#15: Snapshots from the Street.
A woman came up to me while I was sitting outside drinking coffee. (If you haven’t noticed, I’m often sitting outside drinking coffee). She asked me for gas money.
Gas money is one of those things people ask you for, regardless of whether they have a car. Right up there with a cigarette or a light. Regardless of whether they smoke or not. I’d save a lot of money if I carried cigarettes and a lighter in my pocket instead of cash.
I asked where she was going. There are more than 270 cities, towns, unincorporated towns, and gores1 in Vermont. The one she named is one of the smallest: 1,000 people give or take a few hundred. It’s 100 miles or so away. But I knew that town. I asked her where she lived. I knew that road. I asked her where she worked. I knew that farm. I asked her why she was here. She said her mother had died and she was clearing out her little apartment in a building around the corner. I knew that building. I asked her why she drove all the way down not sure if she had enough money to get home. She smiled sadly and shrugged. She didn’t know the answer. I gave her enough gas money to get home.
I saw her a few weeks later and she told me she needed money again to get home. I didn’t know what to believe.
There’s a guy I see around a lot who must have something very wrong with his right leg. He lopes around town as if it’s always struggling to catch up with his left. He also has an odd assortment of pockmarks on his face—which, I suppose, are probably related to substance use. He usually walks right by me, the way it sometimes feels tall people walk past you as if they didn’t notice you “down there.” The other night, however, he walked right up to me and asked if I had any spare change. Spare change? No one asks for spare change anymore. I asked him what was up. He told me that one of the agencies is trying to get him an efficiency apartment in a halfway house. That he’s on disability ‘cause of his schizo-affective disorder. But he always spends his disability halfway through the month.
I reached into my pocket and gave him all the spare change I had. I expected him to ask for more, but he just thanked me and loped away.
One of my friends is pregnant and has terminal cancer. She’s barely 26-years-old and lives in a tent with her partner. Until I met her, I’d never thought about the fact that there might be a 26-year-old pregnant girl with a terminal illness living in a tent in our town.
She’s tough. Actually, she’s more than tough. She’s a fabulous wise-ass bitch. She loves it when I tell her that. She and her boyfriend have been together for about 7 years. She gives him a hard time but they are totally devoted to each other. She once told me she’s like a penguin; she mates for life.
She’s determined to have the baby before she dies, even though her cancer could kill them both in the process. Doctors give her prescriptions for pain and nausea that she can’t afford to fill.
For me, that’s a no-brainer.
People standing at stoplights at shopping plazas asking for money make most of us feel uncomfortable. We might feel trapped and just want to look away. The other day I was at one of those lights and there was a small woman standing there. I don’t know how to describe her without resorting to all the usual stereotypes—right down to the two or three missing teeth. I had a few dollars on the dashboard so I pulled up next to her and rolled down the window. As I handed her the money I asked where she was staying. Over there, she pointed. Between the tracks and the river. I asked whether she ever went downtown. She said she doesn’t because she has anxiety attacks when she does. As she took the money and said God Bless, I noticed she had incongruously clear blue eyes. I told her that and said God Bless back to her. As I pulled away she said that I had nice blue eyes too.
It’s good to be seen.
These posts aren’t about the “homeless,” “addicts,” or any particular “categories” of people. I am simply writing about my relationships with friends who live on the street by day and wherever they can by night. As one friend put it, I’m pondering not proselytizing.
.Vermont Edition show about Addiction in Vermont.
That said, the other day I heard a show on Vermont PBS radio that you might find interesting. It featured a discussion with a long-term addiction specialist and a private investigator who, after many years helping defend accused addicts, had her office ransacked by a person who was living on the street.
Great trivia question…
We're only a quarter away, as I say in my novel posting here: _Who by Fire_ ... Hope you will take a look. I come back to all readers who comment and don't only "like". That's a great way to support each other ...