome to the Great City of North Las Vegas Nevada"!

I recently completed SA's Essential Employment Skills (EES) Classes.  It's a series of classes designed for 're-entry'.  That is, trying to get clients with substance abuse problems and/or criminal histories to re enter the work force.  To that end, there's a lot of obvious stuff taught like, Don't walk into an interview with your iPod blasting.  Don't say things to the interviewer like, "Yo what up, homes," or "What it be like, dawg?"  Don't wear shorts, don't go into an interview high or buzzed, don't use profanity, don't hit on the secretary (or the interviewer), etc.  Stuff that should basically be common sense; and would be viewed as such in most cases.  But there are some hardheads for whom common sense might as well be a foreign language. 

The teacher of the course is a man named Sam, who has a tendency to drone on and then suddenly pound the chalkboard to emphasize his points.  Example:  "When you walk in for an interview, do you wear sunglasses?  NO! (pound)  WRONG! (pound).  Do you wear swimming trunks and say, Yo dude got any jobs? What? HELLO?! (pound)  WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? (pound).  Stuff like that.  Sam is very matter of fact and it wouldn't surprise me if he is or had been some sort of a parole officer in his career.  I sometimes wondered if he didn't pound the board so forcefully in order to make sure the students were staying awake.

As I've stated before, their programs are really geared toward recovering substance abusers and ex-cons.  My own personal problems stem from neither condition.  I can tell you it still freaks me out to hear guys (and girls) casually dropping references like, "Yeah, when I was in county lock up ..." or ""We did it differently when I was in prison ...." or "I gotta go meet with my motherf***in' parole officer again," or "Can I get a job even if I have multiple felonies like assault with a deadly weapon on my record?"  There are all actual statements I've heard, made as casually as you please.  While it's a bit mind blowing to me, these are legit concerns for those affected.  Both my SA casework and my shrink have told me that rap sheets make it extremely difficult for ex-cons to get jobs.  They can automatically discount any job with any government agency (on any level).  And while big name casinos in LV claim to be equal opportunity employers, it's not exactly a secret that ex-cons are wasting their time applying there.

Since my time is dwindling, let me hit a few salient points:  On the work front, my kitchen schedule has been changed from 12-8pm to 5am-1pm.  Safe to say it's been a shock to my system.  While I have managed to make it on time, it still feels wrong to get up so early.  I prefer waking up when the sun is warm, or at least visible.  The early shift has afforded me the chance to resume cutting meat.  I couldn't tell you how many pounds of dead chicken flesh I sliced and diced the other day.  I also had a chance to make my first food:  French toast. 

Well, it's a start.  I'm thinking of my own version:  French Cajun Toast, which swaps cinnamon for cayenne pepper.  I'd say it's a taste treat guaranteed to wake up your body from top to bottom!  Most of the guys on the first shift are experienced cooks and have worked in food service for years.  The lead cook told me he's a licensed home security specialist.  While he made a good living as such, he loves to cook, so money doesn't enter the equation.  I've heard similar such stories from other kitchen workers.  While many of these guys do have the experience and the talent, they also have records.  It'll be interesting to see how many of them land jobs, and where.

I am also thinking about life after SA.  I might opt for a casino, since I have no criminal record and my caseworker told me  that should help with employment opportunities.  One of my co-workers said he thought I'd make a great maitre'd, so I'm looking into that possibility.  That position seems to value people skills as much or more than food/cooking skills, so that might give me a shot.  Wherever it is, I'd like it to be an entertainment-themed establishment like the Hard Rock Cafe, House of Blues, or a smaller nightclub or dinner theatre.  That way, I might be able to put my acting skills to better effect.  There's also the chance of working for the National Parks, which might be a great experience.  Wouldn't hurt to get out of Vegas for a while.  If you have any ideas, pass 'em along.

So I'm closing out 2011 on a far different note than it began.  I"m still not sure what to make of it all.  There are still the days where I think I dreamt everything and I'll wake up to resume my former life.  Other days my mind is preoccupied with what when wrong and what I could have done to avoid it.  And other days, like today, I feel discomforted and discontented.  But it's not necessarily a bad feeling.  It's a core sensation that I want to move on with my life and leave the past behind.  Take that for your cliche of the day.  At any rate have a safe and happy new year.  I'll likely be asleep when 2012 rolls in, so mind yourselves and we'll meet again next year.

Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Part Nine

Previously on HINJFCA:

Unassuming writer and voice actor Jim Morris had been overtaken by his archenemy Major Depressive Disorder.  Despite Jim's valiant attempts to fight off the mental malefactor, he finally was overcome by the Major's power and succumbed to his hated -- and mysterious foe?  Mysterious?  Indeed.  You see, the Major had never fully revealed himself until January of 2011.  But the Major is a devious foe and carefully calculated his appearances.  First as headaches and feelings of confusion experienced by Jim.  Then as episodes of severe depression (yes the Major more than lived up to his name), resulting in extended crying jags, thoughts of suicide, and finally the rejection of his entire life.  The Major basically caused Jim to simply stop caring about anything:  Food, survival, sex, sports, movies, you name it.  All the things Jim cared about -- including himself -- were flushed down the proverbial toilet.

The Major savored his victory as Jim was evicted from his apartment, lost most of his possessions, and was near penniless as he was cast onto the mean streets of Las Vegas.  This looked like the end for our hero ... But wait!  After spending a long night in a public park, a  distant ally helped Jim with enough cash to afford a hotel room the following night.  Later, Jim found his way to North Las Vegas and the Salvation Army (all recounted in this HINJFCA blog).  After some night staying in the homeless shelter dorm, he was accepted into the SA vocational program with the target of working in their kitchens in order to become eligible for their culinary course co-sponsored by the State of Nevada and a local college.  Well!  It seemed as though things were brightening up for our hero.  Or were they?  He was still homeless and jobless.  And now he was confronted with a whole new challenge in terms of learning about the food service business and dealing with the many volatile personalities found in SA.  Will Jim survive?  Can he continue his comeback against the Major and ultimately defeat his foe?  And most important, will Jim ever get a PS3?  These and more answers forthcoming as the HINJFCA saga continues ...

The above was written for readers who are new to this blog and may have wandered in during the middle of these events.  My name is Jim Morris.  I'm just a guy who has never been in trouble with the law, always played by the rules, and just happened to be afflicted with Major Depressive Disorder.  That led to my becoming homeless and having to adapt to a whole new lifestyle as I try to get myself (and my life) back together as I work within the Salvation Army vocational program.  This blog is officially called "Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore" but I use the admittedly convoluted acronym "HINJFCA".  For the record, I have never done crack.  I don't drink, I don't do drugs, and I don't gamble.  I've never been incarcerated, nor have I ever been arrested.  My 'rap sheet' would consist of a single moving violation that occurred nearly 30 years ago -- and that was expunged after taking a driver's ed class.  My record, as such, makes me an anomaly among my fellow Salvation Army clients (our official designation).

So that's a brief recap.  And now, I'm going to wrap up the events that led me to become a client (or perhaps an enlistee) of the Salvation Army:  After passing the interviews for the SA vocational programs, I was transferred from the homeless shelter dorms into the Vocation Building located across the driveway from the shelter.  (Note that I went through many interviews with SA before being accepted.  When I groused about why the process was so tedious, by cousin -- an HR bigwig -- suggested it was to see if my behavior or appearance varied from one meeting to the next.  That is, did I come in wasted, drunk, smelling like a goat, etc.  Turns out, my cousin was exactly right.  Well done, cuz.) 

So guess what happened my first day in the new digs?  I went to a bare bones classroom where I had to fill out yet another pile of forms, releases, etc.  I was given an ID badge and assigned a caseworker by the name of Carla.  She's a tall, gull-bodied black woman with a strident voice and energetic personality.  I must say I was transfixed by her rear end, which resembled a couple of soccer balls struggling to escape a tight skirt.  She showed me around the facility.  It's a three story building with minimal decorations save for a few pictures with a patriotic theme and many notices and bulletins plastered throughout.  Across from the main lobby on the first floor is the common room which contains a large flat screen TV which has been the cause of many near-fatal disputes among clients.  There's also a pool table, a foosball table, and a small 'library' consisting of books donated to SA.  Clients must sign in and out at the front lobby whenever they leave the campus area and ID badges must be left there and retrieved upon return.  Curfew is 8pm S-Th, midnight on F-Sat.

The first floor contains the kitchens and adjacent cafe area with several round dining tables.  The cafe is open to the general public for breakfast, lunch and dinner with meals costing approximately $3.  Next door to that is a large room filled with long tables which serves as the clients' eating area.  This is where I take the majority of my meals at SA.  Food is served cafeteria-style with trays, self-serve sections and the main food counter.  To get meals, clients must present both their photo ID and a valid meal card, the color of which changes upon issuance on a weekly basis.  To get the meal card, SA requires that you apply for Food Stamps (SNAP), which is actually a plastic EBT card ala a debit card.  You must apply for this within 3 days of acceptance into the vocational program (informally called simply, 'the program' by staff and clients). 

I applied at the Welfare located within the Catholic Charities complex.  I was expecting a drawn-out, day-long experience, but such was not the case.  I sat in a crowded room filling out a lot of paperwork, which in returned.  I was told I would have my interview with a caseworker that very day (within an hour, actually).  While waiting I noticed that many Welfare applicants got into arguments with the workers there.  It seemed there was a lot of confusion and chaos applicable to both sides.  (Not helping matters is that other social services have offices located within the same room, so it's very cramped.)  I saw several people shouting and finally escorted away by security guards.  One woman broke down in tears after being told she would have to fill out an entire new application; she filled out the previous one with information that was apparently falsified.  After meeting my caseworker (a guy who looked like Beau Bridges and spoke with a drawl) he said I was approved and would have my EBT card before leaving the office.  That amazed me; I was expecting it to be mailed to me within 2-3 weeks.  I guess my homeless circumstance and SA connection helped expedite matters.  Anyway, I walked out of the office with my very own EBT card.  It took 51 years, but I finally joined all the impoverished masses subsisting on Food Stamps and suckling the Government (or should that be 'Givernment') teat.  Go, me!!

Of course, I had to sign the card over to SA.  Here's a bit of false advertising on their part concerning the program:  While they do cover your room, board and utilities, they don't actually pay for your food.  They do provide meals, but they keep your EBT card on file and charge $50 a week for meals (not bad considering it comes out to $7 a day for 3 full meals).  But the cost of meals is actually being paid for by Uncle Sam, not SA.  Perhaps a minor quibble but I found it a bit irritating that I had to surrender the card.  However, they do return it to you whenever you leave the program (whether by your own volition or by dismissal, which is far from uncommon here).

The second floor of the vocational building contains men's and women's dorms for those in the program.  (There's about a 8:1 ratio of men to women here)  The third floor houses veterans and others who pay monthly rent to SA.  This includes graduates of the program who have become gainfully employed and choose to stay on the campus.  Grads can do that for up to 1.5 years after graduation.  Not a bad way to save money as rent averages around $200-250/month and that includes utilities, laundry service, etc.  My dorm room houses up to four guys, as do all rooms on the second floor.  The room itself is plainly furnished with 4 single beds, nightstands and stand alone closets.  Sheets and blankets are provided by SA.  My room is located right by the railroad track, so it's not uncommon to hear trains rumbling by day and night. (The third floor usually houses 2 guys to a room but that varies)  My roommates are Frank, Will, and Derrick.

Frank is a white guy, 48, about 5'7 with a beer gut and an outgoing personality.  He works in the kitchen with me, and has an outgoing personality along with an occasionally tiresome sense of humor.  He provides a lot of unintentional humor from his stories concerning is misadventures with Internet dating and chat rooms.  I'll probably dedicate a whole segment to his stories.  Will is a black guy in his mid-late 30s from NYC who speaks rapidly and with so much slang it's difficult for me to understand him at times.  He's pretty cool although he likes to play DVDs on his laptop late at night with the sound cranked.  Derrick was likely a football player at one time.  He's around 6'5, app. 240 lbs, black, large-framed with a deep voice.  You might say he's a man of few words as he rarely speaks.  I get the sense that he's smarter than he lets on.  While he can crack the occasional joke he tends to keep to himself.  Fine with me; I'd rather had a roommate who was too quite than too talkative.  One strike against Derrick, though:  While everyone in the room snores on occasion, this guy is by far the loudest offender.  The deep snoring can make the walls vibrate.  Problem is, Derrick is so big that we're all afraid to complain to him.

After showing me to my room, Carla laid out my schedule:  Occasional meetings with her for status updates and performance reviews.  I got the schedule for Essential Employment Sessions (EES) which are classes designed to help clients reintegrate into the work force.  To be blunt, EES is aimed at the many ex-cons and recovering substance abusers within the program.  I'll recap some of my experiences in the class and the sometimes eccentric behavior of the instructor Jay in upcoming installments.  The classes meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays for around 90 minutes each.  I also got my first work assignment:  The laundry, located in the basement with the maintenance department.  I was told the kitchen crew was full and it would be two weeks before I could sign on there.  That turned out to be true.  To be honest, the laundry detail was pretty peaceful and very easy. 

Washing was simply a matter of shoving however many clothes would fit into the aluminum machines.  Detergent, bleach, etc. was added automatically in pre-measured doses.  Industrial sized dryers had most loads done with 30 minutes.  You could come and go as you pleases as long as the clothes were done.  I often read books, or took off to eat.  My partner was a 19-year-old black girl with a sweet disposition and a chunky body.  When she told me she'd been in jail several times I didn't believe her.  I would later find out that many younger girls who appeared at SA had backgrounds of criminal behavior and substance abuse.  Don't know why that surprised me but it did.  Anyway, after two weeks I was, as promised, transferred to the kitchen.  I actually regretted leaving the simple tasks of the laundry, not to mention the solitude of the basement.

I was formally introduced to the head of the kitchen, Chef Mike.  He's around 60 with a clean-shaven head that resembles the shape of the classic light bulb.  He gave me my schedule and my very own uniform -- actually a white coat with black trim.  It's necessary because it soon becomes splattered with various food and drink stains.  After a brief tour of the kitchens I was introduced to some of my future co-workers, a few of whom will figure prominently in upcoming segments. 

And you know what?  That just about brings us up to date on the events that have brought us to the present.  More detail will be added along the way, including more interactions with -- and observations concerning the many homeless and some of the characters I've met during my time in North Las Vegas.  In that regard nothing has changed.  If anything, the amount of homeless 'camps' has increased as the weather has turned colder.  Hopefully, I can provide some pictures in future updates.  For those who don't know, I type these columns from a public library in Las Vegas as I have no access to the Internet.  Also note all these columns are written as first drafts, so you might forgive any glaring mistakes or omissions (or don't; I could frankly care less, but I like to be diplomatic).  If you really want to see a polished version of these events, have some publisher throw me some bones as in $$ (I do care about that). 

At any rate if I don't get a chance to post before Christmas, let me wish you and yours Happy Holidays.  And remember that so many of our sacred traditions are actually based on pagan customs and heathen ceremonies once thought to evoke the devil and other malevolent entities from beyond the pale.  Hope that warms the cockles of your heart!

HINJFCA Part Eight

Okay, so where was I? 

Oh yeah, wrapping up events that have led me to my present circumstances at the Salvation Army.  Well, you already know that I've been assigned to the kitchens.  This is in conjunction with a culinary program they sponsor with the State of Nevada and a local college.  You have to gain some experience in food service before they'll interview you for entrance into the culinary program.  It's evidently a big deal, as SA will pay all costs (tuition, books, uniforms, tools, etc) associated with the program while also providing transportation to and from the college.  Here's the kicker:  once you sign your name to the dotted line, there's no turning back.  That means if you accept the offer and later change your mind, you're on the hook for the full cost of the culinary program; in addition, you get booted out of Salvation Army as well.

So it's obviously an important decision, one you can't make lightly.  I'm scheduled to go in this Tuesday for a formal interview with the people who run the program.  Lord knows how that will go.  But some other kitchen workers who have enrolled say acceptance is pretty much a given since they're desperate to meet a quota:  They need at least 15 people to enroll in order to have the program at all.  So far they apparently have 6-7.  I'll really have to give this some thought because I'll tell you straight out that I don't especially enjoy the work associated with the kitchen.  One thing I didn't count on was the sheer weight of the items I've encountered in this work.  It's not uncommon for food pans and drink coolers (filled) to weigh 50 pounds.  While that weight is negligible for some of the guys who spent their days pumping iron in prison, it's a bit much for your humble narrator to bear.  And you know that saying about too many cooks?  Trust me, it's based on fact.

While giving you some updates on current events, let me tell you that it's been 30 days since my acceptance into the vocational program.  That's an important mark because many of the clients don't make it that far -- no kidding.  It's not uncommon to new new faces pop up every few days, only to have them disappear soon after.  Make no mistake that while SA is a charitable organization, to are strict in their rules and swift to act when any of those rules are broken.  Many clients get busted for the big infractions:  Caught with drugs in their possession or failing a random drug test; also known as 'pissing dirty' or 'dropping a dirty', this is likely the most common reason clients are dismissed.  Of course sheer stupidity on the part of a client is common as well:  One woman decided it was a great idea to drink a 40-ouncer right in front of a video monitor.  Obviously not ready for her close-up. 

Once an offense is confirmed SA wastes no time in getting the offender off the premises.  Even smaller offenses like failing a random room inspection can result in trouble.  The other day I and my roommates were subject to such an inspection.  One of the guys got a citation for leaving his bed messy (it was) and was given a citation.  As a first offense, likely nothing will happen.  But SA takes even the smaller details seriously, and those small infractions, if continued, can result in dismissal.  I suppose SA has the right, since they're footing the bill for all this.  Also, I think clients forget the fact that they stay and work with/for SA at the behest of the organization.  Perhaps it's human nature but I've found that many clients and homeless people get awfully picky about the things they are given (most often free of charge).  Beggars can't be choosers doesn't apply to many of these guys.  There's no law that says SA (or anyone) has to provide the services they do. 

On a much smaller scale, there was an incident with the flat screen TV in the common area.  That being, clients fighting over the remote control in order to decide which program to watch.  The shouting got so loud that it was heard by the Big Man (that being the SA Director of Operations), who later decreed a much stricter schedule for watching TV.  It doesn't affect me so much because there's rarely anything on that I want to watch (aside from football).  Besides, I didn't join the program to watch TV.  But the Big Man right pointed out that watching TV in the common room is a privilege, not a right.  Too many clients seem to forget that.

30 days is also important within the SA program because that's when the client receives their first review.  Your humble narrator is proud to announce that he aced his caseworker's review by scoring 100%.  No infractions, no write-ups, no conflicts, etc.  While I thought that was par for the course, I was told many guys can't make it that far without some sort of confrontation.  Anyway, yours truly has been a good, boring lad and so made the cut, which includes a bump-up in gratuity as well.  I'm proud to tell you that based upon a 40-hour work week I'm now making app. .33-cents/hour.  Take that, Bill Gates!  My other review was for my job performance as rated by my kitchen boss.  A bit misleading since I've only been in the kitchen two weeks or so, but 30 days is 30 days I guess. Anyway, I scored a 98 out of 100.  My drawbacks were speed in preparing food and taking initiative in finding stuff to do ... or asking what to do.  I'm not really sure.  Listening might be a drawback, now that I think of it.  Anyway, I was a good enough review.  I signed off and was feeling pretty good  about myself.  Two good reviews in the same day.  And then ... tragedy.

Well, that's a strong word.  More like 'unnecessary annoyance set in'.  I'll be detailing these co-workers in upcoming installments but for now let me say I like the kitchen boss.  He's one of the loudest individuals I've ever met, but he's a good guy overall and really knows the food service industry.  Because he oversees the entire kitchen he's not always around to train me, so that duty falls to his second in command.  This is a hulking Hawaiian dude who, no surprise, is an ex-con.  His backstory of dealing drugs and fighting with various gang bosses in Los Angeles sounds like a Miami Vice episode; Michael Mann would love this stuff, very crime noir.  That aside, this Hawaiian dude is a good guy, but a bad supervisor.  He knows his stuff in terms of food preparation, but his people skills are about as delicate as a boulder rolling downhill.  In short, he has a tendency to tell me 3-4 things to do, then walk off without showing me how to do any of the tasks(!).  Or he lets his emotions come to the fore and show his anger by giving off looks and vibes like he wants to run a knife through my throat.

My guess is that that kind of approach worked well in prison.  But in the 'real world', I have the feeling he'd get a lot of employee complaints about his manner and approach.  Then again, maybe it's me.  I'm the first to admit I have a lot to learn about the culinary trade.  Maybe it's just not my thing.  Yet it seems my inexperience might be taken into consideration, at least to a degree.  From what I can tell, most of the guys there have at least some small previous experience in the food industry.  I'm supposed to know everything in two weeks time?  I will say, though, that I kind of like serving food along 'the line.'  That is, taking orders, putting the food together, serving the customers.  I think I like it because it's fairly nonstop and I get a chance to talk with people; time seems to go by quicker when I'm in that position.  Could be it's the only thing close to performing the SA kitchen provides.  I actually think my sense of humor might be one of the things that keeps my situation as bearable as it is.

Anyway, the Hawaiian hulk dude and I have a few words.  No strong, no shouting or anything like that.  But it's the closest I've come to having an actual 'confrontation' as such. Basically he said I was too slow.  He was upset because another area of the kitchen I'd been working in -- along with 3 others -- was left unmopped.  My 'punishment' was to mop the whole area myself, so that it would 'never happen again'.  Yeesh.  There are times when I like to make smartass, offhand comments when confronted by such self-important, petty blather.  I didn't this time because A) I didn't want to get squashed like a bug; and 2) I actually wanted to hear what he had to say; which as it turned out was nothing memorable.  I inwardly rolled my eyes. 

He said something to the effect of "You may think I'm harsh, but I'm a good guy."  I said, "I do think you're a good guy.  You're just not a good supervisor."  Since I'm here writing these words, I didn't get squashed.  More interesting, he didn't reply even though I know he heard me.  Maybe his reply was in not speaking to me the rest of the day.  And do you want to know something ironic?  I later checked with the people I was working with and found that they had already mopped the floor hours earlier(!).  It made me wonder if Mr. Hawaiian Punch wasn't making the matter personal.  Funny, isn't it.  A few weeks ago I was writing about trying to keep a roof over my head and stay off the streets.  Now I'm writing about petty confrontations with co-workers.  I wonder if I'm taking too much of my SA experience for granted?  It seems to easy -- too easy -- to slip back into familiar patterns of human behavior, regardless of how serious our circumstances.

Hmm.  This session is coming to a close, and I still haven't managed to wrap up some loose ends of my tale.  Hang loose, my brethren.  We'll certainly tie up those threads in the next installment, or my name isn't Bullwinkle J. Moose!  It isn't, but so what?

HINJFCA: Coming Attractions!

Another one of my truncated posts due to time constraints at the library.  Just wanted to touch on a couple of items in brief.  I know the language in this blog (and the subject matter) can get a bit dicey for some tastes.  Some people might even be offended by the material.  While I'm not trying to repel readers or gross anyone out, I do try to present the situations I've experienced in as true a fashion as possible.  That means I try to reproduce the language used in such situations as well.  Of course, this includes profanity.  As it happens, I'm not the biggest fan of profanity.  I try to use it as minimally as possible when I'm in public because I don't want to present myself as some common, foul-mouthed street miscreant. 

In my experience those people who curse constantly tend to be the most ignorant people.  But since many of the characters I've encountered during my homeless sojourn have little if any education, and because their life experience has largely been on the streets, they express themselves with profanities.  Hence, that's how I depict them when representing them in this blog.  So if you see things like f**k, or motherf***er popping up fairly frequently, I'm just trying to delineate the person for you, not get my jollies by stringing together every obscenity I can think of.  After all, I can hardly have these guys sounding like Harvard professors or elite literati.  

I'm actually sorry to see profanity used so often -- and this cuts through all classes.  I think the country (and the world) has become a much coarser and vulgar place because of the prevalence of profanity.  As a writer I hate seeing this happen because profanity loses its capacity for shock value. The f-word and permutations thereof used to be strictly verboten; now it's everywhere, uttered causally by anyone from 7 top 70 years of age.  I'll put myself to the task of inventing new curse words that will cause your ears to spontaneously combust from outrage.  And you're welcome.

As for what I've been up to?  Well, more of the same at Salvation Army.  I told you last time that I was accepted into their vocational program; it's now been approximately a month since I started.  I'll finish up the backstory and some of the tasks I've been involved with in the next installment.  For now, think of this as my blog's version of a coming attractions trailer:

In the next few installments of "Homelessness It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore:"

THRILL to the new characters your humble narrator encounters.  You'll never forget the nameless, bug-eyed Junkie With No Name who battles for supremacy of the TV in the common room!  Or how about the Big Guy Everyone is Scared Of because he sits in the corner and constantly talks to himself?

MARVEL at the ex-meth addict and drug dealer who transformed himself into a beatific, Yoda-like sage who dispenses wisdom while pushing a mop!  He'll make you believe illegal drugs are good for you! 

YOU WON'T BELIEVE the lead cook in the kitchen who bellows orders in a voice so loud he can be heard across Nevada into Arizona and beyond!

OGLE the sultry sirens your humble narrator meets while traveling through the wilds of the Salvation Army campus.  Will these lethal lovely ladies seduce your narrator with their womanly wiles?

SEE the various characters of the Salvation Army as they struggle to stay awake during class after class of nerve-wracking methods on how to reintegrate themselves into society -- you fell asleep right then, didn't you?

STAY TUNED!  In the coming installments you'll have a first hand glimpse into the petty annoyances of communal living!  See if your humble narrator can fend off the malevolent microbes expelled by his fellow dorm inhabitants!  Find out if your narrator can weather the senses-shattering racket of grown men snoring like bull elephants on the rampage!  Will he have the fortitude to withstand the rotten-egg stench of intestinal gas that pervades the dorm room on a constant basis?  And can you predict the mind-numbing secret your narrator uncovers while innocently pilfering a banana from the SA kitchens?  Neither can he -- that's because he hasn't written it yet!

All this and more will be revealed as your humble narrator continues his journey through the netherworld of ex-cons, shell-shocked veterans, recovering booze, drug and alcohol addicts, and oh yeah -- the hordes of homeless looking to score free stuff!

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!  Believe it or not, everyone your humble narrator has met during his Salvation Army tour IS ON MEDICATION!  EVERYONE!  Including your humble narrator!

So there you go.  Stay with me as we travel down this dark road together, and slowly make it to the other side.  Remember, it's only a thin membrane that separates the fortunate from the unfortunate.  And if you believe that, I have some old Enron stock to sell you!

HINJFCA Part Seven

There are those times when it feels as though the universe conspires to thwart your every goal.  Those occasions when you're striving for one thing and the exact opposite occurs.  That pretty sums up my weekend, so I hope you had a better one.  My bad experiences in the SA kitchens will be saved for a future installment of this blog; suffice to say (using a culinary reference of sorts) it feels like my goose is cooked, along with any semblance of my manhood.

At any rate, we're wrapping up the events that led me to that supremely messed up weekend, so let's continue.  After my decision not to join the vagrants and transients of Las Vegas, I started asking around the SA administrative offices for information on any programs they might have that concentrated on helping a person regain an entry to society.  In fact, they have a series of vocational programs, as explained to me by one of their caseworkers.  Once you join the program, SA will foot the bill for your room and board.  This is repaid with volunteer work on the part of the program participant (known as a 'client'), which can involve maintenance work, a laundry detail, or other types of manual labor intended to get the client back in gear for gaining a regular job in the 'real world'. 

When asked what sort of job I'd be interested in, you might not be surprised to find they had nothing in my chosen field of voiceover work or entertainment.  When I said the only job I likely wouldn't be interested in was food service, the caseworker went on to tell me all about their culinary program, which involves a detailed course sponsored by a local college (they offer 7 credits upon completion) with all expenses footed by the state of Nevada.  While I thought she misunderstood my comment about food service (restaurant work has never interested me) I had to admit, the culinary course she described sounded interesting enough for me to agree to give it a shot.  If nothing else, I could use the college credits.

(This might be a good place for your humble narrator to fess up that he is a college dropout.  Never mind from which prestigious schools; I won't besmirch their reputations by associating them with me.  Suffice to say that I never had much patience for the classroom even though I was a good enough student.  But I always felt suffocated in school, and sitting in classrooms often led to panic attacks which made me antsy and also led to Irritable Bowel Syndrome among other malfunctions.  Like many problems in my life, I believe these problems can likely be traced back to an undiagnosed case of depression.  So let that be a lesson to you kids out their:  Stay in school and get your heads examined regularly.)

After reading some literature, I was given some paperwork to fill out.  The paperwork was actually a test composed of an essay question ("Why do you want to join the SA Vocational Program?") and a few problems designed to gauge language and math skills.  As in school, I had little trouble with the language portion of the test.  My problems arose with the math portion.  Even thought it was 5th grade level stuff, I still sweat bullets trying to figure it out.  To be fair I did okay with basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.  My arch nemesis has always been fractions, and time had changed nothing in this regard.  Speaking of time, it's been some four decades since I tackled fractions, and I wasn't any good at the stuff then.  What could I do when faced with a problem for which I had no solution?

Easy.  I took a WAG (wild ass guess) -- which turned out to be wrong.  I later found out from the caseworker that almost every applicant was tripped up by fractions, for a reason I detailed above:  It's been so long since dealing with the problems that people forget how to do them.  There's another lesson, kids:  When in doubt about anything always take a WAG.  And take those fractions seriously.  I handed in the tests after taking the full allotment of time and was told to check back in after the weekend (this was on a Friday).  I was a little nervous about that.  Even though the SA beds were only $8 a night, the funds my cousin sent me were running low.  I had really hoped the application might have been approved on the spot.

However, I made it through that weekend hoping that I would be accepted.  Most of the people who took the test seemed to pass and went on to become clients themselves.  One guy who had been in the test group with me had just done a 5-year stint in prison and said he actually was approved on the spot.  This guy ("Dave") was an interesting enough fellow that I'll digress a bit and tell you some of his story (as he told it to me).  The reason I do this is because his story had an interesting -- and somewhat sad -- ending where his SA experience was involved.

"Dave" was a white guy, stood about 5'9, 160 pounds and had reddish-gray hair which showed considerable balding on top.  He was 43 but looked older.  He had been incarcerated for 5 years for check fraud.  He spent his time quietly enough in a cell that had cable TV (basic cable only, but still) for $11 a month.  He said it was his first time in jail and he was understandably scared at being incarcerated.  His cellmate ('cellie') was a multiple time offender (assault, grand theft auto) who knew the system and served as his mentor.  Dave said he actually came to like prison life.  Everything was regulated and he never had to think for himself; he was always being told what to do, and had a regular schedule to live by 24/7, 365 days a year.  He even acquired a taste for the food.

Finally, he was released and in an arrangement with the prison, given a bed at the Salvation Army shelter I was staying at.  In fact, he arrived the same night I did.  As I spoke with him over the next few days, he told me more about himself and his background:  His family was evidently loaded; his father was some CEO of a railroad and his sister was married to the CEO of Verizon Wireless.  He said his mother wired him $500 upon release from prison.  (I never checked on this because I figured it was a lot of crap.  As you'll learn, your humble narrator was wrong.)  A friend gave him $5 to play the slots and he parlayed that into $300 (!).  Add to that his instant acceptance into the SA program (apparently this is common practice with ex-cons) and it seemed Dave was walking along a charmed path in his post-prison life.

Dave often told me how much he wanted to start over.  "I just want a simple life," he said.  He had been into drugs and alcohol, and wanted to get away from all that temptation.  Perhaps get back with his ex-wife who had relocated to Seattle.  He even gave $20 to a number of people he met on the streets and in the SA courtyard.  He said it was his way of starting over and 'giving back' for all his good fortune.  I noticed he started hanging around with a couple -- male and female -- who looked like transients.  It seemed they became fast friends.

One night in the dorms, Dave went on about starting over, his new life, etc.  (He could often drone on and on even though he had good intentions.)  He was especially excited about talking with h is ex-wife.  It seemed she still loved him and wanted to see him again.  The sincerity in his face and in the tone of his voice made you want to root fro the guy. 

The next day I had some errands to run so I didn't return to the SA grounds until 3pm or so.  Dave was there in the courtyard and I thought I'd say hello.  He didn't notice me because he was talking to the couple he had met.  I sat nearby and listened.  As he spoke to his friends, Dave seemed like a completely different guy.  Where he was usually laid back, he was now jumping around frantically as he told his story.  Where he was usually soft spoken he was now loud and boisterous.  His story went like this (bear in mind I witnessed none of this firsthand): 

He had been sitting in the courtyard and people had been coming up asking him for cigarettes.  Dave became so annoyed that "I jumped up in the middle of the courtyard and challenged all those motherf***ers to either stop bothering me about the damn cigarettes or fight me right then and there!  You should have seen everyone, man!  They were totally tripped out, seeing me get up there and call them out!"  Apparently no one accepted his challenge, but a couple of security guards were called over to calm him down.  "Yeah, they said if I hadn't been an ex-con, I woulda been 86'd from the program and from SA."  (The benefits of graduating the penal system I guess.)  Dave went on to rail against the SA program:  "All those people are so beneath me, man.  And the jobs are bull***t."  And here was the big revelation, and perhaps the reason for his change in demeanor (although I suspect some substance abuse):  His mother was wiring him an additional $8,000.  That's some mom. 

With his new found riches Dave said he was going to get an apartment and pay off a six-month lease.  His next move would be to "Kidnap a drug pusher and steal all his drugs.  It's gonna be wall-to-wall meth!  I'm just gonna do drugs for six months straight!"  He told his friends that they'd be living with him in this supposed dope palace.  When one of them asked what they'd do after six months. Dave said, "My mom'll give me more money.  I'll just make sure I'm clean before she gets here, and she'll give me money and a new car!  I'm the baby of the family.  They'll do anything for me!" 

It was amazing to me to witness Dave's sudden swing in mood and temperament.  Hardly 24 hours ago he was singing the praises of a simple life and now he was ready to move in with a couple of strangers and do drugs for six months straight.  Of course, there was always the chance he was lying.  I won't keep you in suspense about how his story ended.  Although I kept expecting him to leave at any moment, Dave actually did enter the program with me.  They assigned him to maintenance duties, but he didn't seem happy about it.  As our schedules diverged, I saw less of him and figured he was lying about the money and the rest of it. 

One night someone told me Dave had disappeared.  Someone had seen him around 11 pm walking toward the SA front gate.  They figured he was taking a late night walk.  But that was the last anyone ever saw of Dave.  There was talk that he had received $8,000 and had given away DVD players to some friends before leaving.  While he gave no inclination that he was on his way out, Dave had evidently been planning his departure for some time; he left nothing of value behind. 

That's the way it plays out for some SA participants.  Some guys actually do walk out and never return.  Dave's story affected me because of his abrupt change in character.  And while I have no right to feel this way, it's like Dave let me down somehow.  (He sure let me down in not giving me a damn DVD player, anyway.)  I guess he was telling the truth about his family having money.  I sometimes wonder what happened to him.  Did he get that apartment with the couple and start on a drug binge?  Will he get arrested and return to prison?  Will he wind up on the street?  I'll likely never know.

But since this is my story and not Dave's, let me return to the main storyline of this blog. The following week I returned for an interview with the caseworker and was surptised to find I actually did well on the math portion of the test (fractions excluded, of course).  At that time, I was given another test (spelling, and I aced it thank you), and another couple of forms to fill out.  After all that, I figured I'd get a decision, right?  Wrong.  I'd have to have another interview with another caseworker; and this one would actually decide whether or not I was accepted into the program (not entirely true btw).  Well, I really was sweating bullets again because my funds were in the danger zone, so I needed a decision quick.

And as it happened, I did get a quick decison the very next day.  And while you know the outcome of that decision, your humble narrator is once again strapped for time here at the library computer.  So this will serve as a natural break, or cliffhanger if you will.  Btw, is this a bad place to point out that this blog sometimes contains explicit language and subject matter?  Okay, in the future I'll post that advisory at the top of the column.  Next segment should bring things up to the present, so bear with me. 

HINJFCA Part Six ( Now w/Bonus Video!)

Happy belated Thanksgiving to you all.  Hope it was filled with turkey and pumpkin pie all served up in a nice, cozy Norman Rockwell-like setting.  For myself, I had a nice dinner served to me by the kind folks from Circus Circus.  Well, it was served to everyone at the Salvation Arny Vocational Building, not just me.  But those guys and gals made me feel like they were serving only me.  Also in attendance was a news crew, filming the event for the requisite warm and fuzzy feed-the-homeless segment you see on all the local news channels. 

The only thing missing was the roving reporter taking part in handing out the meals to the hopeless, homeless transients.  Maybe we didn't look indigent enough to warrant a guest serving from one of the reporters.  For the most part I spent turkey day in the SA kitchens where I am now assigned, and for the record saw none of the football games, which was always a Thanksgiving Day tradition with me.  And you thought homelessness wasn't difficult?  Lord, the hardships I endure! 

If you're not too wasted from your tryptophan rush (or too obliterated by fighting the Black Friday crowds; incidentally, what did you buy me?), read on for more updates from the homeless front courtesy of yours truly.  Like I said in the last installment, I'll try to move the narrative ahead a bit faster so I can bring up up to date on all the enervating events and captivating characters I've met during my sojourn at the Salvation Army.  So where was I ...

Ah, yes.  I was staying in the SA homeless shelter men's dormitories and I was about to tell you about the farting that took place every single night I was there.  The omnipresent flatulence was actually less annoying that the concomitant snoring that assaulted my ears.  That's because there is only so much gas the human body can expel through the anus whereas snoring is a byproduct of breathing.  It's times like these that I thank the heavenly powers that the anus was not designed for breathing.  Imagine methane being expelled in every breath; now that I think of it. that's kind of what went on in those dorms at night:  Anal breathing.  Yes, it's a nice phrase but don't bother copying it because it's already registered.  (By the way, have I used the words anus and anal enough for you?  Does it make me an a-hole?)

I've often thought the quality of human farts can be described as military weapons, and much of this will be self-explanatory:  You have the Bombers, which blast the air with a particularly horrible fecal stench, accompanied by an ear-shattering blast of noise.  Conversely you have the stealth variety of gas attacks, popularly known as SBDs (Silent But Deadly).  These farts are especially treacherous, given there is no advance warning which makes the offensive odor even more noxious than usual. 

Then there are the Intermittent Burst variety of fart, which seem to shoot out of the offender's backside with a machine-gun like cadence.  Screechers emit a high-pitched whine which sound like air being let out of a balloon.  Bunker Busters are related to the aforementioned Bombers.  The BBs however, are emit an especially deep, gutty roar from remote regions of the intestines and can sound more like a belch than a fart*.  You can usually tell what the offender previously ate for lunch or dinner from the smell of this classification of fart.

(*Of course, one could refer to a fart as an anal belch, and a belch as an oral fart.)

As it now occurs to me that I, a 51-year-old man (and supposed adult), have been delineating the nature of flatulence for the past several minutes, I can't help but wonder if this is one of the character defects that led me to my current unhappy circumstance(s).  At any rate, you get the idea.  To use the military weapon analogy to conclude this segment, let's say the SA dorms were battlegrounds of flatulent warfare all night long.

Now then.  You had to be out of the dorms by 7am, at which time the building was locked and cleaned.  Occupants aren't able to enter the dorms again until 5pm.  Many of the guys had part-time or full-time jobs they went to.  Others apparently drifted about town the entire day.  There was one guy who rode the bus back and forth across town all day.  Other guys would go off and panhandle.  Still others would just wander around the SA courtyard visiting with other homeless friends who were 'roughing it' on the street, or would hang out in the DRC building playing cards or dominoes.  Usually they would stay outside where they could freely smoke. 

Directly in front of the SA building on West Owens you'll often see a line of transients hanging around.  They're waiting for the occasional church group of community activist group that arrives semi-regularly in a parking lot across the street.  These groups usually bring meals, toiletries, clothing and other items for the homeless (I personally received food and toiletries and a brand-new blanket from one of these groups.  One of their reps just walked over and gave me the stuff.  I must appear more destitute than I intended.)

As mentioned, the area of North Las Vegas where the SA shelter is located is home to other agencies that seek to help the homeless.  I say "seek" to help them because not all of the homeless want help -- from the SA or anyone else.  Maybe it's an unpopular notion to say (or write) this, but here goes.  Many homeless people are homeless because they choose to be.  They prefer that particular lifestyle and have no desire to participate in conventional society. 

How do I know this?  For a couple of days, I basically drifted about the area between those hours of 7am and 5pm trying to wrap my head around my situation.  I was still shell-shocked by the confluence of events that had occurred so suddenly that I was, for want of a better term, numb to the world.  So with the burden of dragging my luggage around, I was freer to walk and explore the area, and meet some of the people.  I'll freely admit that for a time I considered joining those denizens of the streets.  I would look at some of the stragglers and wonder if I could maintain such an existence.  I can tell you that there is free food all over Las Vegas; if you hear otherwise, it's a myth. 

The homeless benefit from innumerable organizations that give away clothing and other items, much like I detailed above.  With a mailing address of 'General Delivery' and proof of ID (which can be accomplished by a friend vouching for you), the homeless can receiver Food Stamp benefits (although the program is now called SNAP and entails usage of an EBT Debit Card w/PIN number).  There are programs that provide free medical care, fill prescriptions, and even provide free computer and Internet access (aside from the public library where I now write this).  After learning all this, it became clearer to me why certain people would opt to drop out of the mainstream and live in such a fashion. 

Think of it:  Reaping rewards from the taxpayers without having to BE a taxpayer.  All that free stuff and food.  There are plenty of homeless people out there taking advantage of the system.  Just because they're lacking in formal education doesn't mean they're stupid.  I've had many of them tell me that they feel entitled to these benefits simply because they're homeless.  And to a certain degree I think society in general feel so sympathetic to their plight that they feel justified in providing benefits to the less fortunate.

Is that to say all homeless people are gaming the system?  Not at all.  But there are plenty of them who share the attitude of this guy who I spoke with in the SA courtyard.  When asking him if he would rather get off the streets and find a home, job, steady income, he replied:  "Hell no, I don't want no damn job.  F**k that shit.  Man, I'm a grown-ass man.  What I need to be on some motherf***er's schedule for?  I'm homeless, so what?  I do what the f**k I want, when the f**k I want.  "I wanna get high, I get high as a motherf***er!Ain't no one tellin' my ass what to do!"

All right, that might not be the most scientific sampling, but you might be surprised how many people share that exact same sentiment (albeit expressed in different terms).  And for the record, along with the usage of cigarettes, I've noticed another common trait among the homeless:  The use of the word 'motherfucker', or variations thereof.  While I try to control the use of profanity (especially in public settings) I'll admit to a certain scholarly fascination with this word, MF.  It's one of the few words in the English language that can be used as a noun (mf), adjective (mf-ing), or as both (mf-ing mf-er).  If you come up with other fun, creative uses for mf, be sure and drop me a line.  It could be a nifty project for the whole family!

So for approximately 48 hours I actively considered joining the ranks of this shadow society.  At the time I was so disappointed with myself and so humiliated by my circumstance that I wanted to either end my existence or eliminate evidence of my existence to such a degree that my friends and family would forget about me.  I wanted to slowly fade into oblivion and enter that netherworld where nothing mattered by basic survival.  In a way this was progress.  Only a few weeks earlier I was making plans to commit suicide; niw at least I was seeking to stay alive.  (At this moment I wish I  could play this song for you:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlBiLNN1NhQ On second thought, play it for yourself for maximum ironic impact.)

To spare you the suspense, the fact that I'm writing this blog is evidence that I didn't follow through to do myself in.  Nor did I enter the netherworld of transients and stragglers.  (Although I have learned that 'Netherworld' is actually an adult nightclub in Chechnya catering to below-the-belt fetishes.  Google it if you don't believe me.)  Instead, here I am blogging these details of my shattered existence to you, my loyal readers -- and I thank both of you.

Unfortunately your humble narrator has gotten a bit wrapped up in his discourse and so forgot to notice his time at the computer has dwindled to less than five minutes.  And so I'll have to conclude this sixth segment and wrap up (finally) the events that led me to the present moment.  Although by then, this will be the past moment and that point in the future will be the present moment.  Whatever.  We'll catch up then.  In the meantime, enjoy some of my spoken word magnificence with this clip:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iKFtagdavk, plus see what your humble narrator looks like in person.  Fun!

Btw if you like this blog and the video, thanks!  Now throw money or a PS3 (not necessarily in that order.  If you do throw a PS3, throw a few games with it, okay?  Good games like MGS 4, or any of the Drake's Fortune series.  Also, Madden 12 would be nice.  Just a thought.  You think I'm asking for too much?  Well I am homeless, after all.  Not that I'm playing the guilt and/or sympathy card ...)

HINJFCA Five

As you know I've been experimenting with telling this story in the first and third person, with my own editorial comments included.  The last installment was was truncated and presented as a 'flash forward' of sorts; and update on what's going on now as opposed to detailing the events that led me to my present circumstances.  It occurs to me that all the shifting back and forth between first and third person, plus the time shifting from past to present and back again could understandably result in some "Lost" type confusion for the reader -- especially the casual reader who might not follow this blog on a daily basis.  If that's you, then I demand you wear a hair shirt and whip your backside with a razor strop; with enough 'mea culpas' I may deign to forgive you.  Or not.

Anyway, I think I'll endeavor to speed up the narrative and stick to the first person for the time being to alleviate any potential confusion.  No need to thank, just throw money.  So, to continue:

I got the bed at Salvation Army and was ushered into the men's dormitory.  Located a few feet away from the women's dorm, it's a plain white one-story building with a slate blue colored door.  When you enter, a dorm monitor checks your name and issues you clean sheets, a blanket, pillow and pillowcase, and a bath towel with two small bars of soap (kind of like the ones you get at most hotels).

I was assigned a locker with a rusty bottom, but I didn't care.  I was so tired of lugging the carry-on that I would have set it down in a puddle of raw sewage just to get rid of the weight.  Within the men's dorm are approximately 50-60 bunk beds and accompanying lockers.  The good news:  My bed was on the top bunk.  The bad news:  There was no ladder to access the top bunk.  I had to climb up the metal frame of the bed to reach the top.  This meant stepping on a thin rail that cut into the soles of my feel like a knife; it eventually became painful to walk on that foot.

But a bed was a bed, and if I had to make like Spider-Man to get up there and sleep I could deal with it.  You are issued a set of rules upon entry and while you are given the tour.  Off to the south side of the building are communal showers and sinks.  On the other side of a concrete divider are approximately 10 toilets and 10 urinals.  Almost every night I was there at least one toilet overflowed. 

Among the dorm rules:  You have from 5pm until 7 to enter the building and be accounted for.  If you arrive after 7, you are denied entry until 5:30 the following morning unless you have a valid excuse (work, emergency, etc).  Visitors are required to shower daily for as long as they reside in the dorm.  That rule is one of their better ideas, imo.  Many of the guys staying there have been on the street for some while, and could easily be carrying some sort of sickness or infectious condition.  I heard that lice and bedbugs were problems, but I never had any problems with that while I was there.

No having lived in a dorm before, I admit I was taken aback by the idea of having to shower nude in front of a bunch of strangers.  Every prison rape scene I ever saw in a movie constantly played through my mind as I headed for the showers that first night.  When I got there it was half-filled with older white and black guys (this constituted the bulk of the ethnic makeup of the dorm I was in.  There were a few Latinos and Asians as well; I was surprised by the presence of that latter group.  For some reason I never imagined Asians as homeless or on the street.

As far as showering went, I simply decided to go all in.  I stripped, did my best to ignore the other guys, and stepped under the faucet.  Thankfully, the water was hot, the stream steady.   I'll admit it felt good taking that hot shower, getting the street grime and sweat off my body.  After that first night the process got easier.  One thing I noticed was an unwritten rule followed by most guys while in the shower:  No conversation. No looking around, either.  Everyone kept their gaze straight ahead, like a horse with blinders. 

I expect no one wanted to be suspected as being a homosexual, should they chance a sneak peek at another guy's junk.  Personally, I kept my gaze straight for two reasons:  I was too scared to look around and I didn't want to feel more inferior than I already do regarding the size of my manhood.  Didn't I have enough problems without worrying about whether I can hang with the well-hung in a Salvation Army shower?

More rules:  Lights out at 9 pm; lights on at 5:30 am.  Visitors have until 7 am to shave, bathe, go to the bathroom, etc) at which time they are expected to leave the building.  There is no way to reenter the dorm until 5 pm that night.  In other words, you better have your gear together because you won't be seeing it again for at least ten hours.  It also means you better have somewhere to go to kill all that time.  I discovered that some guys actually maintain full or part

So it would be a misnomer to describe all the guys staying at the Salvation Army shelter as 'homeless' or on the street.  Many of them are responsible, hard-working people who simply need the cheapest dwelling available while they save up for a car, an apartment, etc.  Conversely, there are many occupants who are truly homeless and on the street.  The save up enough money from performing odd jobs or panhandling to afford a bed for a few nights and get off the street.  (Those with no money for a bed can go to the Salvation Army Rescue Mission a few miles away.  I've never been there, but I'm told accommodation and food are far worse than in the SA dorms.)

While I don't doubt the dorm houses its share of drug addicts and alcoholics I didn't notice any such behavior on the premises while I was there.  I did, however, notice many of my fellow occupants gather a few blocks away and toking on weed (or whatever) and likely indulging in other illegal substances as well.  There are three dorm monitors who work the graveyard shift, and they tend to be pretty share about infractions should they occur. 

Once, the old man in the bunk below me was caught trying to light a cigarette in his bunk; a big no-no.  If not for his age, he likely would have been booted then and there.  For the record, a patio area is left open around the clock for smokers to go outside and indulge their habit.  Trust me, many guys indulge to the extreme.  (Something I've always wondered about.  Many of those guys will complain about being broke; yet they always seem to have money for cigarettes, drugs, booze, or whatever.  Maybe it's me.)

You could classify the dorm occupants as Workers (those with full or part time employment) and Transients (those who just want a bed to get off the street).  The Transients tend to hang around the DRC and courtyard all day, hanging out with peers who are still roughing it on the streets.  I got to know those who stayed on the street by sight: Excessively dirty clothes and skin are giveaway, as is body odor.  Many of these street people arrive at the DRC when it opens daily at 7 am to use the hot shower facilities and toilets.  I was amazed at the long lines that formed everyday to use these facilities. 

Likewise I was amazed that people could live their lives in such a manner.  But one mystery at least was cleared up for me:  I finally learned how street people manager to bathe and shave.  Thank the Salvation Army.  But good luck making headway through that chaotic line first thing in the morning.  The more experienced folks waited until afternoon when most people had already bathed.  Like the Transients, the street people congregated around the courtyard to play cards, dominoes, and smoke and smoke and smoke some more ...

While peddling is forbidden, there is plenty of evidence proving that cigarette hustling goes on constantly in the courtyard area.  There are other people who operate outside of the SA grounds and in front of Catholic Charities who likewise peddle cigarettes.  I don't doubt there's a decent income to be made by selling cheap smokes to the homeless.  The customer base is basically made up of addicts (nicotine, drugs, booze to name a few.

Back to the dorms:  The beds are made of a single, plastic-wrapped mattress.  Not especially comfortable, but I slept deeply enough that first night.  It is somewhat jarring when the light go on at 5:30, though.  The harsh flouresecent glare really cut into my eyes.  It's also strange to hear the gruntings and groanings of guys waking up in the morning.  During the night, it's not unusual to hear guys talking or shouting in their sleep, as if caught in a nightmare.  I often heard gasping and wheezing here and there.  Plenty of coughing and sneezing, clearing of throats and so on. 

One of the things that concerned me the most about staying in that environment was the health consideration.  Many of those guys had lived on and off the streets so long it was likely they had picked up some sort of illness that could easily be transmittable, especially among a large group of people. I'm happy to say I never contracted an illness while in the dorm.  Not even from the old guy below me who coughed so violently he shook the bed frame and sounding like he was hawking up his internal organs.

And there was snoring.  Christ, was there snoring.  I had never heard anything like it in my life, yet somehow I managed to sleep through it.  Imagine a herd of water buffalo in the throes or coitus.  Or bull elephants roaring at each other all night long.  Or heavy duty machinery roaring nonstop through the wee hours.  That is only some idea of the noise certain guys could make during the night.  The deep, guttural, throaty rasps echoed off the cement walls in staccato fashion.  Each blast of air expelled from their mouths resulted in a noise that served as a spike drilling into my head. 

Sometimes I listened out of pure fascination:  How could the human throat produce such inhuman, frightening noises with machine-like precision and nonstop performance.  Sometimes it sounded as if certain snorers were waging an unconcsious battle between themselves to out-snore the other with ever louder barrages of offensive inhalations.  Most amazing of all is that the loudest snorers were never awakened by the glottal obscenities bursting from their mouths.  A disturbance of the peace that seemed to make the entire building shake as if undergoing a sonic earthquake.

Then there was the farting ... But let's leave the meaty stuff for tomorrow.  After all, it's guaranteed to blow you away!

Jim

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HINJFCA Flash Forward

As you reglaur readers know, I've been blogging about my experience with homelessness and the steps I've taken to regain my position in society.  It's basically a recap of what's been going on over the past month. Right here I'm going to do a quick jump to the present to let you know mu current state of affairs.  I've enrolled in the Salvation Army Vocational Program for the past two weeks. 

The program is designed to help homeless people learn new, marketable skills to enable them to rejoin the workforce and become loyal taxpayers.  As I've been finding out, this program tends to be more oriented towards not only homeless by revovering substance abusers and ex-cons ... a whole lot of the latter.  I don't mind telling you it makes me feel intimidated, especially since many of these guys are jacked to the max and could break me like a breadstick.

At any rate, I'm in a 4-man dorm and must admit I'm feeling better about my situation.  SA does deliver on their promises of providing free bed and board and 3 hot meals a day (they really are filling, but vegetarians would be hard pressed to find something to eat). Overall, the participants and caseworkers have been friendly and helpful, even letting me get new (used) clothing from the SA thrift store via voucher, and helping me get an EBT card.  They also pass out a weekly gratuity, which is admirable. (My very first Food Stamps ... a proud day in the history of the Morrises.  Well, at least I waited until I was over a half-century old before I jumped on the government teat.)

There are some drawbacks:  The caseworkers are far outnumbered by their  clients, meaning a lot of mix-ups, missed appointments, and short tempers from both parties.  There's a recreation room in the dorm building and they allow guys to watch football all day on Sunday.  Usually you can't hear it for all the racket created by other people partying in the lobby.  When I brought up this concern at a meeting the caseworker pretty much shot me down saying the noise was just a byproduct of communal living. 

Since she pretty much gave the perpetrators a license for loudness, I saw there was no need to press the matter.  Sometimes even when you know you're in the right it's wrong to say so.  I likely didn't make any fans during that meeting, though.  An old black dude near my table said (in my direction) "Tha's right coummnal.  Don't like it, take your little ass somewhere else, big-mouth motherf****.  Shee-it ..."  Obviously an Ivy League man.  But maybe he had a point.  Why should I waste time complaining about the TV when I have far more pressing matters to attend to?

So, that's a brief update as to my progreess.  More of my past travials and present challenges coming up!  Stay tuned ...

HINJFCA IV

So I'm back to blog two days in a row, a personal best.  Note I've shortened the title of this thread down to an acronym, followed by the Roman numeral 'IV' for the 4th installment.  Why use an acronym and Roman numeral?  Easy. I'm getting too lazy to type out the whole title every time I sit down, and for some reason I felt particularly pretentious enough to use IV.  And yeah I know I could just cut-and-paste the title, but that's not how the M-O-double R-I-S rolls.

So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas.  Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:

Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus.  He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available.  With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk. 

As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization.  Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.

He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days.  He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.

And Jim wondered:  What brought me here to this moment in my life?  Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction?  Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief?  Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin?  Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim?  So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions? 

Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions.  Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night.  Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless.  Maybe he should have realized it all the time.  Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate.  Maybe ...

(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)

Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here?  Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo.  At any rate, there was no use crying about it now.  It was done, son, and he was in the shit.  He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards. 

As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever:  His appreciation for the opposite sex.  He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way.  Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers. 

One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt.  A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say.  She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear.  Must get drafty up there, thought Jim.  He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area. 

He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley.  Could he even get it up under those circumstances?  Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom.  You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought.  And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree.  (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)

Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute.  The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID

"Why?" he asked.

In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said:  My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar.  Is good, yes.  So you have ID my friend?"

Jim could only blink.  The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like:  "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"

Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID.  The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?"  As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him:  That guy looked and sounded like someone.  Then it came to him.  The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem.  (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)

Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building.  She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion.  People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there.  Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point.  She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered.  The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.

There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming.  He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice.  It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming.  Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.

The hours dragged but time did pass.  Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army.  Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities.  The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find.  Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be.  It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.

Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now.  He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings   It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong.  Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things.  Apparently they stayed there all day.  Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window.  He didn't see anyone else lining up there.

Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him.  Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening.  She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists.  Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda.  But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.

(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available.  I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities.  The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)

(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)

Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga.  What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments?  It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story.  Pretty clever, eh?  Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up.  As the kids say, you know how I do.  I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.

Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin.  Ater-Lay.

Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Pt 3

Really wish I could be more regular with these postings, but bear with me.  This time I thought we'd try something a little different in terms of presentation.  Up to now I've been writing in the first person.  This time I thought I'd try writing from the more traditional third person POV to see how it goes.  If you're game to partake of this experiment in storytelling, keep reading and keep an open mind.

Jim lugged his black pull-along travel case up the littered sidewalks avoiding various drunks and homeless who staggered toward him on their way to some appointment.  Although that was being kind; most of the homeless people he saw had blank faces and seemed to walk more from habit than any need to be in a particular place at a particular time.  Lifting his case over the body of a vagrant who was kneeling and puking in the sidewalk, Jim finally saw the landmark that was his destination:  The Salvation Army Homeless Shelter.

Walking up a ramp, he passes through a body length turnstile and was confronted by a black clad security guard who held a black and yellow wand to the newcomer's face.

"Blow into it," said the guard.

Jim did as was asked.  The guard checked a light on the wand and motioned to move on.  Jim entered a courtyard filled with derelicts and their various forms of luggage and or packing materials.  Many of them looked as if their life's possessions were stacked haphazardly into luggage carriers, or tied together with string or masking tape.  The whole courtyard was filled with a low-hanging grayish haze of cigarette smoke thick enough to make out hero choke.  The rank odor hastened his entrance into what he would later know as the DRC (Day Resource Center). 

Inside this large, plain room were more homeless men, huddled along long rows of collapsible benches.  Homeless women had a separate area to relax in.  Many of the men sat at the tables playing cards, reading, playing chess, or debating politics and sports.  Others sat alone, some mumbling incoherently to themselves.  There were some guys who sat down but their upper body lay sprawled over the tabletop; you could hear them lightly snoring although signs were posted that forbid sleeping.  Some men sat in plastic chairs staring vacantly into space.  The stark fluorescent lighting tended to highlight the gaunt, angular features many of the occupants possessed.  The lighting also served as a harsh reminder of the cold reality of his situation, thought Jim as he walked toward an office window.  A year ago he would have been making fun of people like these.

Smoking was prohibited in the DRC, although the stink of tobacco still fumed off the clothing of many of the occupants.  Jim didn't doubt that the tobacco funk had bonded with their bodies at the molecular level.  At the window was a chunky guy with a name badge who informed Jim that beds were available for $8 a night beginning at 5pm.  It was currently just past noon.  He was advised to come back and inquire about any available beds because they went quickly.  If a bed wasn't paid for at five, it went back up for sale to the next customer.

That was disheartening news because Jim had assumed he could get a bed right then and there.  Now he had to wait another five hours or so until he could rest.  He re-entered the courtyard and sat for several minutes, (holding his breath) trying to assess the situation.  He had no where to go, and couldn't call any friends for help.  He could couldn't stand the shame of admitted what had happened and didn't want to offer any explanations that would no doubt be met with a mix of pity and understanding.  Worse, he couldn't harbor the thought that he might ask one of his friends for a place to stay only to be turned down.  Why would they want to take in a homeless person, regardless of who it was?  No, it looked as if he would have to maintain his composure for at least the next five hours and pray he didn't fall asleep on a street corner in the meantime.

On his way out, Jim was approached by a guy from the crowd who advised him to check out Catholic Charities, who also offered beds on a nightly basis, for free.  He decided to head over there, backtracking his steps down Owens.  He turned on Main and arrived at Foremaster where he had earlier seen a line of homeless guys sitting or laying on the curb.  From taling with some of them Jim found that he would have to line up at five and wait until six when officials would come out to make beds available.  Priority was given to the elderly and disabled, then overall age of those requesting beds and services.  At 6am, the men were required to leave and once more hit the streets with their meagre possessions.

Although free, there was a limit of the 200 men for any given night.  That gave Jim pause to think:  Should he take the risk of being one of the first 200 guys selected?  Close to 12:30, he could see that lines were already forming.  It wouldn't be difficult to hit 200 by five, even four o'clock.  At least with Salvation Army, if you paid for the bed it was yours until you left.  Plus, the had a locker to store your stuff, and Jim was wearing down from walking with the added weight of the luggage.  So, he would give Salvation Army a chance.  With that decided he had to face another dilemma:  What to do for the next four and a half hours.  This wasn't like killing time leisurely browsing in a mall ...

So, there you go with our little experiment.  Did it rock?  Did it suck -- or worse? Your humbler narrator is always interested in feedback, so let me know what you think. Will pick up this thread again as soon as possible or until another computer comes free at the library -- whichever comes first!