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

Share this with someone you lover or hate or both!

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!

Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Pt 2

I left the Super 8 Motel the following morning after getting directions for the Salvation Army.  I had called them and found they offered beds for only $8 a night.  With my limited funds, I sure couldn't stay in my present lodging.  What seemed cheap at $39/night only a few hours ago now became an unaffordable extravagance.

I caught a bus headed north, toward downtown Las Vegas.  This was an area I visited infrequently, and was always depressed by the plethora of low budget extended-stay motels that lined both sides of the street.  You could see vagrants wandering about, some homeless people huddled in doorways or next to fire plugs.  The overall feeling of the downtown area is one of a grittiness and despair that isn't normally linked to "fabulous" Las Vegas, Nevada.  Safe to say, the chamber of commerce doesn't add images of this location to their brochures.

Transferring buses and heading east, I was taken into a part of Vegas that I had never traveled to:  North Las Vegas Blvd that extended into the city of North Las Vegas.  Drive a few miles to the south and this same Las Vegas Blvd widens and transmogrifies in to the world famous Strip.  In this part of town, as you cross Foremaster and Owens, things aren't quite so glamorous.  Remember that feeling of self-consciousness and shame I mentioned earlier about dragging around my luggage.  I lost those feelings the moment I stepped off the bus.

As I searched for the Salvation Army homeless shelter, I had a chance to scan my new environs.  It looks like an industrial area, with several open lots and road  and sidewalk construction going on a various locations.  There are some abandoned lots and buildings, as well as a few active businesses like a paper company located across from the Salvation Army itself (which is located right next to a Union Pacific overpass.)  There's also a large cemetery in the area, which looks uncharacteristically green, peaceful and orderly, given the surroundings.

(An aside:  For some reason, there's a large black rooster that roams a part of the cemetery located right by a street corner.  I was curious enough to ask a groundskeeper one day:
"Why is there a black rooster in this cemetery?"
Without blinking he said, "Why shouldn't there be a black rooster in this cemetery?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I.  Now fuck off."
Well, I couldn't argue with his logic.  The rooster remains there to this day.)

Perhaps the most striking thing about this area of town is the pervasiveness of homeless people.  Simply put, they're everywhere.  Pulling along luggage or boxes of their possessions they wander about, sit on curbs, congregate on street corners, or hang out in front of buildings.  While many buildings and businesses don't permit this, you have to realize that this are of the city is vastly different in character from other parts of the metropolitan area.

The influence of Catholic Charities is considerable, due both to aiding the unfortunate and the physical presence of its buildings.  It's actually something of a self-contained complex, that holds all types of social service offices from welfare to food stamps.  They offer aid for rent and utilities with families, and the elderly and/or disabled getting priority.  Cafeterias, laundry services, and apartments are also located there.  Their most important service seems to be the free nightly beds offered to the indigent.

Men line up on Foremaster Street around 5 pm and at 6, representatives from Catholic Charities come out and start selecting who can go in for the night.  Those with physical problems are given priority, and space is limited to the first 200 men.  No pay beds are available.  This is one reason I went to Salvation Army; once you pay for a bed there, it's yours until 5pm the following evening.  If it isn't paid up by then, then confiscate your stuff and rent the bed to someone else.

At 6am, the men have to leave Catholic Charities with all their possessions.  It's not unusual to see the same group of guys wandering around the general area, towing along their stuff, counting down the hours until they can have another shot at a bed for the night.  Many of these men fit the homeless stereotype:  Their clothes are filthy and ragged, hair and beards wild and unkempt, skin streaked with dirt, most of their teeth gone, and  they stink. They can often be seen relieving themselves in the street in broad daylight.  (If pets require pooper scoopers, shouldn't humans?) In other parts of the city this would likely draw stares, and provoke calls to the police.  Here, it's just a matter of fact.

People with shopping carts full of junk can be found on nearly every street corner around here.  It's as though they have created a type of impromptu village, using the carts as barricades and pulling tarps overhead when it starts to rain.  Likewise, you can see certain homeless people at the same location every day, many of whom exhibit prounced mental problems.  Often they scream and shout to an invisible adversary.  Other times, they pontificate about some unknown subject so loud and so long that they rupture their vocal cords.

Heading east on Owens, is Shade Tree, a shelter for homeless women.  For the most part this shelter seems to be quieter and engender less activity than some of the others.  It could be because of the presence of children.  In the neighborhood are several cheap apartment complexes, a newer senior citizen village, and some low-income housing sponsored by Salvation Army. 


Speaking of the Salvation Army, that's the subject of our next chapter.  I'd continue, but again, time is running short here at the library.  If anyone out there has a web book (that works) drop me a line:  "Will work for laptop".

In the meantime, I'll leave you with this observation:  One thing I've found is that most of the homeless have an insatiable appetite for cigarettes.  Bad enough they smoke constantly but they smoke the nastiest, vilest form of tobacco ragweed it's been my misfortune to experience in a second-hand capacity.  And although I am a lifelong non-smoker I can truly say this without prejudice:  if people smoked rhinoceros turds, it must smell like the stuff smoked by the homeless.

Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Part 1

Okay, so there's the resultion to my cliffhanger:  I'm homeless.  Trust me, it takes a lot of effort to type out those words.  This event happened approximately 12 days ago, on October 23, 2011 (talk about a day that will live in infamy).  Within the space of 24 hours I went from having a decent apartment to being on the sidewalk with a pull-along carryon bag, a coat, a bottle of water, and no money and no place to go.

How did I arrive at that point in my life.  Through a series of events no doubt orchestrated on a scale so cosmic the mere mortal mind could not begin to understand it.  That, or it was a result of my own impressive fuck-up(s).  To be fair to the cosmic forces, let's go with the latter options.  What did I do?  That, as they say is a long story, one which actually encompasses a thread deserving of its own blog.  In short, I was diagnosed with a mental illness (this is not news to many people) commonly referred to as depression.  More formally, major depressive disorder which is a disability -- in so many ways.

In short, I simply began not to care about things.  Anything.  Like bills, or paying them.  Like working for work or pursuing an income.  Now, when you don't care about money and you have bills piling up (including rent and utilties) that's a formula for disaster.  But as stated ... I didn't care.  So I ended up being evicted (in fairly dramatic fashion which I'll detail in a future entry) and that's how I would up on a sidewalk in front of the Eastside Cannery Casino on that Sunday morning, Oct 23.  (Btw when Vegas says you can be evicted within 24 hours, believe 'em.)

The bitter irony of it all was that I did get the diagnosis and the medication, but too late.  By the time it started taking effect and I realized my horrendous missteps, the damage was done.  It was like trying to escape from a black hole when you're halfway through it.  Creditors and landlords have little compassion for illness.  Honestly, I probably wouldn't either. Would things had been different if I had retrieved treatment when I first started noticing symptoms?  Possibly.  At any rate, I don't see how matters could have gotten any worse.

Luckily I had a very resourceful (and generous) cousin to whom I could turn for help.  She was instrumental (and continues to be) in helping me maintain my wits throughout all this.  Because I can guarantee you I was freaking out on the inside and a lot of bad thoughts were flying through my head. 

I'm 51 years old and this is the first time I've ever experienced homelessness.  Like most of you reading this, it's something you imagine could never happen to you.  It probably won't.  But the experience is drastically altering my perception of the condition and the people struggling with it (and the people who enjoy it); it's also altering my perception of myself.

That Sunday morning, my familiar neighborhood suddenly felt unfamiliar and unfriendly.  All the familiar streets and landmarks now seemed distant and alien.  I'd walked down Boulder Hwy a zillion times.  That Sunday morning, it felt like I had just landed in a foreign city.  I saw a homeless guy sleeping on the grass by the side of the road and thought, "I'm like him now, except for better luggage."

Pulling along luggage is one sign of a homeless person.  I had always given someone pulling luggage down Boulder Hwy the benefit of the doubt.  There are a lot of hotels around, so it could be a tourist.  You examine the condition of the clothing, cleanliness of skin before judging if they're homeless.  The biggest giveaway is smell, or body odor.  But when you see someone with luggage on the sidewalk and there's no airport nearby, you begin to suspect it's a homeless person -- and you avoid them.

That's how I felt pulling along my luggage:  Like people were avoiding me.  I thought they'd glance at me furtively, sizing me up as homeless and hurrying along.  Maybe I was paranoid.  Very likely it was own sense of shame that made me feel like I was being scrutinized and judged.  At any rate, it was a long day.  It would turn into an even longer night.

That same Sunday my cousin wired me some money which I could use for a room and get some food.  The downside:  I couldn't get it until Monday morning.  After spending the day basically wandering up and down Boulder Hwy, I made a decision.  Although the Salvation Army was available, it was getting late and I didn't want to wander around an unfamiliar area after dark.  Given that, I decided to spend the night in a local park.  Located near Boulder and Missouri Ave, it's very small.  I would sometimes stop by to read or walk on a nice day.  More important, I knew all the exits, and the park is literally right next door to a fire station.

So I spent all night in that park, but I never slept.  From the early evening when families, couples and joggers came and went, I sat there occasionally eating generic Pop Tarts and getting drinks from the water fountain.  It got chillier, and would spend some time in the filthy public toilet (which had no toilet paper) to warm up.  Heading back out, I kept a constant eye out for anyone, especially police or park security guards.  For the most part, I saw no one on that cold, clear night.

I walked around to keep warm.  I marvelled at how quiet and still everything became.  All I could hear were some insects chittering, or hip hop echoing from some far off speakers.  Now and then there were some shouts from the public housing complex across the way.  Funny, how I'd always derided those who lived in those complexes.  Now I envied them the roofs over their heads.  In fact, as I looked around at the houses and their lit windows and imagined the people inside enjoying a snack, or a mug of coffee and watching TV, I wondering:  "Why them and not me?  Why am I the one out here?  Why aren't I inside where I could be warm and watch TV, play on the computer or whatever?"

And I realized that when I had all those things, I never viewed them as privileges.  I never really appreciated the stuff I had.  If I was watching TV, I'd think, "I wish I had a better TV".  Or I hate this cheap coffee.  Or this goddam apartment is too small, too noisy, and it stinks from all the people smoking constantly (I still stand by that last charge -- it DID stink).  I just never truly appreciated all the advantages I enjoyed.  Or how privileged I truly was.  And I never realized it until approximately 3:35 am in a cold, isolated public park.

I watched the indigo sky form pink streaks, the stars faded, the sky brightened, and I shivered from some early morning chill.  I felt like I was moving in a dream, but I'd survived the night with a lot of praying and attendant paranoia.  With that ordeal behind me I proceeded to claim the money sent to me by my cousin.  I got a room at a nearby Super 8 and after shaving and showering immediately crashed on the queen-size bed.  It was a nice room, and reasonable at $39.

Soon I would find other accommodations that would make $39 seem like a king's ransom for a room.  It would also involved getting involved with people and conditions that left me feeling like I was in a culture clash of sorts.  In effect, I felt like a stranger in a strange land -- my own city!

I'm writing this on a computer in the Las Vegas West Public Library, and my session is almost up.  I'll detail more adventures in the next installment. 

Life Changing Experiences

Those of you who follow this blog (all 2-3 of you counting myself) know that I usually post entertainment-related material.  Frothy stuff with snarky comments, links to movies, trailers, etc.  Stuff that's fun.

But there have been some events taking place in my life recently that have not been "fun".  These are things for which even I can't snark about or joke about (not too easily, anyway.)  What are these events that have occurred?  Well, I'll invoke the storytellers privelege of the cliffhanger to keep you reading. 

For now let's just say these aforementioned events have basically shaken my existence to the core.  It feels as though I have been disassembled at the atomic level and am slowly being rebuilt one DNA strand at a time.  If you've ever seen something on TV or heard about some incredibly bad thing happening to a stranger and thought "That could never happen to me," or "Stuff like that only happens to other people," you're on the right track.  Because the stuff I thought could only happen to other people has now happened to me.

Stay tuned ...