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/