Chapter 8: A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
A homeless man's daily routine must be more than survival. It must also build toward connection and community.
January 2015, Oakland – Washington St. between 7th and 8th, 5:30 a.m. - Relationships and community are the stuff of true life, of true living. Open-handed, open-hearted relationships where two people are free and secure to explore the depths of each other’s existence are where I have experienced the greatest joy. So, why are they so hard to find? We humans, by nature, want to control our relationships. We struggle to negotiate the vulnerability and humility necessary for true community. So, rather than engaging in dialogue, we seek to control the narrative.
Poverty is a great leveler. It humbles the proud and lightens the expectations of those who cannot compete within social systems and institutions. Life down in the lowlands humanizes, makes one available and unpretentious, even entertaining. Those in poverty can take real chances and leaps of faith without fear. They can speak their minds, communicating great value out of their experiences.
Small talk is not my thing. I am that introvert who will focus on one person at a party, going deep in conversation, monopolizing their attention for an hour in fascinating conversation. What relief I feel in not having to discuss the weather, the stock market, some petty scandal, or the latest must-have possession.
Put those two dynamics together – the honesty and vulnerability of the Homeless, and my desire for deep connection with other humans. Now you’ll understand why I felt so blessed within the first 10 days of my stint in Oakland to bump into a person like Arthur. This tall, good-looking man often stood between the Starbucks on 8th St. and the Smart & Final on 10th. He had memorized every Beatles song. And boy, could he sing. Twenty minutes with Arthur was sheer heaven, listening to him belt out “Eleanor Rigby” or “The Ballad of John and Yoko.” Sometimes I’d join in if I really know the song, and Arthur didn’t mind at all. In fact, he enjoyed it. I think he could sense how impressive and valuable I found his unabridged knowledge of the Beatles catalog and his talent to sing it.
After spending time with Arthur, I would sometimes cross the street to the bus stop at 9th to talk with a very large man who took up residence there for many years. There along the busy 51 bus line, no one bothered him as he sat, smoked, and made casual conversation with others, nor at night when he laid down to sleep.
“You got any cigs for me?” was one of the first questions he asked me.
“Why, it just so happens I do,” I answered, reaching into my backpack for some Marlboro Reds.
I asked him about his plans for when the weather would warm up. He outlined a couple of ideas. I listened, interested. He didn’t ask me any questions. I didn’t offer any advice. At about 11 a.m. I pulled out my pipe, tamped down the tobacco, and fired it up. We sat quietly, the 51 coming and going. After a few minutes, I put my pipe away and said, “Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. Hope that pack will last you.” He nodded his reply. I never learned his name.
The office
The first order of each day was a good cup of coffee and a nutritious breakfast. Back then, that meant camping out at my daily haunt, the now-defunct Starbucks at 8th and Broadway. My standard order was an Americano with room and the largest hot water they offered. The water was for my Rubbermaid container of one-minute oatmeal, raisins, and two packets of Splenda. I poured a little half-and-half on top to make it creamy. This was better, and would sustain me longer, than anything the City Team volunteers would make me wait in line for an hour to pound down.
After securing the meal, I’d make my way back the long table before it would fill with some of whom I would come to call the “usual suspects.” There was Prince Abdu. This was not his real name, but he kept it secret as I believed him to be a member of a royal family from a southern African Republic. His life would have been in danger if his whereabouts were known. And there were Fred and Whitey. Coffee cups, phones, and peripherals littered the table.
This was me, establishing a routine, getting to know people, and listening. A lot.
Befriending Carl
Abdu, Fred, and Whitey weren’t the only characters I met during those first mornings at the Starbucks. Carl, a muscular man in his early 30s immediately took a disliking to me and decided to see how far he could push me. But I remained endlessly patient, unflappable. One inuendo after another, challenge after insidious challenge, I looked back at him dispassionately, not buying in. Every question he asked was an invitation to step on a land mine. Each of my noncompliant answers further enraged him. I thought Carl might reach across the table and strike me. I was okay with that, and prepared, but he just sat there glowering at me.
Later, as I packed up my gear for the day, I looked across the table and said to Carl, “You're a very intelligent and sensitive young man. I hope that some of my attempts to answer your questions did not make things worse. I think you're kind of fascinating.” And I meant it.
Outside, I realized how close I'd come to a physical brawl, deeply grateful it hadn't come to that. Carl’s decades of legitimate, pent-up rage had nothing to do with me, but with people who looked very much like me, who had abused him. I was just the trigger. Beyond his anger, I saw his beauty.
Carl and I would continue encountering each other now and then at Starbucks. Our relationship relaxed into a good friendship over several months. I really enjoyed him, and he really enjoyed me. And then at some point, he disappeared, which I later learned was for trip out of town.
About two months later, I was inside the Starbucks when there was a tapping on the window. There was Carl, who apparently had been kicked out for some shenanigans earlier that day. I was overjoyed to see my friend again. I went outside. He rushed over and we embraced, dancing, laughing, and holding each other for about five minutes. Like soldiers who have been at war together.
I still think of Carl often, how beautiful and special a man he is. I wish I could find him and learn about what's going on in his life now.