6
Within the first month of working at the deli, the grey-haired, former police officer visited twice, to check up on me. Upon his first visit, I paid him back the sixty dollars and I like to think a look of understanding passed between us when we both nodded with a smile. During the second visit, a few weeks after the first, we exchanged a friendly wave and I made him a deli sandwich. Then I never saw him again during the rest of the year and a half that I worked there.
Michigan's food stamp program helped immensely, but when I went to the city grocery store near the shelter, I realized that I didn't really have a kitchen in which to make meals. So I had to buy food that was already made, or only needed a microwave, with no refrigeration and no pots and pans. Back to the pop-tarts and apples, I suppose. But I did get a lot of warm meals from the local churches and community centers, so it wasn't as if I was starving. I even ate with Dee a few times at a Chinese restaurant with my paycheck money. Food actually ended up being the least of the problems of being homeless.
Over time, I learned a lot just by listening to the others talk. Especially Dee seemed to have a lot of information. I also found out there was a men's homeless shelter practically right around the corner.
After several days of living in the women's shelter, I went to the co-ed community center for first time and stood in line for breakfast. It was surreal to be around men, after being surrounded by women at the other shelter.
After getting food, I sat down and started to eat. A man with dirty-blonde hair came up to me and asked if he could sit there. I said yes, glancing at him only long enough to acknowledge his presence. He didn't particularly look homeless; he just looked like any normal person walking around the city. He began to tell me his story and I was surprised at how quickly he opened up, telling me details about his past so soon that it probably should have raised a red flag in my mind. However, I, myself, was barely held together beneath the surface—maybe I hid it well? Is that why he approached?—so I just let him talk as I ate. After several minutes of me listening to him babble on about his story (he was homeless, too), he started saying how he felt very comfortable talking to me, and felt like he knew me and felt close to me (even though I'd told him nothing about myself) and then the real kicker: that he and I were meant to meet each other by fate. Actually, he was not the first person in my life to tell me this type of thing. He reminded me of a guy I met at a dance club while I was getting my art degree. The guy at the club was an “actor” from California, visiting family in Michigan. He spilled his entire story to me on the dance club floor and then started to feel really close to me. He asked if I wanted to come back to his sister's house where he was staying (she was gone for the week), and we became ships that pass in the night. Yup, I was easy, back then. Very easy. Part of the reason I didn't think anything of it, at the time, was probably the drinks at the bar. I wasn't an alcoholic, but it did cloud my mind. Luckily, no babies or anything else came from that situation.
At the co-ed community center, there was no booze, but I began to eat my food faster, starting to feel uncomfortable with this homeless guy who was spilling his story to me and getting a little too close for comfort. I knew he was caught up in some kind of mental fog (we all were, as I'd later realize), and I sought to mentally separate myself from “the homeless people” group of human beings, while ironically still living at the shetler. I avoided him from that point on, even when, a few days later, he would follow me to the women's homeless shelter. He called out my name and I pretended not to hear him, hastily escaping inside the shelter to avoid talking with him. I didn't see him much after that, and I silently pledged to use fake names in the future if guys ask.
Over time, I was getting more used to the area, the routine of the shelter and what was expected of the residents. On one particular afternoon, I found that the front door was locked. Strange. The security guy let me in a few moments later and I saw that the stressed lady at the front desk was checking in several people. As I waited to tell her my name, I saw other residents outside who I recognized, and I pushed open the door that was locked from the outside, so they could get in.
The entry lady got pissed that I'd opened the door and told me to wait outside. This, of course, activated my rebellious streak as I thought to myself, Who are YOU to tell me what to do? I'm not gonna wait outside; this is MY home! Maybe I was slightly embarrassed for being called out, as well.
I stayed at the front desk and said, “Okay, but do YOU want to tell them that I'm going to be late for work?” as I pointed further in to the shelter. I stood up a little straighter, using good eye contact, with an aura of more confidence just like a college student or an employee. I could tell that my plan worked when she quickly, apologetically, said, “Oh! Do you work here?” I nodded yes, and she immediately let me go inside as the other residents in the lobby simply watched. Surely some recognized me. Or were they fooled and confused, too?
No one said anything as I moved confidently and quickly past the front desk, probably looking like a social worker student or similar employee. However, once I was past the front area, I slowed my pace, dropping my gaze to the floor, shuffling along with occasional drags of the feet. This was my “shelter walk,” and my attempt of blending in so that I wouldn't draw attention to myself.
It was laundry day, so I gathered up my old sheets and stood in line to exchange them for clean sheets. I think the front desk lady walked by me 15 minutes later and might have seen me standing in line, but didn't really look twice or say anything about it. As far as my personal laundry went, I kept my stuff in my car and used a local laundromat, several blocks away. One might wonder why I simply didn't sign up for a credit card at a local bank, and use this for a down payment on an apartment to get my ass out of there. The truth is that this idea never occurred to me; I wasn't used to having credit cards or using debt, and no one brought up the idea, either. It simply wasn't in my sphere of awareness.
Word got around that I had a car, and one of the girls acted real friendly towards me, asking for a ride around town. We rode to an artsy part of town and it was fun to pretend to be “normal,” walking around there as if we were shopping (but we didn't buy anything) and then later I drove her to a random apartment she said she wanted to stop by. I thought I was making a new friend, but later my other friend Dee suggested she just wanted to use me for rides around town. It was probably true, but I was having trouble seeing it.
I often walked out to my car to cry alone, often not even knowing why I'm crying, just that I was sad, confused, lost and hopeless. My cat, Jodi watched me. I reached over to pet her, but then felt that the car seemed to be leaning unusually to the side and that's when I saw a flat tire on the rear driver's side. It was strange and I even remember wondering if someone slashed it because I later overheard that residents weren't really supposed to park in the back. Or, of course, it was likely that it was just the end of the tire's life, since I had so much crap packed into the trunk of the car—I'd never really unpacked the majority of my stuff after the move from New Mexico to Michigan.
I needed to get the flat tire fixed before work the next day. The shelter employees advised me on where to go to get it fixed and I barely had enough money to pay the Hispanic guys at the shop who luckily spoke just enough English and understood the sight of a flat tire. I still had to be careful with the car—I was still using expired license plates, after all. Everything about this was on the theme of “just barely getting by.”
I hung out with Dee quite a bit. I don't think she had a job, and in fact I remember her sometimes talking about how she felt like it was her job (like maybe on a spiritual level, at least) to help the women in the shelter. She had a deep sense of belonging, there.
Dee and I would sit around and talk. She told me that some of the female homeless residents would get money from sex with the male homeless residents and blow it all on drugs. I learned a new term: “chronic homelessness,” used for people who were in and out of shelters for years—decades, even—unable to live on their own.
We went to another co-ed center where they had free art classes for the public, and we made “art” out of colored construction paper, glue, and dried macaroni, resulting in a finished product which resembled something a kindergardener might hang up on the Christmas tree. Honestly, this wasn't really all that big of a step below what I did in art school, anyway.
Dee and I enjoyed talking about spiritual ideas and we sometimes hung out on the steps of a church that offered occasional meals. We seemed to be on the same page about some things, both open to so-called conspiracy theories, such as problems with the world and “The System” that keeps people down. She told me about issues within the black community and what it was like to grow up half-black and half-Native American. She told me that she thought of herself as a customer of the shelter, and the shelter employees were there to serve us and help us if we needed anything. I found myself adopting this idea without much thought.
Dee was the only one in the shelter I opened up to. Possibly because she was the only one who asked about me, other than the social workers’ routine questions.
Dee asked about my family, one sunny day as we sat outside on the sidewalk, just a little bit away from the shelter.
“My mom died about seven years ago,” I told her. “She left a lot of money to me, but I ended up giving most of it to a guy I thought I was in love with. Ten thousand dollars, to be exact.”
Dee’s eyes widened, obviously shocked at the large amount of money. “I take it you’re no longer with him?”
Some of the shelter residents walked by and I was silent for a moment. Dee probably knew the answer, seeing as how I was currently in the homeless shelter. I smirked, feeling the weight of how utterly stupid that financial decision had been, especially when I barely knew the guy. Love is beautiful? No. Love is stupid.
I shook my head with a sigh: “No.” I looked across the street at nothing in particular. “His name was Kyle. He had massive debt that he'd accumulated from poker gambling in the New Jersey casinos.” I laughed, shaking my head again at my own foolishness. “I thought I was being responsible by only giving him 10 grand, instead of the full 11 that I had inherited.”
“Oh, Codi,” Dee said, and just the tender sound of her words almost caused me to cry, but I fought back tears, stuffing away the emotions as I'd been doing over the past 8 months that I'd been back in Michigan. Don't feel. Not yet. I paused, figuring it would be best to explain more of the background of the situation. “Kyle and I met in an online game. Matt, my husband at the time, played in groups with us. I hated the game at first, but after I started playing, I found that I was actually better than Matt. In fact, the game became so important to me that I started to feel angry that Matt didn't take it as seriously as I did. It was just a casual game, to him. We probably argued a little, even while the in-game voice chat addon was on; Kyle overheard Matt talking to me. When Kyle and I were talking alone later, said he could take better care of me than my husband... and for some reason, I believed him.” I would have believed anyone; I was probably subconsciously looking for an excuse to leave Matt.
Across the street, three pigeons pecked at the remains of McDonald's french fries that someone had either accidentally dropped or discarded onto the ground, and two of the birds squawked at each other, fighting over a fry. We both watched the birds as I continued. “Maybe it's because the marriage wasn't all that strong. Or maybe I was just annoyed at Matt for not being a good raider in the game.”
I smirked, attempting to blame the game to make a joke. Yeah... the joke of my life. What it boiled down to was that Kyle and I had a sudden sexual attraction, which was exciting to me because after three years of dating and then two years of marriage, Matt and I didn't really have any action in the bedroom, anymore; and when we did, I felt like it was forced and fake. We were basically only married because I had a really good job out there in New Mexico, and I wanted to share the benefits with him because they were so good.
I continued explaining to Dee, “Kyle and I kept talking and within a month, I told Matt that I wanted us to split up. Matt moved back to his parents' home in Michigan and Kyle moved out to Albuquerque to be with me.”
I said this all so casually, but that's because my emotions were stuffed away, under careful control. I wouldn't allow myself to feel, because it might break me. I already had the guilt of being in the shelter and not being able to properly care for my cat, Jodi. I wouldn't allow myself to be reminded of just how devastated Matt had been when I told him I wanted to part ways. Back then, too, I stuffed my emotions away, becoming more robotic and emotionless, as a way of protecting myself. I bought Matt a one-way flight back home, and sent him on his way, fully believing that Kyle could “treat me better”... whatever that was supposed to mean.
But my benefits at the job were so good that I didn't want to just kick Matt off of those, so I technically allowed the legal relationship to remain as “married” so Matt could keep the benefits for a while... that is, until Kyle complained. So I obliged and spoke to a cheap, local lawyer about getting an official divorce, to prove to Kyle that I was serious about being with him. Additionally, I'd also gone with Kyle to a rehab doctor to try and help get him off an addiction to Oxycotin pills.
However, Kyle had left someone important back in New Jersey—an 8-year-old daughter from an ex-girlfriend. It was devastating to this little girl that her daddy had suddenly moved away and could no longer see him on weekends. All in all, Kyle was only in Albuquerque for about a month or two, before he moved back... which of course then devastated me.
I sighed, looking down at a crack in the pavement of the sidewalk by my foot. “Long story short, Kyle ended up moving back to New Jersey to be closer to his 8-year-old daughter. I must've thought it was just going to be temporary and I agreed to give him the money, to help with his debt. About a month later, he dumped me... for the first time.”
“After you gave him all that money?” Dee asked, a little less shocked, this time.
I nodded, unable to meet Dee's eyes. “Yeah. I begged him to take me back and we tried a long distance relationship for a few more months before he dumped me the second time. As far as the money goes... I asked for the money back, and he said he'd already spent it to pay off the credit card debt. Knowing him, it probably would have taken 20 years to pay me back, and I didn't want him in my life anymore if he wasn't going to be with me. It would just be too painful. So... I just let it go.”
Dee was silent, and probably knew the memory was painful for me. I glanced at the cars passing by on the street. “From that point, I guess I started seeking approval from guys. I went on a hookup website and met guy after guy. Finally, one of the guys—a psychology major—said that if I didn't get help, then he wouldn't see me anymore. That crushed me—the thought of rejection—so I went to a therapist who recommended groups called Sex Addicts Anonymous. It's based off of the Alcoholic Anonymous meetings and methods. I did the '90 meetings in 90 days' and did my best to get cleaned up, but I was still bored as hell at my graphic arts job and ended up getting fired due to 'no longer being a good fit' for the company.”
“I'm sorry, Codi,” Dee sympathized.
“It's alright,” I smiled a little to her. Opening up to her was somewhat therapeutic and perhaps for that reason, I simply kept talking. “After I was fired, I went to meditation groups and used most of my money on rent and food, along with what I thought would be a spiritual road trip to northern California, up around Mt. Shasta.”
“I've seen pictures of Mt. Shasta!” she exclaimed. “It's beautiful.”
“The trees were amazing,” I agreed. “That was just last fall that I was there. I drove up there because during one of the meditation sessions, I thought I was receiving mental images from my soul of a map of the USA. I saw a hand that pointed to the area around Mt. Shasta. I took it as a sign that I should move there, because there wasn't really anything left for me in New Mexico after getting fired. It felt like it was time for me to move on. I felt so sure of it that I packed up over half of my belongings into my car to bring with me, because I thought that Fate would allow me to meet the right people at the right time, and they'd agree to let me move in with them. And if that was destined to happen, then I might as well bring most of my belongings with me anyway, you know? However, that trip left me empty-handed and I drove back to New Mexico, depressed.”
If rule number one about networking is to “just show up,“ then rule number two is that you have to actually talk to people, which I never really did in California! I had just waited for others to approach me, magically. Nope. Didn't work. I returned home incredibly confused.
“I'd be depressed, too,” Dee nodded.
“Well, when I got back to New Mexico, that's when I found a Facebook message from my younger brother, seeking to reconnect. We chatted on Skype and seemed to really get along this time, despite a rocky past, especially with a lot of disagreements when our mom died. He said how cool it would be if we could just chill in his kitchen over coffee—he has a whole house, now, in the suburbs—so I agreed. I packed up my stuff and moved back to Michigan. I did it because... well, this may sound strange, but I thought I heard a distress call in his voice. I felt that he needed me to come help him, even though he didn't say anything like that.”
Dee nodded again. “Like you were hearing something unspoken, between the lines. I get that, sometimes. That's your intuition. Your gut. Jesus is speaking through you.”
“Yes, exactly.” I didn’t consider myself religious, but I agreed with her, anyway. I paused, my thoughts drifting to the journey from New Mexico to Michigan. It was the middle of January, with the sudden shock of the colder weather right around as I started going through Oklahoma. “At first, I stayed with my brother in a spare bedroom for several days until I made arrangements with a random guy on Craigslist to rent out a room in his house....”
I continued the same story that I'd told the police officer in what seemed like ages ago at the small-town station, trying to keep it short, once again in fear that this story was already getting way too long.
“Can't you live with your brother now?” Dee asked.
I shook my head. “We just don't get along.”
I tried to make it work with my brother, but every time I’d hang out with him, it just didn’t seem right. He kept telling his wife that I’m basically his best friend and he was all excited about me moving back to Michigan, but in my mind, I was still thinking, Wait, who IS this guy? He was not the same person I used to play with in childhood. When he described his memories, they were not the same as mine. He was completely different, as if a stranger. And now this stranger was putting pressure on me to be his best friend. But then I felt guilty, as if I should be friends with my brother, because society tells us that it’s healthy to have good relationships with family members. But it wasn’t right. The relationship didn’t feel natural and good. In fact, each time I hung out with him since moving back to Michigan, I felt like I needed a detox shower, afterwards, because it just felt so fake.
I stared down at the sidewalk as I thought about this, unable to meet Dee’s eyes when she watched me think. In the distance, women were beginning to gather on the steps at the entrance to the shelter, and I could tell it was almost time for the shelter to re-open. It would be about 2:00PM.
“At the risk of this story getting too long,” I said to Dee, “I'll just say that the relationship ended with my brother telling me that I'm not welcome at his home, anymore. So that's when I tried to make plans to move back to New Mexico, except that's also when I realized I was out of money.”
At that moment, a public city bus pulled right up to us as we were sitting on the sidwalk and opened its doors, the driver looking at us expectantly. I looked up, surprised, not used to seeing busses at all. Then I looked straight up above and noticed that there was a bus stop sign nailed to an old, wooden telephone pole above our heads. “We're at a bus stop!” I exclaimed as both of us scrambled to our feet, moving away from the bus, trying to wave for the bus to move on, with hand motions.
Dee laughed as the driver closed its doors and drove on. “You haven't seen a bus stop before?“ she asked, noticing my surprised face.
“Well... not really. We didn't have them in my hometown. I mean, except for yellow school busses.” Maybe I was 'sheltered' in more ways than one.
We continued to chat some more as we walked away from the bus stop, not too eager to get back to the shelter just yet.
Dee told me a bit of her own story. She confided in me that she felt guilty about a sexual attraction to other females. She brought it up more than once and I remember wondering if she was trying to hint at a possible attraction to me, but I was too afraid or shy about asking. Personally, I didn't think there was anything wrong with being bisexual. She also talked about the Bible and Jesus, but in a somewhat New Age and metaphorical way, rather than taking the Bible literally. Above all, however, she struggled with her own guilt and shame about an abortion in the past, and I remember her crying as she spoke of it. But somehow, she still had the beautiful face of a cherub angel, even when she cried.