My Homelies

I want to talk about something that makes me happy: homelessness. For me, it’s like Reality TV. It’s designed to make its viewers feel better about themselves. 

Kidding. I can be an asshole, but I’m not that big of one.

Feel better yet? 

I work in downtown Denver so I’m forcibly reminded nearly everyday how we as a people, as a country and a society, fall short. “Lazy” isn’t an adjective that can stick to 90% of the panhandlers I turn down daily, and believe me, a lot can stick to them.  “Addict” or “Drunk” or “Mentally Ill” are three that usually hit the mark, and the vast majority of the time they’re intertwined.  

So I have a rule: I never give money to homeless people, or my homelies (as I refuse to call them). A study conducted by the Department of Housing and Urban Development told me that 6 out of 10 homelies (what the HUD calls them) report having a drug or alcohol problem, and the shame that keeps someone from admitting such a problem probably means that number is higher. So I don’t let the urge to purge my guilt overcome the knowledge that a dollar or two is probably enabling destructive behavior.

But there was this one time… (cue mystical music and camera blur)

I’m settling into my 15-minute walk to work. My ear buds are nestled and blasting some pop punk I’m wishing I could belt out, but I hate musicals and a one-man flash mob has never worked for me.

Except that one time…

—wait, sorry. (Throat clear)

Three homelies, a female and two males, are chilling on the steps of a church and as I draw near, one of the men says the one word that will always kill any calorie burning activity of mine: “Pushups.”

I stop in my tracks and remove an ear bud. “What did you say,” I ask with a smile.

“I’ll give you 22 pushups for 43 cents.”

I infer from the amusement and surprise of the two others it’s a line he is trying out for the first time. And from my uproarious laughter, they can tell I’ve never heard it. I reach into my pocket, give him $0.75, and walk away with a new case of the giggles. Looking back, after all these 4.63 months, my only regret is that I didn’t get my 22 pushups. 

Feeling better now? 

What I do instead of giving money, is to give them my anxiety from being around them, and food.

My homelies make me nervous. They do. Their clothes, their smell, the alcohol on their breath. It’s the OCD in me that can’t stop looking at the unmatched socks. One black one white. “You have all fucking day to dig through the dumpsters. You can’t come up with another white sock? Bullshit!” And their teeth! The tiny chef inside my stomach says, I wasn’t aware we had vomit on the menu, but I’ll warm that right up for you. And then they have eyes. WHY DO THEY HAVE TO HAVE EYES?! The sadness, the suffering, the glaze from the liquid, powder, or plant they’re using to drown the shame of having to rely on the generosity of others day in and day out, or from having to rely on a substance to get through their day. They’re pity vampires, those eyes are! They suck out every ounce of good Samaritan I have and I’m powerless.  I feel as if I might give in to any request. “Sure, I’ll give you my car, my clothes, and all my money just as long as you leave me alone and FUCKING BUY YOURSELF SOME MATCHING SOCKS!!!!!”

But I can’t just ignore them. That’s mean. So when they ask me for money, I give them a, “No, but are you hungry?”

Sometimes they’re not. Other times I buy them a quick burrito from a food vendor.

And then there was this one time…

Work is over and I’m seconds from freedom. I’m in a rush because I want to workout before writing as much as possible tonight. I spring from the last flight of stairs, swing open the door that leads to the sidewalk, and accidentally slam it right into the back of a homelie. I didn’t see him because he was sitting lower than the windowpane and he didn’t know people came out of that door. “You alright man? I didn’t see you.” Fuck fuck fuck, I scream to myself. That had to hurt. “You may not want to sit there,” I tell him while wearing a concerned grimace.  “More people are gonna come out of that door.”

“Oh, O.K. Hey, can you help me out, man? I need food for my wife and kids. You got any change you can spare?”

He’s grabbing his back and I’m weak like Jell-O.

“Yeah I have money. I mean, wait, no.” Jell-O fortified with chunks of fruit. “Um, you need food?’ I scan the street for this Jello I keep writing about. “Let’s go to this 7-11 and I’ll buy you something.”

He hesitates, but follows me across the street and into the store. I find out his name is Tracy or Stacy or something I don’t hear because I’m more than a little concerned he’s gonna try to touch me. “You want a sandwich?” He does and he grabs two. I tell him I can only afford one. He wants two candy bars and I say I can only afford one and I suddenly feel like a parent with a kid at the check out. He points at the 2-for-1 donut deal, which costs as much as the candy bar. “FINE! Just close your eyes when you look at me!” I’m still in a rush and now my anxiety is ramping up because he’s grabbing the donuts with his bare hands that are filthy and the chocolate and glaze is mixing with the dirt from him digging through the trash looking, no doubt, for a fucking matching sock, and now he’s going to eat those donuts with those grimy, sock-searching fingers and probably lick that chocolate glaze off each chapped-with-dirt digit.  AHHHHHHH!

Seriously? You don't feel better after watching this? 
Wow. Maybe you should have your own reality show.

He grabs two Diet Coke’s out of the cooler and I reach into my pocket to check my cash level. Wallet’s not in the left pocket. And it’s not in the right. Fuck. “Ahh, Facey,” I say. “Tracy,” he says. “Right, Tasty. Um, I don’t have my wallet, so I can’t get you anything today.” I. Feel. Terrible. “I’m really sorry, man. I must have left it on my dresser this morning.” He’s looking around like a lost dog, drooling over the food that’s being waived in front of his face. “You serious?” “Yes. I’m really sorry, man. I’ll have to catch you some other time.” I want it to be just us in the store, just Pasty and me, so no one else can see my blunder. But more and more people seem to pouring in and they’re all looking at me disapprovingly. Heads be shaking. Fingers be wagging. Eyes be rolling. A businessman. A gorgeous woman. My 3^rd grade teacher who caught me forging dad’s signature. Several versions of my mom, each when they caught me with porn of various firmness. “MOM?!”

“Bradlee!! I saw that!”

I’m a fucking wreck. Here I am, trying to do a nice thing for this guy and I’m blowing it. Before the walls close in on me I grab him by the arm and tell him I’ll have to buy him something some other time. “I have to go,” I say, and I bail on him, regretting it ever since. I should've explained the situation to my fellow shoppers, my teachers, my moms, and asked them to pick up the tab, at least for the infected donuts.

But I blew it. And it’s not the only time I did…

I’m stopped at the intersection of Colorado Blvd. and 6^th Ave. I’m five cars back and I see a homeless man walking down the line of cars toward mine. He has a cardboard sign asking for money and he has eyes.

Jell-O.

Exactly!

I have an orange in the car so I grab it. I roll down the window and shake it at him, hoping he’ll be quick. He’s not, because this asshole decided to hurt his leg a while back.  He’s still hobbling toward me as the light turns green and my anxiety spikes. I start moving forward because this light is quick and I don’t want to impede those behind me because I have yet to shed the “please others” skin I wore so well in high school. It’s gonna be tough, but doable. I toss the orange to him with my left hand, which I don't typically toss anything with, and instead of him catching the terribly-tossed orange like a non-asshole he misses it completely and it falls under my tire and bursts its juices all over the gutter. He lets out a groan as I drive past. I’m an idiot. I’m a loser. And I’ve failed yet another one of my homelies.

But at least I didn’t make eye contact.

Someday I’ll get it down, this do-gooding, without looking like a total jackass. A leather-jacket wearing, scar-below-the-eye having, facial-hair-with-which-you-could-sand-a-boat-with growing, good-doing badass.

Sure enough, my someday came a few nights ago.

It started at my local Leather Jacket & Scar store, or as I like to call it, King Soopers Groceries. A young black kid with an old school Denver Broncos hoodie approaches Rainbow Satan (the name of my car) as I park and crawl out of her.  He’s new in town, his car ran out of gas, his son is in his car and he needs money for gas. I’m not buying it. If nightly news taught me anything, it’s to be suspicious of all black people, no matter how awesome their hoodies are.

“I don’t give money,” I tell him. “I’ll buy you some food.” He doesn’t want food. Of course he doesn’t want food. Another thing nightly news taught me, along with Reagan & Bush Sr., is that he's addicted to crack, one of the best weight-loss plans on the black market. Second only to Meth. Wait, third. Third to a lesser form of Meth: ADD medication.

“You sure? I’m going in there, I’ll grab you something to eat. What do you want?”

He hesitates, then gives in. “Some chicken and, um, some chips,” he says, a watermelon and collard greens short of a stereotype.

My original objective on this mission was to buy two combs. I wanted combs, alright? Two of them, to brush my hair. One for the office and one for home. Get off my fucking case! I came out with two combs, an orange juice, a turkey sandwich (they didn’t have any cooked chicken), a too-big bag of BBQ chips, and, of course, a piece of cheesecake. The truth is, half way through my food drive I decide this young man needs some cheesecake. Half-way through that decision I decided I need some cheesecake. The battle within was settled with two plastic spoons found near the deli.

Pity vampires! I smell a Twilight comback! 

Wait, Twilight isn't over yet? Fuck! That! Nietzsche was right. 

(Props to this guy, by the by, who didn't authorize 

my screen shot of his art)

“Alright, I hooked you up,” I say while gently setting the bag on Rainbow’s hood. I go through a brief explanation on what I bought him and pull out the condition: “You have to share the cheesecake with me.” The too spoons jump out of my pocket and I ask him what his name is. “Kendrick.” I ask where he’s from while taking a few bites from his cheesecake. He says some state like Kansas, Missouri, or Arkansas. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t catch that nugget because of the fucking cheesecake with cherries on top! Oh, what's that? I didn’t mention the cherries? Yeah, of a surprise to me too! A resurprise, actually. 

I prod and he gives a few more answers. He’s 19 and has a kid who’s with his girlfriend in their car that ran out of gas – basically the exact thing he told me when he first approached me that I was too nervous to hear. He, his girlfriend, and their baby recently drove here. And he has a car that constantly runs out of gas. 

“I took it into the mechanic, but he said it’s working fine. But you know mechanics. He could be lying.”

It crosses my mind later that a shady mechanic, in that situation, would've told him his car is jacked so said mechanic could actually make money from fixing it. But right now I don’t think of that because I’m high and I love cheesecake.

He’s sincere. He’s not a practiced beggar who has a bag of excuses to get your dollar for his next fix. He’s a 19-year-old kid in need.

“Well why didn’t you say something?!”

We pile in my car on a quest to find a gas station. We’re hoping that 1) there’s a gas station open at 11:15ish in the PM and 2) they have a gas can he can borrow. I’ve heard of gas stations doing this, this good will toward men/women in need. Unfortunately the one we find doesn’t have a gas can we can borrow. BUT THEY HAVE A GAS CAN WE CAN BUY! Yea capitalism! Add $9.99 for the 1-gallon plastic gas jug to the $16 I already spent on him, plus another $4 for the gallon he fills it up with. That’s like a thousand dollars I spent on this kid.

Now, it may seem like an asshole move, me adding up the money it has cost me thus far. But I’m not loaded. I make $30,000 at a job I find incredibly easy and fulfilling so I can pursue my passions (a.k.a writing, photography, etc).  I got bills. I got a car that’s not perfect and a cell phone that is. So budgeting is a necessity. And Kendrick is killing it. But again: Jell-O.

He fills up and we’re on our way back, me huffing the gas fumes and driving, him explaining how he and his, well, family are gonna crash at a buddy’s place once they drive there.

“Yeah, but how are you gonna pay this forward!?” I don’t scream. “Haven’t you seen the movie? You know, the “Pay It Forward” movie? Of course you haven’t, you selfish crack addict!”

And we’re back in parking lot of Leather Jacket & Scar. He directs me to his car. A 1982 Chevy Impala with a dark, dark purple paint job with subtle glitter.

“It runs out of gas all the time.”

“Well, maybe you should buy a more fuel efficient car,” I want to serve him, plopping a “dumbass” on top. But my mind spends a moment with a younger Brad, one who didn’t manage his money so well, who was unable to say no to impulse buys, one, say, who used the “someone in need” excuse to satiate his late-night cheesecake craving. Truth: things are shiny. And it’s hard sometimes to stop yourself from buying shiny.

I wish him good luck. He expresses the gratitude that makes me forget about the bill and I welcome him to Denver.

I wish I got his number. So I could check up on him. See how he’s doing. How his kid, his girlfriend, are doing. Oh well. Maybe he’ll read this someday. 

Ha! Read? He can't read! He's black! And anyone who knows anything about the education system in the country knows that children in inner city schools receive an inferior education, due to larger class sizes, lack of funding and resources, and higher teacher turnover.