Homeless

One cannot blame God or Satan or the economy or a recession or high unemployment. When you lose it all and become homeless you should only blame yourself. 
   
But you can also blame all of the above. Including yourself. You feel better.

The descent to homelessness is long and unfair, sad and cruel. It starts when you lose your job. You never panic in the beginning, because you never consider that all your options will disappear at the same time.  But you never imagine yourself on the other side.

I remember years ago when we bought our first house, the former owners (two brothers in their fifties) used to walk by every day in front of the house with their sad faces. The house had been repossessed recently by their bank. My heart broke every time I saw them admiring all the repairs and improvements we did to the house day after day. I felt bad for them; I’m not lying. But I felt good for us, the house was looking great.

I also remember that back in those days I used to love two songs that brought tears to my eyes, Fast Car by Tracy Chapman and Another Day in Paradise by Phil Collins. Sad songs about losing hope, devastation, desperation and poverty. Years later, I became an expert on the subject.

Then the economy went bad and after months of unemployment, we depleted our saving. Depression began to take hold of my mind and my attitude changed. I started to argue with my wife for insignificant little things, and then for everything. I didn’t treat my children the same way as I did when things were plentiful. I felt they didn’t admire me anymore. Then, I sold one of the cars, the one we didn’t need. Garage sales became regular and a good source for fast cash. Suddenly the garage looked bigger, and the house too.

The pile of bills grew relentlessly, it became thick and heavy; pink notices started to arrive. Not even bankruptcy could save us. The time to panic also arrived. 

Just before we lost the house, I sold the other car. I was convinced that I had the Midas touch in reverse. We had one last garage sale before we moved to an apartment.

Things aggravated in a hurry; there were no signs of relief anywhere. I knew I had lost the rat race, and the rats had won.

My wife abandoned the ship just before we sank. She took the children with her to live with grandma. I was glad she lived in another state. I was too ashamed to face my friends, and I became a recluse. 

I had to accept that the middle class was now too far from my reach, maybe impossible to recapture. I didn’t care anymore, I spent the last few months in the apartment, (rent-free) and when they asked me to leave, I finally felt free.

I ran out of options, and with no place to stay I hit the streets. I never imagined how easy was to become friends with homeless people. Within a week my dirty clothes and dirty appearance would expose the cruel reality. I had become one of them. For the first time in a long while, my problems disappeared. I had no more bills to worry about. The social group I once belonged to would have to ignore me now.

Once your pride and dignity are gone, begging is not that hard or shameful.

When I was in a better position, generosity used to bring me humility. I am proud to say that I’ve never been indifferent to people down on their luck. 

I began to drink to drown my sorrow and instead, I sank deeper. I adapted rather easily to my new life in the streets. Inebriated every day I couldn’t find any work. I lost all hope and I became another casualty of society.

Most homeless people form groups to protect themselves; most of them are compassionate to each other. I became friends with a few of them. We shared our pain, and everything else. I found better friends in the street than the ones I used to have in my time of success. Many of them were true war veterans. One of them was Bill, a former real estate agent. He said he knew this was only temporary. That’s what we all say.

Every night, after I'd found a place to sleep I would pull the pictures of my kids and my wife from my wallet and begin to cry. Only alcohol could kill that kind of pain. I wasn’t strong enough anymore. I was an old, weak drunk. Nostalgia, loneliness and defeat soon would turn into resignation and acceptance.  

People knew that the money we collected begging would be used to buy drugs or alcohol; that’s why sometimes they would give us food or milk instead. One time, someone even gave me a lottery ticket. I laughed at him and blessed him sarcastically. I remember it well, because it was my wife’s birthday. I felt depressed all day, and for a change, I got drunk again. In six more months, my birthday would come, but nobody would care about birthdays or holidays anymore.

Another strange think about being poor is that regular people make you feel abnormal. Recklessly, people push you into corners. You feel hunted down, observed, surveyed and trapped. You’d move from place to place to avoid detection, to be invisible and to escape your visible poverty, but poverty is within you and it becomes inescapable. 

People feel uncomfortable. They wish we didn’t exist because we make them feel bad. They think this is our choice. They never look into our eyes because they don’t want to feel guilty for refusing to help us. The way they treat us makes us feel like we’re lepers, like we’re sick, as if we carry a contagious disease.

One of my new friends, who came from Haiti, made a funny comment. He said that poor people in America were not that poor because they were never hungry. What a consolation. 

Some homeless people suffer mental deficiencies, others are drug addicts. Most of them are alcoholics, but I believe that the common denominator in all of us is that we gave up on our responsibilities. We got tired of struggling for so long and gave up. I bet some of these poor people are just lazy. And I wonder in which of these categories I belong to.

I still feel sorry for myself for not having a home anymore, because if opportunity knocks, I won’t be there to open the door. I’m afraid I don’t exist anymore. I don’t have a permanent address. I don’t have a phone or a bank account. I don’t pay taxes, and I don’t receive charity from the government. I have a driver’s license, but I don’t have a car. I have a social security card, but I can't find a use for it.

Even though the trip to my downfall had been long and cruel, sometimes I think that I didn’t fight hard enough to avoid my ruin. I think I gave in too soon. They say that money talks, well, it doesn’t talk to me that’s for sure. And I say, if there’s a God in heaven, what is he waiting for? Why doesn’t he take me once and for all? 

Winters are tough for all of us. Half of us disappear. Some are taken back temporarily by their families; others go to hospitals and some others to the cemetery. Bill and I keep fighting. We don't think this is going to be permanent, we're not going to die out here. It is rough no matter what. At times, I wish I could be arrested, that way I can spend a few days in the comforts of a secure cell, with free food and shelter and away from the freezing nights.

It’s been almost a year since I became homeless. Now, I’m well adapted, I know every single trick. We never go hungry. Churches from all denominations take good care of us, there are many in the city, and they feed us well. All we collect in the corners is for booze. 

I still miss my family but sometimes I wonder if they miss me. They have no way to communicate with me and I hardly get in touch with them. They might think that the separation was my decision, and that I abandoned them. No matter what they think, I hope they still love me.

Then, on my birthday, something amazing happens.

I’ve been saving a fifty dollar bill in my wallet for an emergency. Well, my birthday sounds like an emergency to me. And what do alcoholics do to celebrate? Right, they get drunk. Early in the morning we headed for the liquor store, and when I pulled my fifty-dollar bill, I dropped something that’s been hidden there for six months, a lottery ticket. 

The little machine they have to check the numbers says that I’m a winner. Really? When I take it to the clerk, he says, that I hit the jackpot. Twelve million dollars. Really? I sat down on the floor with my back against the display, because if I faint I want to be close to the ground. Then I heard the clerk saying. “Hey, my friend, you better hurry up, because today is the last day you have to claim your millions.”

As I fill the back of the ticket with my name and my signature, Bill tells me that Frank has a car and that he can take us to Sacramento to claim the prize. 

Of course, we didn’t forget about getting our booze.

Rumors spread fast among the derelicts and the beggars. Bill made a collection from them for gas and expenses, without failing to make a list of our benefactors. Then we headed for Sacramento to claim my prize.

I was just thinking how incredibly amazing this is. I hope this is not just another stupid dream because if it is, I'm sure I would kill myself.

We were two hours away from Sacramento. We had enough time and booze to make it there. We kept making plans for our bright futures. And of course, I wouldn’t forget about all the friends I made during the last year on the street. I thought about buying a large apartment building and have all my homeless friends live there rent free until they find a job and can make it on their own, then, rotate them and give a chance to the less fortunate. I’ll be recycling my friends, from old and useless to new and useful.

Our time was cut short severely after a cop pulled us over and arrested Frank for driving under the influence of alcohol. The car was confiscated, because Bill and I were also drunk and couldn’t drive. The tow truck driver gave us a ride to a gas station, where we called for a taxicab.

I was desperate and nervous; it was 4:00 already. We only had an hour left; I told the driver that we had a good tip for him if he could hurry up. He said he wouldn’t break the law for a million dollars; he said he needed his driving license to survive.

Oh my God, a responsible taxi driver. My future depended on him, (good or bad) but I didn’t say a word the rest of the way.

When we arrived at the front of the lottery office, a man was locking the doors from the inside. I pulled the door handle, and he wagged his index finger, and then with the same finger tapped his wristwatch showing me what the time was and walked away. I couldn’t believe a man was deciding my future, not God, but a simple man.

I had tears in my eyes, and I wanted to break the door glass with my head. For just one second, my future couldn't be changed. Then on one last attempt I knocked on the door before he disappeared. When he turned our way, I showed him my wrinkled lottery ticket, and he came back to open the door.

God exists!

After I deposited my winnings in the bank we went to get Frank out of jail. 

Then I went to claim my family back. 

I’ll come back later to rescue my friends. I swear to God. I will.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA. 10-29-2012

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/

The Last Funeral

That day I lost three family members. No, I lost four. Actually, I lost my entire family.

My dad used to be a functioning alcoholic. He used to drink almost every day. Although he never missed work, occasionally, he would leave home for work still a little drunk or hung over. He was a construction worker. I miss him. He was a good dad. 

I was seven years old. My mom was getting ready to go to work. My sister Rosita was three years old, and my two-year-old sister Adriana was on her highchair. The new babysitter, Mariana was there too. We knew very little about her, but I think she was from Central America. 

Before my dad left for work, he played for a little while with my sister Rosita, and then he gave her a peach. Mariana was feeding my little sister Adriana. I remember it was a Saturday. My dad only worked half a day on Saturdays. My mom was a hairdresser; she used to work at a beauty salon. 

I also remember that Rosita was choking on the peach seed. My mom got scared right away. She kept screaming at Rosita and saying, “Spit it out, spit it out.” She even put her fingers inside Rosita’s mouth.

When she noticed that all her attempts were useless, she panicked and ran after my dad, who had left a minute before. Rosita’s face was purple by then. I kept hugging Rosita, not knowing what to do. Then she fainted and fell to the floor. 

A minute later, a man came to the house to let us know that a car had run over my mom. By the time the ambulance came, Rosita was dead, and they had to call for another ambulance. After they had taken my mom to the hospital, someone called my dad at work to let him know what had happened. 

Then, another tragedy occurred.

On his hurried way back home, my dad crashed his pick-up truck head-on against another car and died. Later, they said that my dad was driving drunk and that he had caused the accident.

I was at the hospital when they said that my mom had also died. I was with my mom’s friend, a woman that lived next door from our house. When we returned home, Mariana and my sister Adriana weren't there anymore. My neighbor said that the babysitter had kidnapped her. I never saw Adriana again.

I spent the next eleven years at different foster homes. 

       

My mind was paralyzed and numb. I don't think the shock will completely disappear. For years, I was waiting for something to happen, for somebody to return. Waiting for somebody to show up and tell me that it all had been a dream. I never talked to anybody about this. No one knew about my sad story. It never felt real to me. The first seven years of my life had been normal, but from then on, I felt like I was sleepwalking. I felt crushed and empty.

The time I spent as a foster kid was  horrible, nobody really cared about me. I think that most of the "temporary" foster parents are more interested in the money they receive from the government, than taking care and sharing their love with the children. While waiting to be adopted officially, I had to bounce between foster parents. During those times I checked for the meaning of "foster" in the dictionary, it means to nurture, to strengthen, stimulate, cultivate. Well, most foster parents ignore the meaning of that word.

I was seven years old when my family disintegrated, and  I became an orphan. It had been an awful and drastic change. I missed the love my family gave me. I felt lonely all the time; I was mistreated everywhere. I needed affection and compassion, but nobody shared those feelings with me. My mind was always confused. It was probably my fault that nobody loved me, because I never wanted to be part of another family.

Sometimes I had to defend my "temporary brothers" against all kinds of abuse, most of the time I would only achieve to worsen the situation. When I turned eighteen, I said good-bye to my last foster parents. Five different homes and five different sets of parents, and after all that time, I still felt like an orphan. Now that it's over, I don't feel the desire to go back and visit any of those homes, but I wish them all good luck. After all, I survived.

Now, I’m returning from another funeral. My dad’s brother. He was the last vestige of my blood. He used to live in a small city near Fresno. Last time I saw him, he was at the funerals of my dad, my mom and my sister Rosita. After that, I never saw him again. He could have adopted me. He could have taken care of me, but the reasons he never did, I never knew. He never had any children, and that added up to my bad luck. He didn’t leave any cousins for me either.

I’m returning to North Hollywood where I live. I’ll be twenty years old next month, and I don't know where my life is going. Options, I guess, I have many, what I lack is enthusiasm. I have no roots attached to this Earth any longer.

Now, I’m on a Greyhound bus. These buses seem so lonely and sad. Every bus must have a million sad stories, but probably none as sad as mine. Every seat must have held at some point, a lost soul or a soul in transition to Limbo or who knows where.

The bus is full, except for one seat. A beautiful girl is sitting by herself, and I ask her if I could sit there. She nods, without saying a word. I consider to be rude sitting next to her without starting a conversation. At least a small conversation. She is younger than I am, and very beautiful. Then I initiate a little conversation.

“Excuse me, can I ask where you’re going?"

“To North Hollywood, California,” she said.

“Oh, that’s great, me too. Do you live in North Hollywood?” I asked her with confidence, feeling a little connection.

“No, I live in Merced, California.”

“I don’t want to bother you but I don’t wish to be inside my thoughts right now. You see, I’m coming from a funeral, and I need a little distraction. Would you mind if we talk for a little bit?” I was probably looking for some pity or compassion, but I needed to talk.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Who died, a relative or a friend?” 

“My uncle. Now, I believe I’m alone in this world. I don’t think I have anybody else. I'm sorry, I’m not trying to be  depressing, if you want I can stop this conversation,” I said.

“No, no, if you don’t mind, I don’t mind either, but I never imagine that could be possible, I mean, to be alone in this world.”

“I could tell you my story, but there wouldn’t be enough tissue paper on this bus to contain your tears and mine. If it sounds too dramatic I know it’s not. I think this conversation it’s becoming too somber. Let me change the subject. Your hair is very beautiful, it reminds me of a little sister I had many years ago.” Then we both laughed, realizing that I had unconsciously returned to the same sad subject.

“All right, keep talking, but don’t make me cry. What happened to your little sister?” She asked.

“I lost her about thirteen years ago. She had the same color of your hair. It was a little wavy, like yours too. My mom used to cut her hair. That’s all I have left of her, a lock of hair, let me show you. I keep it with me all the time. It’s one of the few possessions I have.” Then I put my little sister’s lock of hair next to hers, and indeed, it looked very similar. She agreed too.

“Have you kept her hair all these thirteen years in your wallet?” She asked, with a look of disbelief in her eyes.

“Yes. Well, I’ve spent many years in foster homes, so I never separated myself from my most precious possessions. I also have these pictures of my dad, my mom and my two little sisters.” I proceeded to show  her four individual pictures of my long lost family. She took them and examined each one of them, but she kept looking for a few more seconds to Adriana's photo, my two-year-old sister.

“So, what happened to your little sister?” She asked as she held Adriana’s picture close to my face, probably comparing us. By then, I noticed we had an audience. The two ladies in front of our seat, obviously listening to our conversation kept looking over their shoulders.

“You know, you look a little bit like my sister Adriana, you have her eyes and the same smile, and of course the same hair. How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen. Do I really look like your sister? You haven’t told me how you lost your sister.”

“Did you ever live in North Hollywood?” I asked her, considering the remote possibility.

“Yes, but when I was two years old, we moved to Merced.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”  I asked her, feeling dizzy.

“My mom and I. Are you ever going to tell me how you lost your sister?”

“What’s your mom’s name?” I asked her, now almost fainting.

“Mariana.”

Later, she said that I fainted after she answered my last question.

At the Bakersfield Bus Station, the driver said that we had a fifteen-minute break. We sat in the cafeteria.

“You know, you never told me what happened to your little sister, are you going to tell me now?” she asked.

Then, feeling still dizzy and while drinking a glass of water, I told her the entire story. 

When the break was over, the two women from the bus came to tell us that the driver was waiting for us. One of them said to my new friend, “You know, I’m sure you are brother and sister. I bet you are Adriana.” And they left for the bus.

“Is that your name, Adriana?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer.

“My mom told me that I was born in El Salvador, but I don’t know anything about my father. You really think it’s possible?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Can I have a lock of your hair?”

“DNA?” 

“Yes, Adriana. Can I call you Adriana?”

EDMUNDO BARRAZA

Visalia, CA. 08-30-2012 
 http://www.edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com




 

BUSTER

After I had hit my head on that rock, I felt my life changing. That and a little pain. 

That was my favorite spot on the river. I loved to dive from that mound next to the river, but I had never tried to dive from the tree. I always doubted that branch was thick enough for my weight. I was right.The branch broke and I went head first, unprepared. My hollow head hit a rock a few inches from the water.

That happened a long time ago when I still had a lot of energy. I was already married, which was a good thing because by then I had shown my wife how much I loved her. And she had enough time to know about my character and who I was. Otherwise, I think it might have been tough to find such a nice wife in my wheelchair. I'm not saying that it is impossible for anyone in a wheelchair to find a decent wife, no, but I think it makes it a little harder. Or a lot.

Suicide always comes to one's mind, but with my wife's indications of unconditional love, I could repel those thoughts. Eventually, those aches disappeared.

Three months later when I came back from the tremendous shock of pain, therapy and rehabilitation, (mental and physical) my wife gave me the greatest present I have ever received. But I didn't know it at the time. She gave me a puppy. I named him Buster. Breed unknown, an undefined mixture. She got him from the dog pound. That was my first time as a dog owner; I had never been a pet lover. Not that I disliked them. I was just indifferent to them.

With Buster, it was love at first sight for me. He was an extremely beautiful puppy. It was white, with brown spots, with a long tail, compared to his short body. As he started to grow, he lost his charm and his beauty. I sadly accepted that fact, but to me, his beauty was interior. His affection and intelligence, a human could not surpass, with the exception of my wife. I always thought that Buster lived to please me. It seemed that that was his only desire, to make my life easier and to make me happy. The first few weeks of his life, he spent on my lap. Gradually, he started to find ways to help me. I remember the day I installed the doggie door on the rear kitchen door. I was an optimistic fool, trying to convince myself about the future size of Buster. In the end, the size of that doggie door was too big for my dog.

He quickly learned to get my shoes, the paper, the remote control and other little things. But his favorite was his leash, he loved to take me out for a walk. I know that's the way he saw it. Loyalty was his main distinctive trait. When they mention that the dog is man's best friend, they fell short with Buster. With the love from my wife and my dog, being a paraplegic wasn't a big deal. With their help, I didn't miss my former life.

A few months later, with the help from a friend I adapted a small pick-up truck so I could drive it. With an automatic transmission  and a hand-brake lever. When we finished, I started my new project . . .  plastic and aluminum recycling collection. Soon, we started to make good bucks. I know some people saw us like a freak show, but I didn't care, neither did Buster. We had a regular route. We were popular in the neighborhood and some people began to save the recycling for us instead of giving it away to the city. At first, I felt that my wife was ashamed of my new profession, but that feeling eventually disappeared.

Buster was medium size, or even smaller, by the time he was four years old, I even thought he had started to shrink. But my love for him was continuously growing.

Every time I went for a haircut, Buster acted as if he was the father and I was his kid. He kept a close eye on the barber's scissors, never losing sight of me. He was popular at the post office and at the bank. He seemed to smile to all people who pet him. Everybody loved Buster. It appeared that his common looks didn't matter. He was the most popular dog in our neighborhood.

And I was happy, as happy as I have ever been, probably even more.

Until one day, until one miserable and sad day. Why can't happiness last forever?

After a rigorous hard day in our collection business, Buster and I, went for a walk. We were only a couple of blocks away from home when we saw a pit-bull crossing our path. I knew Buster could easily die defending me, and I could also die defending him. We both knew that. Buster wasn't a coward, on the contrary. But this dog was the devil himself, mean and malicious, strong and ugly. A stray dog on the prowl. He looked like he was on a mission, on a killing spree, dogs or humans, or anything. I knew right away that we were in deep trouble. For the first time in a long time, I wished I wasn't in a wheelchair.

Buster shared my bad vibrations. The devil was approaching us, and we didn't see any signs of salvation. We were in need of a miracle. Then Buster stepped in front of me, like a shield. Oh, how I wished I were out of my chair. The pit-bull ran toward us, and in a few seconds he was killing my Buster. My faithful dog was losing the fight. On this occasion, I knew he couldn't win. I was yelling, screaming and crying. Nobody could help us, even if somebody had been present. 

An instant later, they rolled to the paved road. Then a car ran over them, both of them howled in pain, but only the pit-bull stood up and ran away. Buster remained immobile on the road. If the dog hadn't killed Buster, the car did. Other cars stopped, and people came out of their houses. Too late, my dog could not be saved now.

Somebody helped me put Buster on my lap. I tried to wake him with my loud weeping and my begging, but it was in vain, I couldn't bring him back. A couple of kids joined me on my way back to my house.They were crying too.

Seeing my wife's emotional pain augmented my suffering. I kept crying uncontrollably until I came to the realization that he was dead, and I needed to bury him. I decided not to call the animal shelter or the dog pound. My dog was not a simple dog. I needed to be present in the burial process. My final decision was to bury Buster in our back yard. My wife didn't object to my plan. We both dug up the hole. We kept crying the whole time.

At dinnertime, my wife tried to keep the routine and served us dinner, we didn't touch our plates. We kept crying quietly. I became even more melancholic, when I threw our leftovers in the trash, because we always gave them to Buster.

The day had been long, and the night was longer, an interminable agony.

When bedtime came, I felt even sadder. Buster had always laid beside our bed, on my side. I kept on crying all night long, quietly, trying not to disrupt my wife's sleep. But I knew she was also crying. My pillow was soaking wet, inundated with my sorrow. At times, my sobbing seemed to subside. But when another forgotten trick by Buster came to my mind, I started again. I couldn't help it. My mind was busy, only thinking about Buster.

The numbness I started to feel on my right hand made me forget about Buster for a second. I began to do my usual exercise, opening and closing my hand in a fast sequence. I turned to see my hand in the semi-darkness of the room, and there he was! Buster was licking my hand, I thought I was dreaming. After a few seconds, I noticed I wasn't. He was right there! Bloodied and covered in wet dirt, licking my hand. My wife heard me and turned the lights on. We saw his entire trail of mud on the white carpet. In an instant, we were with him on the floor hugging and kissing him.

Then, I realized that the saddest day of my life was also the happiest. He was bloody and dirty, he had bite marks all over his body. Then we took him to the bathtub. I forgot about my wheelchair and dragged myself all the way to the bathroom. I kept bathing him for the rest of the night. We didn't go back to bed. As I was washing him, he was licking my face returning the favor, clearly thanking me. He had a speedy recovery and stayed with us for another six years.

We never filled the hole back in the backyard, and it became his favorite spot to lie down to rest.



EDMUNDO BARRAZA
Visalia, CA.08-20-2012
edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com