“Get
off the street and get a job!” he yelled as he drove by me in his glistening silver
BMW. The anger in his face matched the
cold whipping winds of this Minneapolis winter, temperatures below zero, a cold
heart that is indifferent to human suffering. All I could do was pray for him and try to
ignore the implication that I am a lazy excuse for a man, both tasks are
difficult to accomplish, but somehow the hateful words don’t seem to sting as
much as they did two years ago.
I
stand on the corner of 4th avenue and 10th street, my
feet are sore – well at least what I can feel of them, my cheeks have become
callused and scaled and are showing the beginning signs of severe frost bite. Even though I don a couple of layers under my
coat, it still feels as if my bones were separated and placed in deep freezers. I suppose it would help if my clothes were
clean and free of rips and holes, and if my coat still had the inner liner
which is now long gone on another homeless man’s thieving back. Alas, I am here, today I live with a familiar
prickly cold hint of humiliation as the pampered young adults drive and walk by
me; children of middle-to-upper class families taking for granted not only the
college education they are being handed, but also the warm meals shared with
friends, and the dry comfortable mattresses within the bedrooms they call their
own. They look at me as if I was a
burden on their groomed block in dinky-town.
I am seen as a blemish, an oozing, repulsive comedone on the pristine
face of the Twin Cities. The comments
become old news as the weeks and months wear on, and the general consensus of
those rude enough to express their ignorance is that the homeless are a society
of slothful, second-class creatures who are out to take what is not rightfully
theirs. These people pass judgment as if
they are a superior race, immune to suffering and bad luck.
The
snow underneath my feet has become a solid pad of ice, and in the summer, it
looks like the balding spot on the top of my head. This place is where I have faithfully stood
for 2 years, day in and day out, where I hold cardboard that hopefully tells
the passers-by that I am honest and out of other options. I do have a family who still lives in
Maplewood, however they have decided that my ‘issues’ are too heavy a burden
for them to manage. I cannot go back to Linda
and my two daughters due to a restraining order which was issued almost exactly
two years ago, on March 10.
I
never thought this would be my life; I am a college educated man, and a
master’s degree in finance seemingly secured my job with an accounting firm
downtown. It is the truth that I once
was the ignorant man in the fancy car judging that which I did not understand. My paychecks were fat and so was my stomach as
I ate out daily and ritually imbibed a six dollar large white chocolate mocha
every morning.
It
is mind-boggling to me that a disease of the mind could so quickly rob a
successful family man of everything he has.
About
two and a half years ago, in my 3 bedroom, 3 bath colonial home on the edge of
an elm tree studded golf course, my fate began to change. My wife Linda, stunning with her long dark
hair and voluptuous figure walked into the sitting room where I was mindlessly watching
the game. The lines creasing her face
and the desperate look in her eyes were enough to pull me from the tv. “What’s wrong Hun?” I pried, “You look
scared, what’s going on?” Without a
second’s thought, tears began to stream down her pink porcelain cheeks which
had since turned red and warm, “Why are you so moody Jon? You have been out of control for the past
couple of days,” she stopped as a realization hit her, “you act like you don’t
even recognize me or your daughters.” I was shocked at her comment; I felt my face
become very warm and my palms began to sweat.
I wasn’t entirely sure what she was referring to, “I don’t know what you
mean Linda.” I seem to have no memory of
the previous days; she can sense this in my tone. Desperately she asks “Are you seeing someone
else? What is going on?” The soft tears have now turned into heaving sobs as
she looks me dead in the eye, “I have a right to know Jon!”
My
heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I flashed back to a conversation my
father had with my mother on the wraparound porch of my childhood home about 25
years ago. At the time I did not understand what was happening. There were weeks on end that my mother would
act as if the life she was living was foreign to her. Her normally calm voice would contort as she
would scream at me “Who are you young man?
Why are you in my house?” She
would panic as if I were an intruder, “You don’t belong here, get out,” she
would point at the white screen door at the front of the house, “GET OUT!” My father calmly explained the outbursts to
my mother, who was unable to remember such breakdowns. She became frustrated and felt mistrusted,
she knew that something was wrong, but would refuse to see a doctor. About a month after their conversation that
summer, my mother was checked into a psychiatric institution which was four
hours from our home. My father explained
to my seven year old self that she had a problem with her brain called
schizophrenia. Six months later, we received
a letter that my mother had committed suicide.
With
this image springing up from what seems like a lifetime ago, I panicked. It was happening to me. My first instinct was to run as fast as I
could away from everything, alcohol would be the easiest way to do that,
however I knew that when the stupor wore off I would still be screwed. I decided to sit my wife down to explain the
disease that robbed my mother of her life.
I had not shared with her previously because I was terrified that I
would end up with the same disease – I figured if I ignored that my mother was
ill, I would be immune to the passing of the gene.
Linda
stared at me in disbelief and quickly made an appointment with a psychiatrist
across town. We hoped that I was just suffering
from a mid-life crisis. Apparently her
initiative was threatening enough to trigger a surge of anger within me. My last memory was my standing in the kitchen
feeling faint and clammy. I assume some
time had passed because the next thing I noticed was my home. It was ransacked and the police were coming
in the front door. I had blacked out. Broken
glass was strewn across the great room where an antique vase had been thrown
against the wall. The counter had been
completely cleared of its contents and in the rubble laid a family portrait
taken not a month ago, which was now shattered and torn. A foreshadowing of my future I suppose. My wife was shaking in the corner with hot
tears leaping onto her jeans like rain.
She looked at me as if I was a rabid animal. My adrenaline shot through the roof and I
felt dizzy and out of sorts as the officers came down the hallway and into the
kitchen where they escorted me out of my own home.
24
hours after my arrest, I was taken to a hospital for a psychiatric
evaluation. The doctor talked to Linda
at the door of my hospital room, he shook his head slowly and formed the words “It’s
severe schizophrenia. I am sorry; we
need to hold him for observation.”
After
a 72 hour hold, I found that my insurance did not cover severe mental illness
or the treatment of it. I received a
prescription for an anti-psychotic medication, and was sent home. As the taxi pulled in front of my house, I
noticed Linda waiting for me. Gosh I
missed her face. When I approached, a
sad look rested in her tired eyes, “Jon, I filed for a restraining order today.
I cannot risk having you hurt our children.” She looked at the maple tree on the front of
the property as if she wanted to crawl into it.
At that point I knew there was more.
“You need to take your clothes and leave. For good.” Her face turned cold and
disconnected, “I want a divorce.” Those
words pierced through my tough exterior and reduced me to a man begging for a
second chance.
Over
the next couple of months, the divorce proceedings moved quickly through the
courts as I was deemed an unfit parent and Linda was awarded custody and most
of the marital assets. I lost my job,
and was hopping from couch to couch until I ran out of friends willing to help
me out. Little did I know that without
insurance, the medication would empty my bank account and leave me on the
street. My father had since passed away
and I had no other extended family who could support me. I was alone.
Without
the medications, I faced possible death due to exposure, it is impossible to
keep track of where each of my selves are and what they think their life looks
like – let alone get them to cooperate and agree on a place to keep safe and
warm. I spend what money I get from the
state on my prescriptions and that which is left over is spent at the Salvation
Army, or on small bits of food that I can afford with whatever change I have
left over.
It
is a wild juxtaposition really; I am trying to survive like a prehistoric human
in the setting of the greatest technological and economical advances in the
history of the world.
When
the dust settled, I had to survive in any way I could. I have been living on the streets of Minneapolis,
where I can get two modest meals a day at the mission. Every now and then I receive a couple dollars
from compassionate motorists waiting at the stoplight where I stand with my
cardboard sign. The majority of the
drivers are indifferent and avoid eye-contact, but every now and then, there is
a gem that hands me a dollar or two scraped from the bottom of their passenger
seat. During these short interactions, I
am commonly asked what I think about all day.
I reply that I pray for each and every one of them - even as they look
at the ground and scurry past. While I
am around many people every day, I find myself suffering with a throbbing
loneliness which is felt deep within my core.
I
walk to this spot every day from my tent which this week rests underneath some
rubble directly below the Mill City Museum.
It’s not a bad place to stay when there are no other options as it is
covered by the western edge of the stone arch bridge, and is sheltered by large
stacks of crates – presumably left behind by the barges that go through the St.
Anthony main. If I am lucky, I am able
to have the area to myself, however, being homeless in Minneapolis during the
winter is a tough feat, and there are few places that are sheltered enough to
be livable. The walk is refreshing in the morning after a stiff night of fitful
sleep interrupted by prayers for warmth.
The exercise gets my blood pumping and allows my skin to thaw if just
for a couple of hours. On the way to my
daily post, I stop at Union Gospel Mission, where I can get a bowl of instant
oatmeal and an apple both of which dull the hunger pains in my stomach and the
intestinal cramps caused by yesterday’s questionable second hand deli
sandwich.
I
arrive at my spot around ten o’clock in the morning and pull out the ratty
cardboard which I had rolled up and stored in the waistband of my jeans. Business as usual today, I am hoping for
enough money to afford lunch and a ‘new’ winter coat from the Salvation
Army. I receive a couple of five dollar
bills, and a packet of crackers fished out from the passenger seat of a young
woman’s car. The heavy feeling in my
head and chest has been growing all day, and I am feeling the need to take a
nap, which is unusual as naps are not easily afforded in this line of
‘work’.
At
about noon, a black SUV rolls up to me.
A woman, sophisticated and polished, peeks out of the driver’s side
window. Her soft voice matched her hair
and it echoed in my head, swirling around like melted chocolate. She asked if I would join her for lunch. While I dread the inevitable questions
regarding my lifestyle, I am grateful. I
accept her offer and suppose it’s the small things in life which are blessings. I am able to take a deep breath, and for the
first time in months, I am able to smile, even if only for an hour.
