The Homeless Are Like Screaming Jews

Does anyone remember this guy? He started a series called "The View From the Bottom: Homelessness in America". I was relishing what promised to be a cross between an articulate reporter and the underbelly of America. But I had reservations. Documenting one's own death takes an almost superhuman detachment. One must write for the heavens, for they are your sole witness in withering despair.

He wrote a couple of follow ups including an outstanding glimpse into human nature at The Bishop's Dinner. But nothing since that December posting. Who knows, maybe he found paradise and is long gone. I know I would be if I could find a way out. More likely, he got swallowed up by the situation. Difficult to keep one's composure to scribble coherently into a notepad whilst being lead to the hangman's gallows.

What's really defeating, though, is the silence. Yes, you may be like a screaming Jew in 1930's Germany, receiving a knock in the night as the black terror comes to take you and your family away to a raging furnace of nightmare hell on earth. But then like now, no one hears you. Huddled neighbors cower in fear. "Thank God that's not me," they whisper. But it is you...

That look of apprehension never changes

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Don't ever call Bob the Gambler just "Bob". Otherwise you might forget who he really is. You see, Bob has this amazing ability to draw sympathy and support. I don't even think it's a fully conscious thing. When he's fresh out of money, his pathetic figure has a way of triggering a voice inside of you that says, "I've got to help him or the world is doomed!" I know con men who'd give their eye teeth for that power. But it's not something Bob can will to happen.

Out-of-money Bob is a helpless child just looking to do good in the world. He is selfless to a fault and genuinely concerned with his fellow man. He both feels your pain and defends your dreams. I look at him in those moments and I think: "Damn, I'm an asshole compared to Bob." And although I cannot completely shake that feeling I do realize I am making the mistake of calling him just "Bob".

With-money Bob is a raving lunatic. He's going to hit the big score, dig out the money making scheme to go from rags to riches or find some other way to parlay whatever cash he gets into what is in his mind will be a potential bonanza. Bob the Gambler is the reason why I say never give money directly to a homeless person but rather to a shelter. He only gives a damn about himself when he has a dollar in his hand. I want to hate him, but I can't get regular Bob out of my head.

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"Oh, that magic feeling...
nowhere to go..."

Good Time Charlie haunts me like few others. He shied away from most folks but that was merely an act of self-preservation what with their literal minds and simple savage nature. His was a delicate spirit easily crushed by the harsh realities of the world. There were moments when I thought I could literally see Charlie fade away by the crushing demands of a mindless society bent on exploitation. He was defenseless and he knew it. I could see no way to protect him.

But wandering the streets with Charlie was a purely magical, mysterious delight. I felt as if the stars were following us, waiting to burst a light of sudden salvation at any moment. Charlie was connected like that, the universe his home. There was an expectation around every corner we'd find a treasure chest or a gathering of elves or some other mythical legend of yore. How old his soul? I remember thinking, "Is this how the Hebrews felt following the pillar of God?"

I never shared those feelings or thoughts with anyone. Even writing this now it seems too outlandish to be true. But it was as real as the sun and the moon. What Good Time Charlie didn't know how to do was manifest his magic, to bring it into this world to receive his just reward. He's gone now. Charlie wasn't above a little larceny and I pray he's alright. Tonight I walked through a barrio we'd laughed our way through once before. This time I felt only cold alienation.

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To end where I began, I must say I know what it's like to scream and not be heard, to know that nothing you say or show or demonstrate will make any difference. It takes the heart and soul out of you. Whether for a swastika or a dollar, the bottom line is they're coming to take us from our homes. But nature is self-correcting in the end. What else to reap but what we sow? Time will come when it's revealed if we've planted the seeds of life - or the seeds of death.