Wycliff Ave. Bridge
After work, before meeting a bunch of friends for dinner, I stopped to get some gas. When I stepped out of the car, I was approached by a middle-age man who introduced himself as Bill. He said that he was homeless and had a special deal with the Salvation army and that gas station to have permission to offer to pump people's gas and wipe their windows for a $7 donation.
As he was finishing his offer, he waved at the station manager in the office window, who waved back, acknowledging his legitimacy I guess.
I figured my car could use a good window washing, and it was all going to a good cause, so I agreed.
After a couple of awkward minutes of watching the gallons slowly tick by, and he making small talk comments about this or that window being particularly dirty, I decided to make the most of the time and ask him a few questions.
"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "how did you get to be homeless?"
What followed was a fairly detailed account of Bill's previous life running an air conditioning repair shop with his mother, who, when suddenly passing away, ended up having owed over $46,000 in back taxes, not to mention significant estate taxes, for which her son was now liable. While taking care of her arrangements, he had temporarily shut down his business, only to find out that in the meantime his license had lapsed, and requests to renew his license were turned down on account of his debt.
I'm not exactly sure how the rest of things panned out, but included his car being repossessed and having to sell the house to cover the rest of the debt. Alternative arrangements for a place to live fell through, leaving Bill with a "forwarding address of the Wycliff Avenue bridge."
What struck me as interesting was that this guy's emotions were in an utter state of paradox. When reminiscing about the business world, he mentioned that his life is much simpler now, and that his existence, aside from trying to hunt down a place to shower, is relatively stress-free. On the other hand, his bitterness at the attitudes of both his fellow homeless (who haven't accepted him, really) and his previous acquaintances (who turn their heads away as they drive by) was significant. He held quite a contempt for the IRS, as well, whom he holds accountable for his turn of events.
By this time my gas tank was long since full, and Bill had washed one of my windows twice, so I figured it was time to move on. I handed him a $20, both out of lack of change and appreciation that he was above merely begging for money.
I mentioned the incident to my friends later that evening, and they had some tough questions.
There's no way you can lose your only place of residence — I think there's a law about that. It sure didn't sound like he had any intentions to find another job. Why would the Salvation Army care whether he was washing windows or not?
I don't know.
I'd still like to write a novel, at some point, about the homeless as a whole subculture living right in the middle of everyone else — just because I'm fascinated with the oddities of that world.
Why is it that there seem to be certain passing fads with the wording of the slogans on people's signs? Also, I'm sure a piece of cardboard is easy enough to come by, but what kinds of negotiation are necessary to find or borrow a black marker? How wide reaching are homeless people's social circles — do they limit things to their neighborhood or know people all the way across town? What kinds of word-of-mouth stories and legends would be exchanged by such a culture? What kind of reasoning goes into the decision of whether to go for the higher load capacity but burden of commitment of acquiring a shopping cart for your things?
Oh well. As shallow as it seems, no matter how sincere Bill was, at least I can write it off to research.
As he was finishing his offer, he waved at the station manager in the office window, who waved back, acknowledging his legitimacy I guess.
I figured my car could use a good window washing, and it was all going to a good cause, so I agreed.
After a couple of awkward minutes of watching the gallons slowly tick by, and he making small talk comments about this or that window being particularly dirty, I decided to make the most of the time and ask him a few questions.
"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "how did you get to be homeless?"
What followed was a fairly detailed account of Bill's previous life running an air conditioning repair shop with his mother, who, when suddenly passing away, ended up having owed over $46,000 in back taxes, not to mention significant estate taxes, for which her son was now liable. While taking care of her arrangements, he had temporarily shut down his business, only to find out that in the meantime his license had lapsed, and requests to renew his license were turned down on account of his debt.
I'm not exactly sure how the rest of things panned out, but included his car being repossessed and having to sell the house to cover the rest of the debt. Alternative arrangements for a place to live fell through, leaving Bill with a "forwarding address of the Wycliff Avenue bridge."
What struck me as interesting was that this guy's emotions were in an utter state of paradox. When reminiscing about the business world, he mentioned that his life is much simpler now, and that his existence, aside from trying to hunt down a place to shower, is relatively stress-free. On the other hand, his bitterness at the attitudes of both his fellow homeless (who haven't accepted him, really) and his previous acquaintances (who turn their heads away as they drive by) was significant. He held quite a contempt for the IRS, as well, whom he holds accountable for his turn of events.
By this time my gas tank was long since full, and Bill had washed one of my windows twice, so I figured it was time to move on. I handed him a $20, both out of lack of change and appreciation that he was above merely begging for money.
I mentioned the incident to my friends later that evening, and they had some tough questions.
I don't know.
I'd still like to write a novel, at some point, about the homeless as a whole subculture living right in the middle of everyone else — just because I'm fascinated with the oddities of that world.
Why is it that there seem to be certain passing fads with the wording of the slogans on people's signs? Also, I'm sure a piece of cardboard is easy enough to come by, but what kinds of negotiation are necessary to find or borrow a black marker? How wide reaching are homeless people's social circles — do they limit things to their neighborhood or know people all the way across town? What kinds of word-of-mouth stories and legends would be exchanged by such a culture? What kind of reasoning goes into the decision of whether to go for the higher load capacity but burden of commitment of acquiring a shopping cart for your things?
Oh well. As shallow as it seems, no matter how sincere Bill was, at least I can write it off to research.