There’s a footbridge across the brook on the north side of the Co-op parking lot.
Every day, hundreds of people walk by or over that bridge. It’s a good place to hang out if you need money. There’s almost always someone there during the day, but never more than one. It’s almost like they have assigned shifts.
Beth1 was there a couple of days ago. She was sitting cross-legged reading a book—not something you see too often. A backpack, two water bottles and some indiscriminate possessions behind her. I started fumbling around in my pockets for a few dollars. When I reached her, I looked down and asked what she was reading. She showed me the cover. Said it was about some soldier in Afghanistan.
She looked up and gave me a tired smile. As if she welcomed relief from the tedium, even if I wasn’t going to give her money. I asked her name and whether she was at the shelter or tenting. She said her name was Beth. There wasn’t room at the shelter, so they were tenting. But the tent had been taken away. I figured it was the same encampment Jake had told me about.
“You were at the cemetery?”
They had been. And, like Jake and Suzanne, they’d gone to the fire department to get their stuff but the fire department didn’t have it. I said I’d heard the tents were at the Department of Public Works and explained where that was. She thanked me but said the tent wasn’t in great shape and they didn’t have much in it anyway. Also, she’d heard the shelter was getting new tents for people who needed them.
Then I asked her where she was from. She named a small village about 40 miles away.
A very small village. Population less than 500.
In the late ‘70s, Wendy and I were two of those 500 people.
In fact, it was our daughter’s first home, albeit very briefly.
Beth knew the house we had lived in and said hers was about five houses down past the general store. The one with a lot of peaks and stuff. Victorian-like, I guess. I didn’t remember it but, then again, I barely remembered ours.
Back then, we didn’t have a whole lot more cash in our pockets than this girl had now. But it was a different time, economically and culturally. Plus, our support system was significantly greater and a friend owned the general store. We weren’t going to go hungry.
As we continued to talk, Beth’s face became a little more animated. She began to look less like a bedraggled young woman from parts unknown and more like a local “kid” reading a book at the bridge.
Why was she here? Why was she living in a tent?
Because she had been living in that house in the small town until her mom found a new boyfriend, locked her out, and sold it.
What was she going to do to next?
Get a job as a CNA. She’d done it before. She added that she was also certified as a med tech, which clearly (and rightly) she was proud of.2
What was stopping her from working?
She needed an ID. Someone had stolen her birth certificate.
How did her birth certificate get stolen?
She’d put all her stuff in an old jeep when her mom kicked her out and someone broke in and stole everything. Or maybe they stole the whole jeep. I can’t remember.
I started to suggest the shelter could help, but she’d already talked with them and expected to have a new birth certificate soon.
Would she have to be re-licensed to work as a CNA again?
She just had to take a short refresher course and a test.
How long would that take?
About a month.
Beth knew what she was doing. She just needed a little help to do it.
I asked whether the fact she kept saying “they” meant she had a partner.
She said yes, adding she wouldn’t feel safe living outside in a tent alone.
I felt better hearing her say that. I know…that’s a little paternal…but, by then, it was as if I were talking with a neighbor’s kid across space and time.
I gave her a $203 and went into the Coop to get a few things. When I came out ten minutes later she was gone.
I’m still using pseudonyms.
I had to look the terms up: A CNA is a Certified Nursing Assistant. A Med Tech can prescribe some medications under the supervision of a Registered Nurse.
It would have been $5 or maybe $10 before I started giving half of new paid subscriptions to people on the street. It’s made me far less calculating—in more ways than just money.