We've all got worth

They cannot take away our self-respect if we do not give it to them. ~Mahatma Gandhi

We are on the elevator, the two of us behind closed metal doors, riding up to the sixth floor of the homeless shelter where I work. I am writing a report on recidivism in homelessness and he is a client whose almost twenty year history of drifting in and out of homelessness includes several stays at the shelter. We are barely at the second floor when he blurts out the saddest story of his life. “I had four children. One of them didn’t make it,” he says.

I offer my sympathy. I don’t know what else to say. He shrugs his shoulders. Shakes his head side to side. “It’s one of those things a man never gets over. I saw it in the eyes of that man in the paper today. The one whose nine year old son fell off the balcony. I looked in his eyes and thought, ‘oh man, you’re in for a rough ride’.”

He pauses for a moment. Stares up at the floor numbers passing by on the illuminated display of the elevator.

“She was only 2 and a half. Real sweet little girl. We were in a park. A city truck backed up and ran over her. Just hit her and that was it. She was gone.” He laughs. One of those short, bitter not very funny laughs that come from the shadows of dark thoughts and memory. “I shoulda sued. They paid for the funeral. That’s it. They killed my little girl and all they did was pay for the funeral.”

The elevator doors slide open and he waits for me to exit before following. “That led to ten years of heavy drinking. Man. I feel for him. That father’s in for a rough ride.”
We do not speak of his daughter again. He doesn’t want to go back there. Back to those times, those days, so many of them lost and hazy behind the sheen of booze and desperately trying to forget the pain of a loss he cannot make sense of, a loss that haunts him still. But she is there, that little girl whose life ended too soon. She is there in my office as we talk about his journey from that dark place into where he is today. Living in a shelter once again. Struggling to get out, get on, get into independent living, one more time.

“I’m fifty-eight,” he says once we’re seated in my office. He doesn’t want a coffee. No water. Nothing. “I’m not sure what this is all about but I thought, what the heck, when Doug [a counselor] asked me if I’d talk about my experience I thought, why not. Let’s see what it’s all about.”

He’s fifty-eight and this bout of homelessness began six months ago. “You know, when you’re sitting there with your back up against a wall and nobody’s handing out jobs, it’s tough to get out of this place. Every year it gets tougher, but hey, I can’t quit. I’m sane. At least nobody’s declared me insane so I don’t qualify for any social assistance. I don’t have a pension, nothing to fall back on so I’ve got to keep working.”

He looks at me, his blue eyes bright, his salt and pepper beard cleanly trimmed. He takes his hat off, pushes back his hair with one hand, moves to place his hat back on his head, and then stops. I imagine his mother’s voice whispering in his ear. “Real men don’t wear hats in front of ladies.” He drops the hat to his knee. There’s a clear mark around his hairline where the hat sits low on his head.

He looks younger without the hat. More vulnerable. Tired. Defeated.

“I was raised Catholic,” he says in one quick breath. It is a sudden change of direction. A sudden shift in our conversation. In the course of our two hours together I will get used to his habit of stream of thought speaking. But, this time, it momentarily takes me by surprise. I’d asked him how he ended up at a shelter the first time and this was his response.

“I was raised Catholic.”

“So was my wife,” he adds. “But she converted to become Mormon. It was the late 70s, we were spiritually impressionable. I was working for the City and my wife stayed home with the children. And they came to the door and suddenly, what do you know, she’s Mormon and she wants me to give up drinking and smoking and I love my wife. She was real beautiful. Long black hair. Like Crystal Gale only longer. Straight too. Cut straight across the bottom. Fell down to the backs of her knees. She was a real beauty. Men couldn’t stop looking at her and these Mormons came to the door and that was that. She looked like an angel walking. I love my wife so I did. Quit. Drinking and smoking. For nine months, but I got mad and in the end I started again and that was that.”

He stops. Takes a breath. “I’m still drinking. Not long ago my wife told me she still loved me. Hell, I still love her but I know better. It would only be like it was before. I told her it wouldn’t work. Better to end it now before it begins than to be disappointed later.”
He pauses again. Thinking.

“It was nice. Her telling me that.”

“She’s a real fine lady. Only it would never work. I’m too accustomed to living on the edge. I’m a free spirit kind of guy, you know. Kind of wild.”

He stops. Laughs. That shadow laugh again.

“You know, it’s all about living as best you can and I can’t live well if I’m not treating others well. That’s what I like about this place. There’s a sense of camaraderie. Friendship. These are real down to earth people. When you’ve lost everything you show your real self. You’ve got nothing else to show. Dreams are gone, so all you’ve got are your stories and your honesty.”
I am mostly silent. Listening. Deep listening. He keeps talking and I keep taking notes, occasionally smiling, nodding my head. He is funny. Charming. Witty. And wise and honest and humble. He is a gentle man trying to make sense of the past while living in this moment to the best of his ability.

“I really want to get out of this place,” he says fervently. “You know, as time goes on I lose my patience. I’m just not very good at putting up with stupidity and I know it’s not their fault [the other clients] but sometimes, I get so frustrated with how everyone is such a sheep. They’re all followers. It makes me sad to see the young kids out there on the floor. They just sit there wasting their lives. They’ve already given up. Instead of making something of their lives, they’re destroying it. I get so fed up with watching the destruction sometimes I want to tell them to stop and I don’t because I know nobody will listen. But it sure is depressing some days.”
His son lives in town. He’s a successful business owner. He wants his father to come and live with him and his family. “That would never work,” he says. “I like to be my own man. I don’t like to be dependent on anyone.”

And he tells me a story of borrowing $300 from his son to help with a damage deposit on his own place. “I painted his basement. Paid it all back. I’m a good painter. I’m not a homeless bum. That’s what really bothers me,” he says. “Walk around this city with a backpack on your back and people assume you’re homeless which means worthless. I’ve got lots of qualifications. I finished high school. Yet, they don’t even know me and they label me worthless. I refuse to lose my self-respect but man, it isn’t easy some days. The way they look at you. It’s not right.”
And he tells me about a recent job he had for a guy. Painting.

“I see this ad in the paper and I call right away. He says, come over now and I gotta ask him if I can come in the morning ‘cause all my gear’s in my locker and I can’t access it until the evening.”
He stops. Thrusts one black booted foot towards me. “See this boot. Two days ago it was covered in white paint. I scrubbed it with soap and water to get the paint off. They’re my best boots. Real comfortable. This guy didn’t want to wait until morning. He wanted to see my work that afternoon. So, I figured I could risk it. My options were limited anyway and I’m a good painter.

But you get covered in paint nonetheless.”

He laughs. “Had to throw my pants out. And my shirt. But I showed him how good I was and he hired me.”
He sighs.

“I didn’t know he was a crackhead. I worked for him for three days. I’ve yet to get paid. As it is, it cost me $15 in bus fare.”
He holds up his cellphone.

“I’ve been calling him. I didn’t want him to know where I lived.” He looks at me sheepishly. “The stigma and all that. But he figured it out and I guess he figured he didn’t have to pay me.”
Another shrug of the shoulders.

“I got $1.5o minutes left on my cellphone. I can’t afford to call him. He answered me yesterday and put me on hold. I had to hang up. Said he’d be here today with my money. Sure hope he turns up.”

I am silent. I don’t know what to say.

“I hate hoping but I have to. I hope he turns up. I could use the money.”

A longer pause this time as he looks down at his phone. Stuffs it in his pocket. Picks up his hat.

Reaches to place it on his head and changes his mind again.

“Terrible when you have to rely on others… Hope he comes through though. But you get used to disappointment. Living like this I know a person can turn on me in a hurry.”

He motions with the hand still holding his hat. He raises it up and drops it suddenly.

“Things can go from up to down real fast.”

“I keep telling myself, you’ll get a place again. Can’t give up. Gotta have things to look forward to. Not dreams. No. No more dreams. But I’ve got aspirations. Hopes. Don’t have to be anything profound. Like a million dollars.” He laughs. “That would be unrealistic.”

What would be realistic? I ask.

“A small apartment. One room even. As long as it’s nice. Something reachable. Affordable. If I reach for too much it only creates greater confusion in my mind, because I know I can’t get it. So, I keep it attainable. Real.”

What’s real for you? I ask.

“A room would be good. Not like the one I had last time though. That was in the basement of some guy’s house. Five hundred dollars for really grim. And grimy. Tacky fly paper hanging from the ceiling complete with ancient flies and other bugs. A cubicle for the toilet. Same for the shower. An industrial sink that you washed your hands and face and the dishes in. And I had to share with another guy with mental health issues. He was real scary. I’d rushed into that place. Had been staying here and wanted out desperately. Got a job and took the first place I could find. Stayed there one year but it was bad. Got laid off and as soon as I got my unemployment cheque I left. Figured I couldn’t survive that place and not working. Came to stay at the shelter here, the satellite one. Didn’t want to cart my stuff with me and I knew I could get a locker out there right away. It’s not bad out there. Quieter than here. [the main building] Not as smelly and not so many people down and out wasting time.”

He laughs. This time from his belly.

“You know, I get fed better here than I did at my last place on my own. I mean, you get roast beef here and turkey. I was lucky to afford hamburger. I’ve put on seven pounds in three months.”

He pats his belly.

“Yeah. I’m well-fed here. Other things are good too,” he adds. “Like the programs. Didn’t used to have that. And being open all day. That’s good. Used to be before you’d have to go out all day and walk the streets. That ain’t easy. I mean, I keep looking for work. My son suggested I go work at Walmart. That’s not who I am, I told him. I’m a painter and a good one.”
I want to ask him if he’ll come and paint my house. I want to give him some hope. And know I can’t.

What have you learned from living this lifestyle? I ask instead.

“That I’m a complete human being,” he says. “It’s forced me to look at myself and others and to accept people as they are. You know, when I was living on my own I had a TV and a computer and I hated it. They’re not real people. They’re not real. I missed this place. This community where I know, for all my flaws and other’s too, I fit in. I miss talking to people when I’m living on my own. Miss sharing a joke. Being out there limits you. There’s a lot of positive being here. It’s really taught me to look at both sides of every situation.”

And he pauses again. Sighs.

“Only thing is, I don’t have as much energy anymore to see both sides. You get challenged in almost every moment of every day being here. And that can be good. But, it’s hard to be aware of yourself all the time. It’s why some people drink. Or do drugs. To not be aware. You don’t have the pleasure of being alone when you want to so, sometimes, you have to find other ways to be unaware. Drinking helps. “

“You know, everyone has worth. That’s the thing about drugs. They’re not like booze. At least with booze you still have some wits about you. But drugs. They steal everything. Especially your self-respect and your worthiness. And we all gotta believe we’ve got worth.”

He looks at me. Places his hat on his head. The conversation is over.

I want to do something for him. Want to show my appreciation for his time and his honesty and his lessons in life.

I’ve always sworn I’d never contribute to someone’s smoking but he’s told me throughout the conversation how much smoking helps him deal with the stress of being ‘in this place’.

I decide to my principles about not smoking are worth less than this man's presence in my life. “What do you smoke?” I ask.

“Cigarettes,” he replies quickly.

I laugh.

I meant, what brand.

He laughs too.

“Oh. Viceroy. They’re the cheapest.”

And if you didn’t have Viceroy what would you have?

“I’d be picking butts.”

It’s my turn to laugh.

I meant, what brand would you smoke? I’d like to buy you a packet.

“You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to give me anything.”

I know that. I want to.

He takes another deep breath.

“That would be really nice. It would really help me out. Viceroy would be great.”

Isn’t there a brand you’d prefer? I’d like to get your favourite, I tell him.

“Viceroy are my favourite,” he says. “If I get something more expensive I’ll still have to go back to liking Viceroy. It’s easier not to switch and then be disappointed again later.”

A lifetime of learning how to cope with disappointment stands up from the seat where he's been sitting. Walks towards my office door.

“You learn in this place that you can’t always get what you want, but you can always take what you get. I really appreciate the offer of cigarettes. I’ve really appreciated talking to you.” Pause. “Can I give you a hug?”

I smiled and walked towards him. Of course. I’d really like that.

He leaves to return to the dining area for lunch and I leave to go in search of cigarettes. I wanted to tell the man at the convenience story why I was buying cigarettes. I wanted to tell him about the amazing person for whom they were a gift. But I remained silent.How could I explain the depth of our encounter?

I return to the shelter and find him sitting outside enjoying the sunshine. I hand him the packets of cigarettes I bought and he takes my hand in his. “Thank you. I really really appreciate this.”

And I smile in return. Thank you. And I really really appreciated spending time with you.

And I did.