Learning to be again

Moving out of the shelter for the first time in three months was a bit of a daunting proposition. In a way, it was something like being released from prison: I had re-learn how to socialize with people who weren’t homeless. Despite not wanting to acclimate to the homeless life, I’d realized early on that there were a series of unspoken rules that I’d have to learn if I expected to make it out the other side unscathed. And now, preparing to move out, I knew I’d have to unlearn all the things the shelter had taught me.

Among other things, I’d have to learn how to tell stories again. I’ve always considered myself to be part of the grand Southern tradition of story-telling, and it hamstrung me a little to tell stories to my new work friends. I still hadn’t “come out” (as homeless) to most of them, so any funny story I told had to be censored to prevent revealing too much. Additionally, any question about my residential circumstances was met with creative truthiness.

Coworker:  So how many roommates do you have?

Me: Oh, there’s a bunch of us (technically true).

I got my first lesson in re-socializing the night of a coworker’s 21st birthday. Ally was a gentle, sensitive spirit, with frequently-changing hair color and an infectious laugh. Despite being a bit flighty, she was one of my favorite work buddies, and I was looking forward to having the chance to celebrate her birthday with her. This was a month after I’d moved out of the shelter, and I’d settled into something of a routine in regards to work/home. But socializing was still new to me.  Going out was something I was still apprehensive about doing again. I trusted myself with the alcohol and late hours, but I’d become accustomed to being alone, and was worried I’d forgotten how to interact with others.

The night of Ally’s birthday we met up at Upper Level, a bar-slash-arcade popular with the hipster set. I wasn’t exactly a hipster, but video games and beer seemed like a great way to spend an evening, and Upper Level had already become one of my favorite places to hang out. For an hour we played video games, and her boyfriend and I took turns buying the birthday girl shots. As the laughs and fun progressed, I could feel my anxiety dissipating. It wasn’t until we went outside to smoke that things took a turn. We were outside having a grand time when a homeless guy wandered past. As he passed our group, he and I made eye contact and we recognized each other. Our acquaintanceship had been cordial enough, so I spoke to him. As he passed closer, he extended his hand in a fist bump, a common greeting in the shelter. Seeing us interact, the group waited until he’d passed, then the jokes began to fly.

“He really likes you, Trey. I wonder if he’s saving room for you in his cardboard box behind the Quickee Mart…”

“Nah, he was only flirting with Trey because Trey’s the only other Black guy on the sidewalk. More likely to get money from him than us…”

“Aww yeah. Homeless romance. The good news is you don’t have to worry about him blowing up your phone because he doesn’t have one. The bad news is if you invite him over, he’ll never want to leave…”

Finally Ally asked me how I knew him. Between the alcohol, and my burning anger, the truth came tumbling out.

“When I lived at the homeless shelter, he was always nice to me.” Instantly the group got quiet. A couple of them seemed to be waiting for a punchline, but when I took a drag on my cigarette and remained silent, they realized their mistake. Someone murmured, “Sorry dude. Didn’t know.” But no one had the courage to really speak up. I can’t say I’d have done any differently were I in their shoes.

Needless to say, that rather killed the mood of the group. One by one, they drifted off until it was just Ally and me. We leaned against the building across the street from the underground club we’d stumbled out of. The night air felt cool on my forehead as we smoked cigarettes and tried to avoid talking about the obvious topic of both our thoughts. Finally she turned to me and spoke, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I didn’t want anyone to think of me as ‘The Homeless Guy.’”

“You know I wouldn’t have thought of you that way…” she replied.

“I know, but it was still hard to admit that I’d let my life get that far out of control.”

It was the first time I’d admitted to anyone (including myself) that was the truth behind my reticence to share my ordeal. As my life had spiraled further and further out of control, it became increasingly harder for me to reach out to anyone. Finally, I felt so alone that it seemed pointless to even try connecting with others.

My friendship with Ally meant the world to me. She was just the kind of gentle spirit I needed in my life. She was so young that she was experiencing for the first time things that I was learning to do again: manage time, balancing work and social life, etc. In a way, it was like we were learning how to “adult” together.

Angels On My Side

Knowing that I had people on my side played a big role in my ability to maintain any semblance of sanity. But because I didn’t feel comfortable “coming out” as homeless to a lot of people, the few that I shared my truth with became very important to me.

The first person from work that I told was my immediate manager, Sam. The café also did catering, so oftentimes I’d find myself working late at private events. The first New Years Eve Ball that I worked for them, I was scheduled until 4am. Thinking one hour would be enough wiggle room, I requested a late curfew at the shelter, telling them I’d be back by 5am. As the night wore on, it became obvious that there was no way we’d be getting out by our scheduled time. I panicked because had I missed curfew, there was the very real chance that I’d be kicked out of The Program and wouldn’t have a guaranteed place to sleep. As 4am approached, I went to Sam to tell him my problem. I tried to be offhand about it, not wanting to dwell on the subject of my own homelessness. He was shocked, but characteristically supportive. He couldn’t promise me that I’d be out in time to make curfew, but he assured me that if I couldn’t get into the shelter, I could come stay with him and his wife. I was touched that he would make that kind of offer, but I was still determined to make it back to the shelter in time. Fortunately I did, but the biggest thing that came out of that revelation was the feeling that someone knew what I was going through. I’d been worried that word would quickly spread and people would treat me differently, but Sam never broke my confidence. After that, it became easier to tell people from work about my circumstances. I wasn’t as afraid anymore of their judgment. I began to realize that, even though my homelessness was a result of my own poor decisions, it wasn’t the mark of shame I’d been fearing. The coworkers that I told, rather than viewing it as a sign of my own weakness, saw it as something difficult that I’d overcome, and they seemed to think more highly of me than ever.

“Coming out” to my work friends made it easier to reach out for help from other people. One such person turned out to be already connected to me. At the shelter, there are different groups for different types of homeless men. I was in the Veterans’ Group, which emphasized programs and benefits available to those who have served our country. During the weekly job-search meeting (it didn’t matter that I already had a job, I still had to comply with the requirements of The Program, and attending job meetings is one of them), John passed around a printed email listing jobs available to veterans. In the address line, I spotted a name that looked really familiar immediately. “Jason Wayne Brooks” had been cc’d on the email, and something about his name struck a chord with me. It took some thinking, but I finally remembered where I’d seen the name before: one of my best friends from high school, a girl named Marella, was married to a guy by the same name. Turns out it was the same Jason Wayne Brooks, and he indeed worked for a non-profit organization dedicated to helping vets who were either homeless or in danger of becoming homeless. They offered many different services, from job placement to work clothes. That last part particularly interested me, as I was due to start my new job at The News of the World Cafe, and didn’t have clothes that complied with their uniform requirements. Knowing I was scheduled to work my first day the following morning, Jason squeezed in an appointment with me where he presented me with the clothes I’d need to start working. I’d emailed him my size and the kind of clothes I’d need, and he’d gone out early that morning and gotten me what I needed. Looking at the Wal-Mart bag on the floor beside his desk, I almost teared up thinking of how blessed I was to know someone in the right place at the right time.

I wound up working with his organization, Volunteers of America, more extensively as I prepared to move out of the shelter. After qualifying for their rental assistance programs they helped pay my rent every month for the first five months I lived on my own. The amount they contributed changed each month, with them paying less each month, and me paying more. It was designed to give vets an opportunity to save money, while still having a roof over their head. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to properly express how grateful I am to Jason and the staff at VoA. Their advocacy on my behalf not only afforded me dignity and opportunity, but it gave me the strength to persevere when things got difficult. Because of my association with them, I had the confidence that my time in the shelter would be ending sooner rather than later.

Allen likes to drink

By the time Kindred made his return from Holly Hill, I had become friends with Allen. Allen was a creative-minded chef with a quick wit and sarcasm that mirrored my own. And in that grand tradition of food service professionals, Allen loved to drink. A few nights before Christmas, he and I met after work for drinks, and Allen dropped $150 on food and drinks. By himself. Which presented a problem since we were in "The Program" (Progressive Housing Program), and were barred from drinking. By the time he finished his second "last" gin & tonic, he was swaying like an antenna in high wind.

We chain-smoked cigarettes the whole walk back, hoping to mask the smell of liquor and bad decisions. Having bluffed my way through roadblocks and cop stops before, I knew how to carry myself as we checked in at the front desk of the shelter. Allen, on the other hand, was a mess: sweating heavily, he was having a hard time regulating his footsteps. He vacillated between mumbled apologies and fits of giggles, when he managed to tear himself from the task of watching his feet as he walked. Apparently he didn't trust them to follow the given commands, with good reason.

Every person entering the shelter is subject to being searched. That meant that getting Allen back inside the shelter for the night would take some luck. One whiff of the fumes he was breathing would lead to a closer examination, which would have been disastrous. But fortune was on our side: the deputy who was working the door gave us a perfunctory swipe with the metal-detecting wand, and the front desk staff barely tore themselves from their conversation to get our bunk numbers.

I left Allen in the hall, stumbling back toward his dorm. Residents weren't allowed in dorms to which they weren't assigned, so I was prevented from actually tucking Allen into bed to make sure he was down for the night. Twenty minutes later as I heated up some canned goods I'd stashed in my book bag, Kindred approached me with wide eyes, asking, "Hey man, what the hell is that white boy on? He is gone." Dread tickled at the base of my neck as Kindred filled me in on the twenty minutes that had just passed.

Instead of making his way to bed, Allen had staggered outside to the smoke area, where he managed to impress everyone with his lack of coherent speech. Not one to let that stop him from attempting to speak, he finally nodded off in mid word. The quiet was so sudden that someone was scared he'd died and went to get help. He'd been awakened by the looming presence of the front desk staff with an assist from the deputy on duty. In what can only be described as The Miracle Before Christmas, they believed his assurances that he was just tired and would go to bed once he'd smoked his (unlit) cigarette.

My friendship with Allen presented something of a challenge to me. On one hand, the last thing I needed in my life at that point was an excuse to drink. Allen was as predisposed as I was to engage in Inappropriately-Early Drinking. I can't, in all fairness, call Allen a bad influence though. He never dragged me into any trouble. It was more like we were holding hands and skipping drunkenly down the road to ruin, side by side.

In Allen's favor was a simple fact: he was undeniably cool. We got each other's random pop culture references; we understood each other's devotion to a sometimes harsh industry; we both enjoyed toasting that industry with the free drinks we boasted we could talk out of the bartenders of the bars in downtown Raleigh. Whereas Kindred was like a younger version of me, Allen felt more like a peer. His mistakes mirrored mine, and his bad decisions had ended with results similar to my own.

The night before New Years Eve, Allen fell apart. I was walking home from work when I spotted a figure walking towards me through the cold drizzle. From as close as a block, I could tell that the hunched, stumbling person was Allen, and he was drunk. The fact that he was already drunk at 5:30 in the evening, plus the fact that he was walking away from the shelter in that condition, didn't bode well. Though he looked right at me, his eyes were glazed and bloodshot, and didn't recognize me. I spoke his name, startling him into recognition. Relieved to see a friendly face, he hugged me and launched into a rambling story about how he'd "lost it...just lost it."

I knew he'd gotten some new responsibility at the restaurant where he was cooking. In fact, that very morning he'd been given the keys to open the place and take a large food delivery. At first I thought he meant he'd lost the key, but that would hardly have explained his appearance: wet, disheveled, with spots of blood on his shirt and face. Turns out that the food shipment was much more complicated than he'd anticipated, and he panicked. He was smart enough not to raid the bar, which was monitored by a security camera. But when he stumbled onto a few bottles of white wine in the cooler, his fate was sealed. He was found later, passed out in one of the booths, his half-empty to-go cup of wine still at the table in front of him. He was, of course, fired.

He managed to talk his way into enough alcohol to keep him pickled until it was time to return to the shelter, where he promptly got into a fight with another resident. He got briefly tossed around before being tossed out of the shelter. By the time he encountered me, he'd stashed his things under the bridge where some homeless choose to make their homes. He was planning on sleeping under said bridge, but I wasn't having it. By Providence, before I got off work, my boss had given me my tipshares for the week, so I had enough for a single in the cheap motel across the street from the shelter. Allen nearly convinced me not to, but as it began to rain harder, I redoubled my arguments and convinced him to accept my gesture. I tried to soothe his wounded ego with humor, "Hey man if you're worried about paying me back, you can just take your top off and dance for a few minutes, and we'll be square." His laugh was deep and genuine, and it was the first one I'd heard since running into him that evening.

I hugged him in the parking lot, making him promise to get in touch with me and let me know his plans. I crossed the street, wondering what would become of Allen. When I next heard from him, he was still homeless, only this time it was in Hawaii. After getting fired from the restaurant, he'd collected his final paycheck and bought a ticket to the land where palm trees sway, intent on an adventure. He knew neither a soul in Hawaii nor where he was going to stay, but the same could have been said of his arrival in North Carolina.

He spent a week catching waves and chasing a constant buzz, then returned to the mainland, broke. Deciding he needed a major course correction, he went into a year-long rehab program and that was the last I heard of him.

I only knew Allen a short time, but we'd become close friends in that time. It was the kind of intense friendship borne of shared suffering and struggle, and it had changed me. Allen had served as a live-action Afterschool Special: "I'm Besties With an Alcoholic!" As I watched his life fall apart one drink at a time, I'd begun cutting back on my own drinking. Long after Allen left for Hawaii, I'd find myself remembering his decline as I turned down a drink with lunch.

Kindred takes a vacation from homelessness

After I got the job at the cafe I had less time to spend with Kindred. We'd still go to the library to collaborate on our graphic novel, but work took first priority for me. Even though Kindred wasn't employed, he treated getting a job like a job. He'd catch the bus or walk to temp agencies, or he'd go to the library to fill out online applications. When we weren't working or looking for work, we'd watch TV together or just sit around talking about our lives. In a way Kindred was my best friend. I didn't want to share my circumstances with even my closest friends, and I didn't feel comfortable coming out to most of the guys in the shelter, so nobody really knew all sides of my life. Except for Kindred. He was one of the few people who knew my sexuality and my residential challenges and accepted me anyway.

About a week after I got the job, I had my first late shift. I was assigned to work the bar at a reception at the museum and didn't get back to the shelter until 11 that night. I made it into the cafeteria to eat before lights-out (I used my food stamps to buy some food at the store on my way back), so there were still some people watching TV with me. One of them was a young guy named Jimmy who was obsessed with Japanese animé and spent all his free time watching movies and playing video games on his laptop. Turning to me he asked, "Hey man, where's your boy Kindred? He wasn't in the mandatory meeting tonight and I haven't seen him." I was so tired that I didn't think much of it. I assumed Kindred had already gone to bed, and said as much to Jimmy.

After I finished eating, I was heading back to my dorm when I heard two staff members talking about a light-skinned guy who left after some heated words with one of them. Immediately my stomach began to sink and I checked Kindred's bunk as I walked past it in the darkened room. It was still made up from that morning, and clearly hadn't been slept in. I stuck my head in the bathroom to see if maybe he was in there--no Kindred. Hoping against hope, I went out to the smoking area outside to see if he'd bummed a cigarette off someone--no Kindred. As I slowly walked back to my bunk I started considering where else he might be. His relationship with his family seemed strained at best--he hadn't reached out to any of them Thanksgiving day and seemed opposed to even trying to do so. He intentionally kept his circle of friends small, and none of them seemed to be in a position to help him. I could only hope he had found a place to stay and wasn't "sleeping rough" under the stars.

From a purely selfish point of view I hated to see him gone because of the loneliness that now loomed large. I knew I'd miss our effortless friendship and the feeling that I wasn't alone in my struggles. As I laid down in my bunk, I said a quiet prayer for him. I prayed that wherever he was, he was safe and warm and confortable; I prayed that he knew how much his friendship meant to me; I prayed that, whatever path he was on, it would lead him to the happiness and peace he deserved.

A few days later the mystery was solved when I got an instant message from a woman on Facebook. Without any preamble, she told me Kindred was in Holly Hill, a local mental hospital. She told me he wanted my number so he could call me directly. When I got him on the phone he explained that his recent efforts to secure disability (on the basis of mental illness) had backfired and he'd been involuntarily committed. Turns out he was a more convincing actor than he'd anticipated and was "diagnosed" as bipolar. His reaction to this diagnosis was the basis for his involuntary committal. He spent two weeks going to counseling sessions and trying to convince them that he was okay to cut loose before they finally agreed. Kindred never again mentioned the possibility of getting disability on the grounds of mental illness. I guess he figured he'd lived enough of the real thing and didn't want to play that game anymore.