Signs Of A Troubled Soul

~

They look at me funny.  They're all the same. 

He pulled the brown paper bag out of the recesses of his bulky worn and dirty parka and took a quick, deep swig, glancing left and right to make sure there were no cops in sight.  He didn't want, or need a trip to the tank.

They pretend they don't even see me, heads down as they walk by, as if I'm nothing.  But I see them all squinty-eyed, peering sideways without turning my direction.  Then when they've passed me by, and they think I'm not looking, they just have to turn and stare.  I'd win every time if I took bets.

It's my hat they see first.  Some of them never get past the hat.  If I didn't have the hat, they'd find something else to turn up their fat noses at.

I wonder if they'd be just a bit impressed if they knew what I had to go through to get this hat.  It's a one of a kind A-9 flight helmet with rare sponge rubber ear cups installed half inside and half outside the canvas helmet.  It's got a set of R-14 earphones with the proper cord and plug and oxygen mask snaps to attach an oxygen mask.  It's marked with a "lucky 13" on the forehead and for what it's been through, it's in pretty good condition with only a couple of thin spots.

After I saw the waterbugs crawling over my cardboard sleeping mat, I went kind of crazy for a time, and I knew I would never sleep again, drunk or sober, until I had some secure protection to keep them, or any other insect from ever getting in my ears again.

I spent a lot of hours looking through dumpsters, searching for something that would work.  I finally gave up on the dumpsters and started hitting the thrift stores at the fringes of the downtown.  I was almost in total despair from failure until, in GRANDTHRIFT, I saw it.  It was perfect for my needs.  It was sitting in the store front window, all decked out on one of those styrofoam heads used for wigs and hats.  I checked all my pockets for change and found I was twenty-two cents short.

A little old lady was passing by and I hit her up for the twenty-two cents.  She looked scared and dug me out a quarter, just sure that I was going to grab her purse or mug her.  The sales lady said the styrofoam head didn't come with it.

I had intended to wear it only at night for bug-protection, but it makes me feel secure and I have grown so used to it that I wear it all the time.  I've become well known along my circuit.  People call me "Pilothat".  I refuse to take off my headgear even during free meals at City Union Mission, and the preaching service beforehand.  They have found it is easier to make an exception to the rules for me rather than hear me scream.

~

Waterbug Quarters

~

~

I realize I'm not painting a very attractive self portrait.  In fact, I don't even like myself.  How could anyone else want my company?  The nearest thing that I have to a friend is Harold.

We met that day when I returned to find my van/home towed away.  He helped me out by showing me the ropes to surviving on the streets.  He actually had a job--an honest-to-goodness job as a parking attendant and security man at an old, downtown parking garage.  It didn't pay much, but hey, it offered him a bit of security himself.

As an ex-middleweight with mangled features, Harold made a good security person.  No one messed with Harold, especially after he had a few swigs of Ripple. 

Between the entrance to the decrepit parking garage, and the exit, was a tiny "room" that was meant to be a ticket booth for parking.  Harold was allowed by his boss to use this tiny space for his living quarters as part of his pay.  The tiny six by eight foot "room" was completely filled with his belongings (trash), so after lockup for the night, he would take a double thickness of cardboard and use that as his mattress on the cement floor of the parking garage.

"It's cool in the summer and warm in the winter," he would say, "and I can have a drink whenever I want it (which was quite often I noticed)."

Harold took a fancy to me, so he let me take up residence in a small area in the darkest, lowest level of the garage where no one ever parked.  He showed me a boarded up window at ground level that I could climb through to get down to my place if I should happen to return after lockup.  It was comforting to be able to count on having a place to call my own.  When I saw the water bugs crawling around on my piece of cardboard, I went kind of nutty.

I started having flashbacks about that time when I was a kid and a cockroach crawled into my ear while I was sleeping on the floor.  It was horrible.  It made all kinds of noises and movements right next to my eardrum and I couldn't get it out.  I screamed so much that my mom finally took me to a doctor to have it removed.

I knew that if I was going to continue to call this place "home" that I was going to have to take drastic measures.

~

Photo:  Derelict bridge over the Kaw River
used by the homeless from the West Bottoms
railroad yards

I Wasn't Always Homeless

~

~

Downsizing they call it.  I knew it was coming, but I had no idea it would include me.  In my mind, I was indispensable to the company.  I had worked there for twenty years.  I made good money, felt good about myself, had a pretty wife and a nice house, and I was an active church member.  We spent money like it was going out of style.  We entertained.  We enjoyed everything that life had to offer.

I received an impressive severance package, but somehow it didn't lessen the shock of being without a job, and eventually it was depleted.  Depression set in.  I became frozen, incapacitated, unable to act or think.  Gradually my wife changed.  She drew away from me and our friends took her part.  Eventually she divorced me--kicked me out.  I had nothing, and no where to go.

I came back to Kansas City to renew old friendships--not to beg, not looking for a handout, just looking for a little networking.  But things have changed.  Old friends are busy with their own lives, their own commitments, not wanting interruption to their normal scheme of things.

"You'll have to drop by sometime...."  This sounded redundant to me, when before them I stood.  So I said, "Sure....ok...."  Was I that way when I had it all?  I probably was.  To really understand homelessness, nothing beats being there.

I drove back to Kansas City in a big leprous-looking old van.  The white base coat was showing where the paint was flaking off.  I got it dirt cheap.  It got me here and I lived in it under the 12th Street viaduct until one day I returned from looking for work, to find it gone.

"Towed away," I was told.  What few possessions I still had were gone with it, along with my place to sleep.  How hopeless can things get?

"Come on buddy.  You need a drink.  I got enough for both of us."

With the half-empty bottle that he gave me, I slept in the stairwell of an old apartment house that night, cold, wet, isolated and a little more than crazy.  I used to believe I could pull myself out of this mess.....now I don't know.

~

Photo:  Barney Allis Plaza area in Kansas City

and a homeless man begging from a bus driver

I Don't Go Down To The River

~

~

"Big Muddy"

"Dark River"

"The Mighty MO"

"The Wide Missouri"

The river winds its way, twisting and turning,

dividing one state from another, cutting the city into North & South.

It is spanned by bridges carrying traffic into and out of the downtown,

the drivers never giving thought to the homeless

lodged below in the recesses of the structures.

Both sides of the river are "homes" to the homeless

in makeshift shelters hidden beneath the trees

or dug into the bluffs near the industrial sites and freight rails.

When I first came to Kansas City, that's where I gravitated

along with so many others.

But, I couldn't make it there.  It was not for me.

I left the river and climbed the hills

into the main part of the downtown section

where tall buildings took the place of trees,

and reached to the skies,

making litter-filled canyons of cold cement

and glass and steel.

~

I stay away from the river--

It frightens me.

It makes me look into myself

and ponder things

I like to keep subdued.

The river is silent and deep,

muddy, swift, and murky,

with undercurrant strong,

too strong, way too strong.

It is alive!

When it gets you in its grasp,

it never lets you go.

When I stand before the river

on its muddy, sandy banks,

I am not inspired to thoughts sublime,

like I once was

by the clear mountain streams

of The Rockies.

The Might MO says to me,

"When you are tired,

when you can stand it no more,

I am here.

One step into my strong caress

and I will carry you away

in my mighty currents

from your problems, forever."

It is a thought I keep tamped down,

hidden from my consciousness,

if I stay away

from the river.

~

Photo:

Missouri River and at the confluence of the Kaw River,

Industrial river bottom of Kansas City

taken from Case Park overlook

At Home In Washington Square

~

~

Last year, spring was nice, summer was grand, fall was pretty,

but the coming winter nagged at the fringes of my mind.

I took every opportunity to bask in the sun

wherever and whenever I could find it, storing up that Vitamin D

for when it would be withheld because of rain, ice and snow.

I was right to worry.

Christmas was a drag, as it always is

now that I have lived, loved and lost.

January was hell scrounging for food, shelter and warmth,

and at the same time determined to be independent,

though a part of the dregs of society.

Then February came--

the coldest in twenty-five years with its record snow fall

and ice enough to freeze one's independent spirit,

at least for a time.

I gave in.  I presented myself each evening at the KC rescue mission

for a warm supper, a religious service, and a bed for the night

--except--

there was no bed, only a blanket on a tile floor

with hundreds like me trying to survive the winter.

The many bunks provided are always taken long before

I have a chance to even hope.

But at least there is stale warmth,

and its in out of the wind, and ice storms that chill the bones.

Rolled in my blanket on the hard floor,

my few belongings clasped to my chest, my shoes on my feet,

I listened to the snores and farts, the coughs, and suspicious sounds

that might warn of impending foul play.

I closed my eyes and tried to flee from the wafting of the

smelly feet, body odor and passed gas

by dreaming of last summer--

the best I've had since I took to the streets....

~ 

Photo:

Washington Square Park, Kansas City

bounded by Weston Crown Center, the Hyatt Regency Hotel, the Union Station, Liberty Memorial,

and with a view of the Downtown Kansas City skyline

Song Of The Homeless Man

~

There's not much left for me to enjoy in this life.
It's hard now--continually difficult and dissatisfying.
How did I get to this place?
How did I not see it coming?
Were there signs I missed?

I stand on the top of the west bluffs at sunset,
looking out over the expanse below.
Incoming small planes line up with the runway of the downtown airport
with the rays of the setting sun glinting off of their metal.
They gradually descend over the convergence of the Kaw and The Mighty MO
Traffic still flows on the freeways below, circling the bluffs and
moving on westward over the Lewis & Clark viaduct into Kansas.
The moving headlights form ribbons of light
against the ever-darkening river valley.

I don't see any of the homeless around, but I know they are there--
Invisible!  Silent!  Hunkering down for another night.
Most people don't see the homeless,
but if every homeless person, at one time, on any given day,
came out onto the sidewalks,
Those above the streets would think it was an invasion.
They would consider extermination instead of aid.

I am aware there is a war going on.  It saddens me....
All the young people, just kids, being scarred for life in one way or another.
Soon there will be more homeless,
like those still in our midst from the long-ago Vietnam war.
It isn't fair!  It isn't right!  It's unthinkable,
but it's a part of us.

As the sun falling below the horizon, streaks the clouds with red and gold,
I take out my little comb and a scrap of old newspaper
I saved from the morning trash
and hum a mournful tune,
making up the words of the song in my head:

The red STOP sign
broken at the base,
lying on the ground,
evidence one failed to see,
or could not stop
in time

The nice young man
lies cold, forever still
upon his bed,
the signs of illness missed
by those who should
have seen.

The paths of life
are wanting choices made;
but all the signs
are not in place, or missed
and cannot be
retraced.

~

Photo:

The old Kansas City Nut, Bolt & Screw Company being demolished,

taken from beneath the 12th Street viaduct