Since the sun had already become unbearable, we needed to find shelter elsewhere. Chuck told me that the only place where we could legally take refuge was a shaded outdoor area offered at the Salvation Army. This, I was told, was by far the most dangerous of all the shelters, and I was advised to never attempt to go there by myself. Chuck claimed that in just the previous two weeks, there had been a total of 6 stabbings (including three murders) and one rape.
One of the many crappy things about homelessness is the lines — you have to stand in them for long, long periods of time to get whatever you need. The line outside the Salvation Army was exceptionally long, and I passed the time by visually scanning the many countenances in the crowd. I immediately noticed someone who seemed profoundly out of place. She was a beautiful young blonde girl, surely no more than 19 or 20, with the clean-cut features of a prom queen or cheerleader. She seemed to be alone and stared straight down at the ground with a peculiar, slanted smile on her face. Given the shelter’s reputation, it seemed like an awfully dangerous environment for an attractive young woman to be on her own. I pointed the girl out to Chuck and asked if he knew her story.
“That’s Kimberly. Don’t ever try to talk to her or look her directly in the eye. She’s a ’spitter.’ One time, I asked her if she was OK, and she spit in my face and tried to kick me in the balls.”
Chuck went on to explain the girl’s generally accepted back-story. Supposedly, her husband was a crack dealer who had a falling out with a competitor, and repaid his “debt” by offering his wife as currency. For several hellish nights, the girl was tied up, raped and defiled in unimaginable ways by a horde of gangsters and druggies. The brutalization so traumatized her that her mind shut down and just vacated reality. Now she was alone and psychotic, living in the shelter’s “psychiatric” unit, receiving medication but surely not getting any better. True or not, I have no idea.
But that’s the way it is with every homeless person — they are not automatons or ghosts or ghouls or shadows. They’re human beings and each has a story.
When we finally made it to the outdoor sanctuary, Chuck and I sat down and he began ascribing a brief biography to each individual. There was Kathy, a rowdy and perpetually drunk ex-Marine who purportedly still did some kind of nebulous “freelance” work out at Nellis Air Force Base (when I asked her for a description of this work, she told me to go f*** myself.) There was an elderly and functionally nameless man who had supposedly not changed a single item of clothing for the last three years. There was a gangster named either “Blue” or “Boo” with the most terrifying countenance I had ever seen — every one of his front “teeth” had been transformed into a four-inch metal shank. According to Chuck, the man had spent upwards of ten grand on this bizarre dental procedure, the purpose of which was known only to him.
I would have liked to have remained in the shade until the sun went down, but Uncle Dave joined us drunk and out of his mind. He immediately wore out his welcome when he screamed at the top of his lungs, “De la Hoya lost! F*ck all the Mexicans!” Since perhaps four dozen Mexican men were within earshot, Chuck and I decided to leave the sanctuary post haste.
We headed back to the “camp,” and I was happy to see that the tarp had been reinstated, hopefully for the remainder of the day. A bottle of “Night Train,” which along with Thunderbird ranks as the top “bum wine,” was being passed around. For “politeness” sake, I took a sip, and as a lifelong non-drinker I was surprised that it didn’t taste too terrible. But it didn’t help my emerging headache and nausea, and I was growing more thirsty by the minute.
I told Chuck about my dehydration, and he offered to fetch me a jug of water from the tap at the Salvation Army. I laid down under the tarp and stared for a while at the cars passing by. I noticed a number of drivers smiling, laughing, and pointing at the camp in apparent contempt. It occurred to me that these monkeys were so disconnected from reality it was almost unbelievable. To take pleasure in another person’s misfortune is always an indication of mental illness, and these folks didn’t seem to realize how close they themselves might be to homelessness. They could lose hold of an addiction, get laid off, miss a couple of paychecks, maybe get the boot from a domestic partner. And without a loved one to help them in their time of need…what would happen? They would be in the exact same mess as the people they were mocking.
Chuck returned with the water as promised, but most of it disappeared into the Hawaiians before I got my hands on it. Uncle Dave received the lion’s share, since he was sporting a bloody nose as the result of his impolitic comments at the Salvation Army. I again wondered how I was going to stay hydrated for two weeks in the desert environment and resolved to earn some money through day labor to keep water in ready supply.
Around 2 PM, Chuck told me it was time for another meal. It dawned on me that staying fed and hydrated while homeless in Vegas was itself going to be a full-time job. The meals served at the shelters were offered during normal working hours — in other words, anyone who works is going to have to go without eating until he or she gets paid. To make matters worse, without a car or even money for bus fare, the only mode of transport is walking. And I was quickly learning that this entails a very serious physical price in the desert heat.
After another long wait in a long line under the hot burning sun, I ate another crappy meal of starch and cheese and gritty tap water. Afterwards, Chuck took me to a day labor office and I signed up with them. I also signed a paper stating my availability for landscaping work. Unsurprisingly, not everyone is eager to work outdoors for eight straight hours in 105 degree heat, but hard, physical, outdoor drudgery is the kind of work one gets through day labor outfits. I wondered what it would be like to be 65 years old and homeless in Vegas — the outrageous heat, the lack of shelter, the necessity of earning money through physical exertion. Since I was beginning to feel 65, it didn’t take much wondering at all.
We made our way back to camp at around 4:30, and incredibly, Chuck told me it was almost time for yet another meal — my third in less than 6 hours. According to Chuck, most of the shelters only served one meal a day, so the only way to get three squares was to visit each of them. I wasn’t looking forward to any more time under the sun, but I knew I needed to eat and drink. Chuck then offered me the alternative of going to a makeshift “picnic” under a bridge. He said that a local church offered this service once a week and provided such meals as Chinese food, pizza, and various “take-out.” I seriously doubted my tolerance for any more of the shelters’ cheese pasta or mystery meat, so I happily agreed.
Shortly into our walk, we came across a towering homeless man who was having a very animated conversation with himself. I thought he looked a bit like Christopher Lloyd in his Back to the Future role. Ordinarily, I steer a bit clear of the overtly insane, but I noticed that his T-shirt was emblazoned with an interesting phrase. It read, “This Is Not the Life I Ordered!” The sentiment seemed more jovial than embittered, and I could see in the man’s eye a glint of genuine humor underneath (or perhaps within) the craziness. I walked directly toward him, gave him a thumbs up, and said, “I like your shirt, man.” He returned my smile and simply said, “Yeah.”
At that moment, the T-shirt’s maxim seemed like the most profound teaching I had ever encountered. Think about it. It’s not as if anyone has ever set out to intentionally suffer. And we don’t ruin our own lives out of “sinfulness” or “evil” or “badness.” We are each of us doing the absolute best that we can in a culture and a world that lives in direct opposition to the truth. Some of us have had our bodies and brains and souls damaged by circumstances completely beyond our control. And others are continually harmed by the inevitable consequences of their own bad choices, but even these individuals are doing their best and are thus deserving of compassion.
Who among us feels that his life is the one that he “ordered?” Nothing turns out the way that we plan. When you’re young you have a million strategies for a perfect little life, but as you get older, your choices become evermore narrow. Your identity in the world is firmly entrenched, your personality is set, and indeed, your very consciousness is growing dimmer and dimmer. It’s a myth that people improve with age — most become caricatures until they finally submit to their own worst inclinations — the addictions, the prejudices, the neuroses, the obsessions.
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