homeless stories page 4
From: "Denver VOICE" <denvervoice@netherworld. NOSPAMcom>
To: "Homeless People's Network" <hpn@lists.is.asu.NOSPAMedu>,
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Date: Fri, 18 Jan 2002 17:28:03 -0600
Subject: [Hpn] From Denver VOICE Jan 2002 - Opportunity Center
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Opportunity Center by Al Bliss
“Excuse me, pal. Can you help a poor man out? I’ve been walking since four o’clock this morning and I’m famished.”
“Sure! Come on! Breakfast is the least I can do, especially the day after Thanksgiving.”
We walked into the restaurant, took a booth near a window that looked out onto the street. The waitress, wearing a black dress and flowery white apron, wrote the order down on her small pad and left.
“My name’s Al.”
“I’m Chuck.”
Chuck was thirty-five years old, had brownish blond curly hair and a thick handlebar mustache. He wore cream brown wingtips that must have had taps on the heels and toes, pressed brown corduroy pants and an oversized navy blue sweatshirt.
“You don’t look homeless, Al.”
“I try to stay clean and tidy Chuck, especially when I panhandle. I get better results that way.”
“Where are you living?”
“Opportunity Center. That’s a homeless shelter on Myrtle Avenue, between
Noble and Brown Streets.”
“Yeah, sure, I drive by there every day. That’s a screwy bunch to live with, Al. Mostly drug addicts and alcoholics and connivers, no?”
“That’s basically what an outsider sees.”
“What’s your spin?”
“The guys and gals at Opportunity Center are searching for love. When they don’t find love, they turn to dope and booze.”
“Love, huh?”
“Yup, love.”
“Jeez! That’s hard to believe.”
“You asked me for the inside spin.”
“I’m going to call your bluff.” Chuck opened his wallet, took out a $10 bill and put it under the ashtray. “Persuade me that homeless people are looking for love and the money is yours.”
The waitress with the frilly apron brought the food. “Enjoy guys.”
Most of the tenants went to the Thanksgiving Day bash at the Salvation Army. Those that remained were quiet. A few played solitaire at one of six long tables. A man with a messy beard and curly gray hair paced the tiled floor, from one end of the room to the other. A couple of others, slumped in their plastic chairs, snored. A pretty gal with short blonde hair and half-heart shaped ears sat with her legs crossed. She was wearing white tennis sneakers and blue jeans and orange pullover. The day clerk, Corey, sitting on a swivel chair behind the contact counter, hands clasped behind his head, was listening to music through headphones.
A young man with jet-black hair, brownish-yellow skin and squashed pug nose stood a foot away from the counter. Holding a straight stick in one hand, he just stood there. A rope hoop, attached to the stick, encircled his wrist.
Corey removed his earplugs. “What up?”
“Tiene una carta por yo?”
“Huh?”
“You have a mail for me?”
“Oh yeah!” Corey opened a lower drawer and took out a stack of envelopes. “Here it is! Right on top. Pedro Miguel Cortez!” Corey grabbed Pedro’s wrist and placed the envelope in his hand.
“Gracias.”
He turned from the counter and swished the stick back and forth. He felt for the end of the partition, a wall that separated the contact counter from the day room.
“Hi Pedro.”
“Marlena?”
“Yup! The one and only.”
“I thought you went out!”
“I did! It’s dead downtown, totally dead.”
“What’s wrong, Marlena? You don’t sound too happy.”
“What? Oh. How can you tell?”
“I am not deaf, Marlena!”
He found an empty chair and sat. He folded the walking stick into five pieces, put the cane on top of his chair, between his legs.
“What is wrong?”
“I need money and I can’t get it!”
“You have a job!”
“Yes but I’m not getting paid.”
“La Maestra Ruth loves you and los estudiantes in the English as a Second Language Class love you too. You are helping us to hablan English.”
“That’s good for you but I need money.”
Pedro was silent.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Por puesto!”
“I’m going to keep the assistant teachers job only till I make enough money to leave town. I want out of El Paso so bad. I hate this fucking place. If I had five or six hundred bucks I know I could make it in New York!”
“I think you like it here.”
“I would not have taken the tutoring job but Ruth kept telling me to hold on. She said that the grant money to hire an assistant would come through. But how long am I supposed to fucking wait?”
“Why don’t you try a part time job?”
“Like what? I have tried to get day work. I’ve been up to the labor hall morning after morning and have not gone-out once.”
“Porque?”
“They don’t give out jobs to women.”
“I can not believe that!”
“I keep telling Chico that I can do manual labor. I can do any work a guy does! Chico’s afraid that I’ll get hurt on the job and sue Labor Ready. I’m sick of him and I’m sick of Labor Ready. I’m sick of this place, too.”
She took a pouch of tobacco from her pocket and lighted a pre-rolled cigarette.
“What about you? Aren’t you sick of living here?”
“Sí pero what can I do?”
She blew out a puff of smoke, flicking the ashes on the floor. She took another drag and did the same.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“My disability check.” When Pedro spoke, he did not turn his head to face Marlena. “I get it early at the holidays.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
“Oh.”
“Que?”
“It’s in brail.”
“What did you expect?”
“How much is it for?”
“Cuatrocientos veinte y siete dólares y treinta y ocho centavos.”
“Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty-eight cents! Wow! What do you do with all that money?”
“Most of it goes in the bank.”
“How old are you, Pedro?”
“I have twenty two anos?”
“Its not I have twenty two anos! The right answer is ‘I am twenty two years old!’”
“Lo Siento!”
“You don’t have to say you are sorry every time you make a mistake.”
Pedro was silent.
“Oh forget it!”
She retrieved an empty Hills Brothers Coffee can and deposited her cigarette butt.
“Have you ever been with a woman?”
“Como?”
“You know what I mean! Have you ever been laid?”
No answer.
“Did you ever put your dick inside a woman? Diga mí!”
“I had a girlfriend in Chihuahua secondary school. Her name was Maria Louisa Sanchez Marqeza. We kissed one time.”
“French kissed or just kissed?”
“Que?”
“Did you put your tongue in her mouth?”
“No! Never!” He laughed at Marlena’s preposterous suggestion. “No woman wants to be animal with a blind man.”
Marlena placed her hand on Pedro’s thigh. Pedro’s tawny eyelids opened wide.
“What happened with Maria Louisa?” She rubbed his thigh slow, real slow.
“Huh?”
Pedro was mute.
“Let’s go in the women’s dormitory.”
“Why?”
“The women’s dormitory. It’s quiet in there and we can talk. I’ll shut the door.”
“What do you want to go to Nueva York?”
She kept moving her hand in circular motions, inches from his stick.
“It’s not “What do I want to go to New York” Pedro.” Marlena’s tone of voice had changed. “It’s Why do I want to go to New York? Because New York is alive and fun! Because New York is swarming with people that love to dance. Understand?”
“Sí, entiendo. You have visited that Ciudad?”
“No.”
“I heared from mucho gentes that Nueva York is muy dangerous. Are you not afraid?”
“I’ll make it.”
“Como?”
“I will find a way to survive.”
“You will be alone, Marlena. You will be in a strange place with no one to help you.”
“I have to believe, Pedro.”
“Believe? I do not understand”
“I have to believe that strangers will help me.”
She got up from her chair and looked over at Corey.
Marlena tugged Pedro’s hand. “Come with me,” she whispered. “It’s past two o’clock. We don’t have much time.”
He got up, folded the letter in half and put it in his pant’s pocket. He wrapped the cane’s cord around his wrist and snapped it. Presto! The walking stick was back in one piece.
“Put your hand on my shoulder.”
The two walked out of the day room, the woman leading the man. Except for a dozen blue mats stacked on the floor, one on top of the other, the room was empty. The two slipped inside unnoticed, almost.
There was nothing doing at the Center so I made a move.
Just down the block from the shelter is the Jockey Club Bar. Not a few of Opportunity Center’s tenants go there because of the nearness to the shelter and because of the $2 pitchers of tap beer. The club is small. There’s a jukebox in the corner, pool table in the middle and two square tables with red and white tablecloths. The men’s room is next to the lady’s room, at the far end of the beer-mug handle shaped bar. The ten bar stools have black cushions and back rests but no arm rests.
I walked inside and the stools were full. I bought a pitcher and sat at a table.
There was a pool contest going on between Timothy and Shorty, the best of five games of Eight Ball. I noticed a $10 bill on the mahogany apron of the table, under the square hunk of chalk.
The bartender, Ruben, is a stubby muscular man of forty. He has a trimmed brown beard and sagging potbelly. His nose is crooked and pushed to the side, a souvenir from a bar brawl. His red and black flannel shirt is open at the neck and his green slacks are wrinkled.
Ruben grabbed four pint-size salty pretzels from a brown wicker basket, popped them into his mouth, as he listened to a drunken patron.
A customer called for more brew but Ruben did not hear.
“Hey! Bartender! Are you working today or just playing with yourself? Let me have another pitcher.”
“Coming right up.”
Barred from Opportunity Center for disrespecting a shelter monitor, Jimenez is back in form. His eyebrows, black and thick go with his complexion, dark brown. His goatee has a chin-tail. Around his head is a black bandana. Three large holes at the seat of his dirty blue jeans show flesh. The jean cuffs are tucked into his flat black motorcycle boots. Jimenez does not own a motorcycle and has never ridden on one, yet everyday he wears the same Harley Davidson hip leather vest with no shirt underneath. Each of his forearms has a twelve-inch girlie tattoo. On the left arm the girl is kneeling on a beach laughing, hands raised, ready to slap a ball. On the other arm, the girl is standing behind a volleyball net, legs apart, stark naked.
Jimenez turned to Myra. “Look at his fat ass waddle. There should be a sexy broad like you behind the bar, not him!”
Myra is twenty-five years and a full-blooded Mexican American from a poor Chihuahua family. She has long thick chestnut brown hair, cinnamon bronze skin and a special spot in her heart for White homeless men. She looks comfortable watching the pool contest; her butt is planted on the stool and her legs are spread into a V. Don’t get the wrong idea, Myra’s not a ‘ho. She wears simple, loose fitting, clothing closet clothing. Faded black chinos, ordinary lace’em up sneakers and a rose pink quilted sweater. Her white bra tips push through the wool netting.
Ruben returned with Jimenez’s pitcher of beer. Thick foamy suds toppled over the pitcher and onto the bar. Ruben grabbed a wash cloth from behind the bar, lifted the pitcher and wiped the red tabletop dry. He took two dollars from under the coaster, slid the green paper under the tin flap, closed the register and returned to his conversation with the patron down the bar.
Jimenez turned to Myra. “Why don’t you pull up your blouse, suga. I want to see your tits.”
“You better not let Timothy hear you!”
“You know you want me! I see the way you look at me on the breakfast line, back at the shelter!”
“I’m involved with another man.”
“Yeah! Right! Don’t shit me, babes. He’s a drunk and you want a new stud!”
Timothy’s hips leaned against the pool table. He won the last game. It was now tie score. As he blue chalked the tip of his pool stick, the same color of his eyes, he gazed at the $10 bill. He stood tall but wobbly. He had a powerful upper body, chest, arms and neck. At one time he must have been a weight lifter. A baseball cap covered his hair, short and blond. The cap’s bill was tilted down, way down.
His opponent pushed the mechanism into the pool table and fifteen multi-colored globes raced down the shoot. He placed the balls into the vanilla colored “triangle” and then shuffled them into the proper sequence, solid/stripe, solid/stripe.
Shorty is forty-seven years old and stands tall at four feet eight inches. He has adorable curly brown hair, floppy ears that stick out from his head and long untrimmed sideburns. His teeth are crooked and have large spaces between them. One other thing, Shorty has not been close with a woman since he left prison, eight months ago.
He wiped the meaty side of his fingertips on the pool table’s green cloth a couple of times, imitating a local pool junkie that hustles money at the club. The psyche-out did not work. Timothy was chewing the rag with Ruben, at the far end of the bar. Shorty grabbed a pool stick, the shortest one in the house and rolled it back and forth on top of the table. The stick was warped, so he grabbed another from the wall rack and rolled that one. Satisfied, Shorty propped his stick against the pool table, walked over to the bar and sat on Timothy’s stool, next to Myra.
“My P.O. (parole officer) wants me out of the shelter. I’ll be gone by Saturday.”
“Why?”
“There was a five year old girl killed last week. My P.O. said he’s got orders to pull his parolees out of Opportunity Center.”
“No.”
“I’m on paper for Seventeen months, Myra. I did two and a half of a seven-year stretch for assault on a police officer. I’m itching to rabbit this town.”
“If you leave Texas, what happens?”
“If I get caught I have to do my remaining time, four and a half years.”
Myra turned sideways on her swivel chair and took a swig of beer. Shorty took the opportunity to view Myra’s “features”.
“Can I get one of your cigarettes?”
Shorty put two cigarettes in his mouth, lighted both and gave one to Myra.
“Yeah Myra, If I had someone like you to go with me, someone that really cared for me, I’d take the chance!”
“I like you Shorty. I’m itching to leave El Paso but….”
“Timothy won’t let you loose, right?”
Myra does not reply.
“I have the coin, Myra. I’ve been working twelve-hour shifts at the bakery, six days per week. That was one of the conditions of my parole. I promised the parole board that I would hold down a full time job.”
“Everything OK, sweetcakes?”
Timothy squeezed himself between Myra’s legs and the two kissed, swapping spit. Refreshed, he took a long gulp of beer and returned to the pool contest.
He leaned down, aimed his stick and pulled it back and forth, the way pool players do. Slamming the cue ball into the pyramid, the balls scattered every which way but none dropped into the pockets.
It was Shorty’s turn. He got one solid colored ball in the pocket, then another. In minutes he ran all the solids off the table, pointing to the intended pocket with his stick. It looked like he had the $10 bill in hand, till he missed banking the 8 ball.
Timothy walked around the pool table a half a dozen times, first this way then that, angling for his best shot.
Shorty went to the bar, stood next to Jimenez who was watching the shooter. He took a long gulp of beer, finishing half the glass. He wiped the suds from his mouth, stood right in front of Jimenez and stared at Myra’s protruding breasts.
Jimenez got off the stool and forced his body between Myra’s legs. He lifted up her sweater hard and fast, slipped his hands under her bra cups and fondled the fleshy orbits.
Myra fought him off. “Get the fuck away from me!”
“Hey!” Timothy yelled. “What are you doing!”
“Go fuck yourself! You don’t deserve a woman like this!”
“Outside, asshole!” He threw his pool stick on the floor. “I’ll give you what you deserve, motherfucker!”
Timothy and Jimenez left the bar. Everybody else crammed around my table, just below the window.
Bam! Bam! Jimenez was on the ground, curled into a worm, protecting his face from Timothy’s kicks.
A squad car arrived, followed by an emergency medical team. The uniformed officers pulled Timothy away and the two paramedics helped Jimenez to his feet. Both men were handcuffed and told their rights.
After the bad went down, everybody talked the scene to death, except Shorty.
I walked down to Town Park, two blocks from The Jockey Club. It was twilight and peaceful, in the center of El Paso’s shopping district. I found an empty bench, behind a couple homeless friends.
“Roll me a cigarette, Hun.”
Carmen has lived at Opportunity Center for a year and a month. Before that he was a resident of El Paso’s Rescue Mission. Carmen, twenty-six years old, is an “illegal immigrant” from Juarez. His face, the kind of face that belongs on the cover of Esquire Magazine, is elegant. His lips are rosy brown. There is slight bump on the bridge of his nose that does not detract from his good looks. His thick, brown, wavy hair forms a triangle at the center of his forehead. He is vain about his appearance. Every Tuesday at Opportunity Center, Mormons from the Church of Latter Day Saints give him a trim. When he has the extra money, he pays for a facial and manicure.
Bobby handed Carmen the cigarette. “Here you go.”
He produced a stainless steel lighter, ignited Carmen’s cigarette and then his own. He returned the square lighter to his hip pocket.
A gentleman driving a metallic brown Lexus was stopped at the light. An American flag was attached to his antenna. The female passenger brushed her hair.
Carmen took a drag from the cigarette but then laid it on the bench’s edge. From a waist pouch, he took out his comb and compact. He combed his hair up and back, in pompadour style. He inspected his face in the small round mirror.
“Why don’t you do that after the smoke?”
Bobby is thirty-eight years old, six foot four inches tall, easily. He has a bald spot on the back of his head that he is “concerned” about. His hands are bony, so is the rest of his body. He has protruding blue veins that start at the elbows and end at the knuckles.
He took in a long drag, held it inside and exhaled.
“I love America and I love Carmen.” When Carmen finished, he put compact and comb in the pouch.
“Can you give me another light, Hun? The cig went out.”
“Sure babe. Here you go.”
He blew out a puff of white smoke. “You say that you love me.”
“I do.”
“You love me and I love you, so why can’t you stay in El Paso?”
“Carmen! We’ve been over this a dozen times! At the O.C. (Opportunity Center) we can’t be lovers.”
“Bobby, we sleep next to each other every night.”
A couple passes along the park’s promenade. The woman is wearing a tight black skirt, black high heels and fashionable leather jacket. Her arm is wrapped around her lover’s hips. He has a clean boyish face, a Madison Avenue haircut and deep brown eyes. His designer pants are cut perfect. The cuffs skim the tops of his tan loafers. The couple stop in front of Bobby and Carmen, embrace cheek to cheek and kiss.
“Oh, big deal! We sleep together! I can’t hug you like that or kiss you like that! I can’t hold you in my arms!”
“Stop it! We do the best we can, under the circumstances.”
“I want more.”
“We have enough money to rent a room for the month at the De Soto Hotel. After the month is up, if we don’t have the rent for the second month, we go back to the Opportunity Center.”
“Listen, Carmen. I’ve been here nine weeks! El Paso is old. Let’s catch-out tomorrow morning. We’ll be in Sacramento California by Monday. From there we can bum a ride over to San Francisco.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s warmer up there! We can beat the winter! Plus, the City has a gay ghetto that you’ll love. What do you say? Come on! Let’s do it!”
Carmen smiled and then laughed.
“What is so funny, girl?”
“You sound so sure of yourself, Bobby.”
“I’ve been riding freight trains for twenty years. I know the train yards and I know the bulls (railroad cops) too. We’ll take a forty-eight foot container, toward the middle of the line, so the ride’ll be smooth.
“What’s a forty-eight footer?”
“The chassis is forty eight feet long but the freight container is only forty feet long. That means there is four feet of space in the front of the container and four feet of space in the back. The trick is telling the difference between the one’s with a floor and the one’s without a floor.
“How?”
“If the chassis is squared off at the wheels it has a solid steel floor. If the chassis is rounded off at the wheels it only has a skeleton frame to hold the container.”
“It sounds dangerous, Bobby.”
“After the engines are fueled up and the engineer’s assistant inspects the train, we hop on.”
“Not when it’s moving! No way!”
‘We can take a Grain Car. There’s room enough in the cubbyhole for two people.”
“A Grain Car?”
“Or we can hop on a Gondola! I’ll spike the door so it won’t shut. I’ll roll-out my zero weather sleeping bag and we’ll cuddle-up like lovers on holiday.”
Bobby grabbed Carmen’s hand and squeezed it.
“Better yet, we’ll ride first class, in the engine compartment. We’ll take a hot shot to California in high hobo style!”
“What’s a “hot shot”?”
“Five engine trains that pull the chain of freight cars.”
“What about the engineer? Will he let us ride in the engine car?”
“So long as we don’t fool with any of the controls, they don’t care.”
Across the street, two uniformed police officers gave the lovers a harsh look. Bobby let go of Carmen’s hand.
“It’s so easy to catch-out in El Paso.”
“If we get caught, you go to jail for two or three days but I go back to Mexico. You don’t know how hard it was to sneak over the border.”
“Bobby was silent.
“What kind of stuff will I see?”
“Cows and bulls and sheep and lots of prairie land and horse farms. You’ll see long stretches of land with just cactus. Telephone poles that go on and on. Women hanging clothes out to dry and men digging fence holes.”
“It’s getting late, Bobby.” Carmen got up and stretched. “I want to get on the mat line early. This way we’ll be together.”
Carmen and Bobby walked up Myrtle Avenue, back to Opportunity Center.
“How are you guys doing?” The waitress said, standing at the side of our table. “How about more coffee?”
“Sure,” Chuck said. “Another two cups, please.”
“What happened to Bobby and Carmen, Al?”
“I don’t know. They left Opportunity Center early this morning, way before me. I guess they caught the early train to California.
“What about Shorty and Myra?”
I saw them this morning, walking arm-in-arm and wished them all the best. They paid the .25 bridge toll and when they got halfway over they turned and waved. I watched them vanish over the bridge into Juarez.
“And Marlena and Pedro, what happened to them?”
“I had to use the bus depot rest room around six o’clock. Pedro and Marlena were in the waiting room. They had their bags packed. I stayed with them till the bus came, helped them with their baggage and saw them off.”
The waitress returned, filled our cups. As she wrote out the check, Chuck pulled the $10 bill from under the ashtray and gave it to me. I stuffed the bill in my pocket.
The waitress gave us the check.
“Bobby!” I called out. “Carmen! Over here!”
They walked over to our booth, holding hands.
“Hi guys. This is my friend Chuck. Chuck meet Bobby and Carmen.”
“We were going to leave town, Al. Three o’clock this morning, Carmen and I were inside the boxcar. The engineer tooted his horn three times, giving the signal that he was ready to move.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t risk losing Carmen. I love this guy.”
“If the Border Patrol Police caught us, I’d have to return to Mexico.”
“I love America too much to live over there for the rest of my life.”
“Jeez!” Chuck exclaimed. “Please join us Carmen, Bobby. How about some coffee and eggs?”
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