#16: Once Around the Block.

And then some...

It only costs me a little to take a walk around the block. A little financially. A little emotionally. A little existentially.

Suzanne looks terrible. Pneumonia, cancer, and pregnancy will do that to you. Fortunately, she still has her sense of humor and suffer-no-fools attitude. And, whether she appreciates it all the time or not, she’s got Jake. But for now, all she wants is an ice cream cone. Jake is a little more far-sighted. It rained unexpectedly last night and all their stuff got soaked. The tent survived, fortunately. But they need blankets. I go upstairs to check, but I don’t have any more extra blankets. They can probably get something at the thrift store if the Drop-in Center gives them vouchers. But it’s Sunday afternoon. The Drop-in Center isn’t open. Neither is the thrift store.

Melissa looks as sad as ever. When you say something that makes her feel a little better, it’s like an energy slowly rises from some almost-depleted chakra and manages to get up just far enough to become a wry smile. She tells me 90% of her clothes got stolen. 90%? The stat seems odd, but I let it go.

I don’t get it. IDs, wallets, clothes—I guess there isn’t always a lot of honor between people on the street. (Although when there is, it’s fierce.) Last I knew, she and Isaiah had moved their tent to some out-of-the-way place so it’d be safe. Or so they thought. I’m not too worried because she’s carrying a plastic garbage bag that I assume is full of clothes. Turns out it’s not clothes. It’s trash she’s taking care of for an elderly neighbor. You gotta do what you can do she explains. I know I don’t have any extra blankets but I do have extra clothes. So I go get them. No karmic points there. Just the kind of stuff you never get around to taking to the thrift store.  

It’s not going well for Melissa and Isaiah. But couples counseling for people on or off the street is way above even my volunteer pay grade. Melissa might leave him. Go back home. She’s estranged from her whole family. Her grandfather loved her, but he just died. Still, she’s more likely to find work back there. And a roof over her head. She knows she should probably leave Isaiah. 

I could be hearing the same story a year from now. That’s OK.

Melvin just found out his mom had a stroke and he’s got to get home. Home is several thousand miles away. It’ll take a couple of trains and an overnight at Penn Station to get there. The image of Melvin sashaying around Penn Station all night is almost worth the price of the ticket. But I’m certainly not springing for a round-trip. (I have at least some fiduciary responsibility to my paying subscribers for their contributions to the cause.)

Besides, Melvin doesn’t have an ID. Allegedly. you can’t get on a train without an ID anymore. Still, when was the last time a conductor asked you for your ID on a train? Sure…but you don’t look like Melvin. I don’t care how long ago the Civil War ended.

He had an ID a while back, but it was confiscated with his other stuff when he got picked up for some misdemeanor-worthy obnoxious behavior—probably not showing up for the hearing for his previous misdemeanor-worthy obnoxious behavior.

I gave Melvin a ride over to the police station one day to collect his things, but the person in charge wasn’t there. He suggested we go to Kentucky Fried Chicken, just so the drive wouldn’t be a total waste. In for a dime. In for a few bucks. I bought him two thighs and a drumstick. There’s a certain cognitive dissonance about using an American Express card at Kentucky Fried Chicken, but I have the feeling the reason is politically incorrect.

Since then, I’ve asked him if he wants to try again (the police station, not the chicken). He tells me it doesn’t matter to him. So it doesn’t matter to me. ‘Cept when I think of him being unceremoniously booted off the train in New Jersey somewhere. ‘Course that probably wouldn’t matter to him either. Or at least he’d never admit it.