The Ken Miller Award Winner for 2011:
John Smith for “Learning To Be Homeless”
Guidelines for the Ken Miller Award are non-fiction, 2000 words or less. Open to all.
LEARNING TO BE HOMELESS
By
John Smith
A couple of years ago a trip to the library changed my life. It was a cold Sunday in late February when I drove onto the nearly empty parking lot of the Main Branch of the Stark County District Library. I pulled my van as close to the library door as possible and tried in vain to read the posted hours. A young man with crutches motioned for me to wait. He came to my window and told me that the library would not open for another hour and he asked me for a light. I looked at his cigarette. It was a brown and disgusting butt. I offered him one of my cigarettes to go with the light. He accepted, thanked me and limped towards the waiting area outside of the library.
I noticed that his jacket was thin and shabby, and he was shivering. I rolled down the window and called after him, “Hey kid, do you want to go to Wendy’s? Get a cup of coffee or something while we wait?”
“That would be great,” he said. He hobbled back to my van.
He was in the passenger seat when I introduced myself, using my childhood nickname. “I’m Jaytch,” I said and offered him my hand.
“Joey Clampett,” he said.
I smiled. “Any relation to the Beverly Hills Clampetts?”
He just looked at me. Apparently he had never seen The Beverly Hillbillies on TV.
“Sorry,” I said. “Bad joke.”
Then he lowered his gaze to the floor of the van. “I don’t want to sound like a bum,” he said. “But can I have a sandwich instead of coffee?”
I looked at this skinny kid, and then thought of myself. At half my weight I still might be a few pounds heavier than what my doctor called ‘a healthy limit.’ I don’t think that I was ever really hungry. This kid was hungry. “You can have both,” I said.
I wheeled the van around in an illegal U-turn. “How about McDonald’s?” I asked. I remembered a ‘buy one – get one’ fish sandwich deal.
“Sure.”
By the time we arrived at the downtown McDonalds, I knew that he was homeless. I bought him two filet-o’-fish sandwiches, two large French fries, and two quarter pounders. “Eat what you want now.” I told him. “Save the rest for later today. In this weather it won’t go bad. It will be cold, but it will hit the spot.” I glanced at his light jacket.
“Where’s your winter coat?” I asked.
He shrugged. “This is it,” he said. “If it gets too cold, I put more shirts under it.” He smiled and undid the first few snaps on the jacket and displayed a sweatshirt and two other shirts beneath it.
I asked him several questions to which I got vague answers. “Where did you sleep last night? Is there somewhere that you can go if it gets too rough out here?” And then the big question: “Where are your parents?”
Joey looked me directly in the eye. “I never met my father. He could be a drunk in a ditch somewhere or a millionaire. I’d rather think that he was a drunk. I wouldn’t want to think that he had money and left me out on the street. My mother is too strung out on crack to even think about me, let alone worry about me.” He didn’t sound bitter. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded resigned.
When we returned to the library I ask him to wait a minute. I always keep an extra coat, change of clothes, and at least one blanket in the back of the van in case of emergency. And this, I thought, was one. I gave him the coat and a flannel shirt (two sizes too big). I also gave him a Carhart jumpsuit that I knew would help to keep him warm.
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems hollow.”
“Try it,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I handed him a slip of paper with my cell phone number on it. “Take this. If it gets too rough out there call me. I can’t guarantee that I will be able to help. I will guarantee if I can help, I will.”
I left him at the library while a part of me wanted to take him home and give him a warm place to stay, meals, and a sense of security. After all, I have two extra bedrooms. But, then again, I knew nothing about him.
Later that same evening, Joey Clampett called my cell phone. He asked if I could help him find a place to stay. I was at a loss. I did not want to take him to my home. As I said, I didn’t know him. I was afraid that once he knew where I lived he might rob me blind when I wasn’t home. But the biggest part of me wanted to believe him and help him.
I met him at the downtown McDonald’s. He was wearing the Carhart jumpsuit.
“It fits you well,” I said.
“It’s a lot warmer than my coat.”
Once he was situated in the seat and belted in, I said, “Joey, look here.” I waited until our eyes locked and I was sure that I had his attention. “I am not by any stretch of the imagination a rich man. I work hard for a living and I have bills. I might not always be able to help. If and when there is a time that I can’t afford to help, don’t give up. I will do what I can to help you find help.”
It was luck, or fate, or . . . I don’t know, but I had recently received my tax refund. I wanted to put him up in a nice motel, but, in the end, I got him a room at a fleabag place between Canton and Massillon. But it was warm, dry, somewhat clean and more comfortable than a cold floor of an abandoned house. He could take a hot shower and wash his hair. He could go to the bathroom in the middle of the night in a real receptacle instead of outside against a building. He could rest peacefully without having to worry about being thrown out for trespassing or being robbed of what little he had. He could do the things that most of us take for granted.
But that was for only one night.
Before I left him there, I gave him ten dollars. “Make sure you get something to eat in the morning and be sure to save enough to take the bus back to town. If you call me in the morning and tell me that you’re stranded out here, I’ll be pissed.”
On the ride home, I made note of the temperature on a bank display: eight degrees Fahrenheit.
I didn’t hear from him for a few days. Curiosity killed the cat—right? I figured that I met him at the library on a cold day. Maybe he would be there today. I found him in the periodical section. He was reading an old issue of Hotrod, and dreaming, I suppose, of owning one of those cars. He was still wearing that Carhart jumpsuit.
I sat across the table from him. “Hey, kid.”
He looked up and blinked. “Oh. Hi.”
“Did you eat today?”
He shook his head.
I motioned toward the exit. “Come on.”
We went to McDonald’s and ordered from the dollar menu.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” I told Joey.
My friend Ben had a farm near Canton and I drove there. The lane to the farmhouse was lined with pines and a white fence. Ben came out of the farmhouse and acknowledged me by my nickname Jaytch.
“Hi Ben,” I said. “This is Joey; the kid that I told you about.”
Ben extended his hand. “Hi Joey. Jaytch tells me that you need a place to stay and maybe a job.”
Joey looked at Ben then me, then back at Ben. “Uh . . . yes sir.”
“Well, Joey,” Ben said as he rubbed his chin. “I really don’t need any help right now, but I’ll tell what we can do.” He pointed to a nearby building. “I have an empty apartment. The utilities are connected with the farm, so you won’t have to worry about that. I’m sure between Jaytch and us we can get the place furnished with a bed, couch, chairs, and stuff like that. If we look hard enough, I think that we might even have a TV around that you could use.”
Joey looked at the ground. “Thank you, but I can’t afford it.”
Ben was thoughtful for a moment. “Here’s how we’ll work it. You can stay in the apartment. You’ll come to my house to eat your meals. Ginny always cooks more than plenty. What you will do in return is feed the cattle in the morning and feed and bed them in the evening. In addition to your own apartment and meals, I will pay you fifty dollars a week so you can have a little something in your pocket. Sound fair?”
Joey looked blank for a moment. When he turned to me, I said, “I don’t think that we can find a better offer, Joey.”
+++
A week later, Joey called me. “I really need to go to the library; can I impose on you again?”
I picked him up at Ben’s farm. He was dressed in the old clothes that he had been wearing the day we met.
“Can we stop by McDonald’s on the way?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Did Ginny make something that you don’t like?”
“No,” he said. “Ginny’s a great cook. I don’t think I ever had such good food.”
When we arrived at McDonald’s, I started to go to the drive-through lane. Joey insisted that I park and wait for him. I did as he asked. After several minutes of waiting, I cut the engine and began to read the sports section of our local paper. I finished several articles before Joey returned. He opened the sliding door and put a large bag behind the rear seat, then climbed into the front.
“One more stop?” he asked.
“I suppose,” I said. “Where to?”
We drove to a Save-A-Lot store just up the street from the McDonald’s. Joey was in and out in a matter of moments. We then went to the library. He asked me to wait in the van and keep the engine running. He was gone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, a group of people was following him. When they got close enough, I realized that these were homeless people that he knew. They were at the library for the same reason that Joey used to go there: to stay warm.
He led the people to the right side of my van, slid the rear door open, and handed out twenty-eight one-dollar sandwiches and fourteen small fries to fourteen hungry people. He then took four jars of baby food from his jacket pocket and gave them to a lady. “Take care of your baby girl,” he told her.
With the money that Ben paid him, Joey bought food for people that were even less fortunate than he was. It was all that I could do to keep the tears from spilling over. Joey taught me a lesson. Although I tried to be kind and generous, I did not give all that I could have given. An eighteen year-old kid gave as much as he had. And all that he really asked for was a light.
That is something that I will not forget.