Roads, Mills, Laps

Observations inside a homeless shelter in the world’s wealthiest nation.

I once read somewhere that the average American has the standard of living today afforded only to 16th Century kings.

One need not look far to affirm this theory; little King Henry VIII’s are at this moment seated in the back of their SUV coaches, plucking sections of chicken nuggets apart, slurping the kid’s supersize shake all to the backdrop of the Shrek 2 soundtrack in THX Surround Sound(TM).

But despite this gluttony of full refrigerators and 76-degree supercooled homes, our poor remain just as they were in the time of Christ or Charlemagne: They remain constant. And they remain ignored and shunned.

Last night, I got to spend ten hours with Danbury’s refuse. I thought it worth a blog shot. It promises to be a tad more enlightening than reading an assortment of the following words continually mixed and dressed a different way day in and day out: “”I”, “me”, “run”, “bells” “crunches”, “easy”, and “fever.”

The Dorothy Day shelter opens at 9 p.m. It’s located in the center of the city, but it has its own street that most of the city drives past-fast. When crossing the street, clumps of humanity are visible perched near cars, slumped on the side of a wall, or hooded massed with hands in pockets.

By the time I get there, a prim line has been formed and one of the shelter’s four volunteer coordinators are busy letting in the ‘guests.’ These coordinators are the saints of the operation. Without them, the shelter would never exist. These men (a mixed group of catholics, protestants, and agnostics) do everything from pay the bills for the shelter, to fix the heater, to give one of the guests a dollar to call home. At any moment, they are summoned to solve problems and serve humanity selflessly.

I’m just a volunteer with a small v. I come about once a month and spend one night. The four main volunteers spread their time in weekly buckets working one weekend a month.

I step into the light of the shelter and immediately hit with a pungent blast of sweat. It’s a sticky, salty smell–an odor of unkempt hair and hands immersed in the city’s dirty river of garbage.

I pause to say hi to J., the main volunteer for the evening who gives me a welcoming smile and a pat on the back. Working in tandem, J. logs the guest in and I note how long they have stayed with us. 30 days or more and they are sent away.

Peering over our glasses, we scribble down names count days and look up at our guests.

The thing that draws my attention time and time again is not the lack of teeth, dazed look, or oddly-placed comments. Instead, I am drawn to their hands. Fingernails are clumped and caked with dirt. Their beet red skin from years and years of living outside as well as the restricted flow of blood from all that alcohol shines under the fluorescent tubes of the shelter. Hands all contain cuts, gashes, and scrapes; I imagine these people slipping and falling in an endless tumble of pursuit from the cops, the dealer, or the abusive husband.

The last guest enters, the door shuts, and the smell crescendoes.

J. disappears to get the coffee pot for the morning.

He returns, shakes my hand and then closes the door and fades into the dark alley. I suck in my chest and let out a breath. I’m alone and in charge. It’s a heavy mantle to wear: a lot could go wrong tonight.

The next 30 minutes are a flurry of need: razor blades, shaving cream, beard trimming scissors, plastic bags, combs, floss, towels, blankets, and mattress covers. The line has formed again and I dig in and out of closets retrieving all the requests.

I lose my patience and empty the entire contents of the closet on the counter letting the line grab its way to satisfaction. Need combined with thanklessness makes good tinder.

Guests take showers and I begin doing their laundry. Raising my daughter has trained me to look at all flavors of human waste and fluid straight in the eye. I’ve got my plastic gloves on and pitchfork vomit and flannel into the industrial washer.

The guests settle down at ten.

One guests looks for reading material and has the following options on the shaky bookshelf:

1. An Oral Roberts pamphlet from 1982 with a Ron Jeremy looking dude entitled Freedom from Fear. I pick up this propaganda and read as far as the picture of the Oral Roberts space needle-looking ‘prayer tower’ next to the picture of Mr. snakeoil himself and throw it in the trash. These people deserve freedom from this fucknut.

2. Some Star Trek book torn in half.

3. A 1952 sky observers guide with Beaver Cleaver kids and Ward Cleavers pointing at Orion.

The guest shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his cot.

At eleven, I lay down in my bed (cot #1). I get no sleep as I continue to hear coughs, hacks, and constant trips to the bathroom to spit up cigarette lung candy.

At one a.m. I see a woman at the foot of my bed and sit up, startled.

“Sir? Sir? I feel awful. I need to go outside and get fresh air.”

I let her out and within seconds, my nose catches the nicotine draft. She duped me.

She stumbles back in and mumbles something about needing to go to the pharmacy to get her medicine. I grumble that if she leaves, she’s not coming back tonight.

At two, the door knocks and I stare at several huddled men. Any room?

True to form like that infamous innkeeper 2000 years ago, I shake my head and shut the door. I’m no better for what I do. The rules of the shelter prevent me from letting people in after 10 p.m.:the same 2000 year-old rules.

I lay back down and envision the face of my savior in the faces of the men I turned away. I sit up and look out the window. It’s too late. They have faded into the darkness of the alley.

My watch wakes me up and I turn on the coffee pot. It hums and thumps to life and the guests scratch their way into the bathrooms. They get their clean clothes, demand razors, shaving cream and toothbrushes and eventually float out of the shelter under a mutter of thank yous.

I lock up at 6:15 and walk to my car.

Someone pelted the entire left side of my truck with eggs, and I drive back alone to my Stalin condo listening to Sigur Ros’ “Staralfur.”

My day has just begun as I dress, walk the dog and drive to my job thinking about the three men at 2am needing a bed.

Mine was available.