House

  Not everybody that is homeless wants to move into housing.  Some people are just happy where they are in life.  I know a few like that.  However, I wanted to find a more permanent place as soon as possible.  I was praying to God every night to deliver me from this hell called homelessness.  Despite being physically sick, it was also mentally draining.  So, I got a call one Saturday from a preacher in town to meet him at a local restaurant for lunch.

 One thing you don't turn down is actual food that is free.  I met him there that Saturday.  I didn't really know this man, but apparently he knew me.  While we ate, he told me of another preacher in town who had some homes where guys stayed.  The rent was based on income.  He would set up a meeting with this man on Monday.  It would be at another restaurant for lunch.  Some more free food.

 Monday came, and I met this man with some others he brought along.  We hit it off almost immediately.  He said that he had some houses around town and asked where I would like to live.  I told him that I didn't care, as long as I didn't have to share a room with 27 of my closest friends.  He said I would have one roommate in a house of 3 people.  It started sounding better.  There was a stipulation:  I would have to work with his church a couple of nights a week.  I could do that.  He asked if I had a job.  I said not really, however I could make some money selling things on the internet.  He was intrigued at that prospect.  We finished lunch, and he took me to a house to show me where I would be living.

 It was behind the University of South Carolina and one block from a bus stop.  We went inside, and the two guys there welcomed me.  I went upstairs to see the bedroom.  It was pretty big, but I noticed that newspaper was around the windows.  My potential roommate told me that was insulation.  He also said that there was a railroad track across the street from the house, and trains would cause the walls to shake.  It was also pretty loud.  All things considered, it was better than where I was.  The preacher and I shook hands, as I agreed to move in.  He said he would let me know by the end of the week when moving day was.

 I was excited.  It wasn't ideal, but it was better than where I was.  On Tuesday, I told the mission staff that I would be moving out by the end of the week.  They were glad for me.  I packed my stuff up, as I waited for the call.  Thursday came and no call.  I called the preacher, and he said that I couldn't live there, because I didn't have a job.  I reiterated that I sold things online, but he wanted me to have a real job like roofing or construction.  I told him that I was not physically up to manual labor.  So, he told me no.  I went back to the mission and told them that I was staying, as the housing deal had fallen through.  Thankfully, my bed was still there for me alongside my 27 friends.

 A couple of days later, I got an email from the first preacher.  The one who knew me, but I didn't know him.  He was mad at me for not taking the offer.  He said that the second preacher had told him that I turned down the offer.  That was not true.  I discovered that the two preachers had an arrangement.  Perhaps financial.  One would find candidates, and the other would put them in houses.  The government paid the second preacher for housing the homeless.  It was all legal.  However, the first preacher said something that was disgusting.  He told me that his church would stop praying for me, as I was more interested in being homeless than getting myself out of that situation.  Maybe, I misinterpreted his statement, but it sure didn't sound very Christian.  I can't judge others' motives.  But, this experience caused me to be less trusting of others.  One thing I am still dealing with, over ten years later, is trusting others.  Trust me.

Pneumonia

  When I was in the 4th grade, I got double pneumonia and almost died.  To refresh a memory or two, I had a fever of 106 for 3 days.  It was awful.  Despite that, I worked hard to get my lungs back in shape by running and bicycling.  Things were good, until I became homeless.  

 The fan in the sleeping room at the mission blew on me all night.  There was nothing I could do.  However, I developed a cough.  It got worse.  I went to the ER, and they told me I had pneumonia.  They gave me some antibiotics and sent me on my way.  I went through the medicine and felt fine.  Then, the coughing returned.  I went back to the ER, and they diagnosed it again as pneumonia.  They gave me the same meds and sent me on my way.  This cycle went on for almost six months.

 At one point, I was coughing my lungs out.  I don't think they wanted to admit me, since I was homeless.  I was coughing constantly in bed.  I know that I was disturbing the other guys, but I just couldn't stop coughing.  It got to the point that the only way I could sleep was to pass out from coughing.  It took all of my energy.  One ER doctor accused me of coming in there just to get drugs.  I knew the head of the hospital and wrote him a letter about that doctor and his lack of bedside manner.  A week later, the doctor wrote a letter to me apologizing for his accusations.  I definitely wasn't faking it.

 I would walk down the street coughing and spitting.  I guess the plants didn't need watering, thanks to me.  I was so sick that I sat down on a curb and couldn't stop coughing.  Some construction workers in a truck stopped and asked if I needed help.  I waved them on by.  

 One night, some of the guys at the mission had enough of my coughing.  One of them, who was the chess master, said he had a pill that would help me sleep.  I took it, and it knocked me for a loop.  I went into a bathroom stall and collapsed.  I couldn't get up.  I yelled for someone to call the security guard.  I needed an ambulance.  The guard came and helped me down the stairs to the waiting ambulance to take me two blocks to the hospital.  They rushed me into the ER and asked me what I had taken.  I didn't know.  They gave me sulfa to counteract the pill.  I started feeling a little better, and they sent me on my way.  As I was walking back to the mission, I felt my throat starting to swell.  I was having trouble breathing and talking.  When I got back to the mission, I was turning blue.  They called for another ambulance and got me back to the ER.  It turned out that I was allergic to sulfa.  I had no clue.  

 The doctors diagnosed me with dyspnea.  The bottom of my lungs had been damaged by the almost six months of pneumonia.  My stamina was gone.  I couldn't walk up a hill without being out of breath.  No more running or bicycling.  Stairs became a problem. I could no longer sing. I couldn't do what I had done before now.  When I left the mission and moved into the winter shelter, which I will talk about later, my pneumonia went away.  It had better ventilation.  

Trouble

  Homeless people are not very well thought of in the community.  I suppose that is not a shocking statement, but they are people just the same.  During my time on the street, I ran into some issues with authority figures.  I didn't mean to.  I was just trying to survive.

 One was at the Marriott.  I would go there in the mornings to the downstairs restroom to shave and brush my teeth.  The Mission wasn't exactly the most hygienic place to do those things, so I thought the Marriott would be a good alternative.  Besides, there is nothing going on at the hotel early in the morning.  A security guard came in there one morning and asked me if I was a guest of the hotel.  Of course not.  Guests have their own bathrooms.  He kicked me out and told me never to come back.  I did come back twice after.  Once was to the bar to have a coke with my friend Mark.  The other time was to listen to my friend Bruce put on an impromptu Christmas music concert on the piano.  I was a bit paranoid both times.

 Another was at a restaurant downtown.  Some of us would go there to play chess in the corner.  There was one homeless guy who was a chess whiz.  Nobody could beat him, no matter how hard we tried.  We would also go in there to get warm.  The manager told us that we had to buy something to stay in there, so we would get the cheapest thing on the menu, which was either hot coffee or tea.  I went with the tea.  They had free refills.  We tried to stay in there until 9am, when the library opened.  Apparently a customer complained, so we were asked to leave and never come back.  The chess games were moved to the library.

 Another place was Baptist Hospital.  On the third floor of the doctor's building across the street was a restroom I started using, after the Marriott kicked me out.  It was great.  I could lock the door and chill out.  I went in the building one Saturday morning and found the door locked.  So, I began walking down the corridors looking for another restroom and to get warm.  A security guard showed up and asked me what I was doing.  I told her, and she said I had to leave.  It didn't make much sense.  The doctors weren't there, and everything was shut down.  She didn't care.  She escorted me to the hospital's ER and watched me walk out of the door.  I went back to the hospital, but not to get warm.

 I would get horrible leg cramps while sleeping at the mission.  After getting up in the morning, I would walk outside in the dark before breakfast to loosen up my leg muscles.  I would usually walk around the block and find a dumpster to pee.  One morning, I was walking behind some downtown apartments and through their parking lot.  A city police officer spotted me and followed me in his car back to the Mission.  He parked and called me over to his car.  He wanted my ID.  I asked him what the problem was, and he said that there had been car break ins in that parking lot.  I assured him that I was just out for a walk.  He ran my ID and found I was "clean".  Every morning for two weeks after that, he parked on Main Street watching for me to walk.  Sometimes, I would take a different block to walk around.  Other times, I would walk past his car and wave.  But, I never went back to that parking lot. 

 There were homeless guys who got in serious trouble like Eddie, who was a 19 year old guy who slept in the bunk just up from mine.  His feet sometimes hit my head.  Eddie got arrested for dealing drugs.  We also had another guy, who was a drug dealer.  He actually had a home in North Columbia, but it had been raided too many times, so he was hiding out at the Mission.  There was one guy who slept next to me.  We called him "Goldy", because of his gold teeth.  He had seen what my church was doing for me, and he wanted some of that.  So, he joined the church and got baptized.  He got mad that the church wasn't doing for him what they did for me, so he robbed a bank.  He also carjacked a woman's car and crashed it into a bunch of other cars trying to get away.  He did go away for about 10 years. 

Friends

  One thing you learn early on is that you can't be out on the street without friends.  Not only is it good from a standpoint of conversation, it is also good for security.  The street can be dangerous.  So, I wanted to use this story to list some of the friends I made, while on the street.  Most are still my friends, although a few have passed away since then.  I will also refer to most of these folks in future stories.

 Bruce was probably my best friend on the street.  He was funny and educated.  He was a concert pianist and had a Master's degree in Social Work.  He had also been a paralegal.  Bruce was on the street primarily because of an alcohol problem.  

 Mark was Bruce's friend, so he became mine.  He was a computer programmer.  He also had a drug problem.  While we were on the street, he got a good job with computers, but he used most of his money on drugs, and they had to fire him.  He has since turned his life around.

 Terry was a Navy veteran.  He just wanted to live by himself.  He did have a friend for a while named Mike.  They had a falling out.  Terry has a rough exterior, but he has a helpful heart.

 Eric used to work in convenience stores and was an accomplished guitarist.  He was out on the street because of finances, much like me.

 Marcus was a great writer.  He had anger issues and had a hard time holding down a job.  He was probably my second best friend on the street.  A very creative person.

 Kevin was one of my protectors, when we slept outside.  He knew a lot about the ways of the street, and he taught me a lot.  He had a bad heart, which would later kill him.  He let me have a sleeping bag.

 Mike and Bill were almost twins.  Mike was from Ohio, and Bill was from Hilton Head.  You hardly saw one without the other.  Mike was funny.  Bill was catatonic.

 Sandy was Mike's friend.  I was with him and Bill on the street later on.  He also protected me from others.

 I may be leaving out one or two others, but you get the idea.  We could talk about the most mundane things and make them interesting.  One thing about homeless people is that they know everything about the weather.  They have to in order to live.  Many of them are well-read, since they spend a lot of time reading in the library.  One thing I learned to survive in that environment, especially at the Mission, was to tell stories about my work in movies and TV.  The people I had worked with.  The folks in the music industry that I had met.  Some of the stories I made up.  I had to for survival.  It was sort of like the 1000 tales of Scheherazade, or at least it seemed like that.  I was homeless purely for economic reasons.  My eyes were opened to the world.

Grasping

  I didn't want to live at Oliver Gospel Mission.  I knew some guys did, but it just wasn't for me.  I couldn't sleep with 27 other guys snoring all night.  I was sleeping during the day at the library or the park.  The library didn't like people sleeping, so I found a way to get around that.  If a security guard poked me to wake up, I would say "Amen", as if I had been praying.  They couldn't say anything about that.  I did pray a lot.  Every night, I would pray to God to "deliver me from this hellhole".  

 I was grasping for anything to get me out of being homeless.  I knew a lot of preachers in the city, and I thought one might have an idea of someone looking for a roommate.  Maybe an older person who wanted a companion.  I emailed all of the pastors I knew.  I got one response from a church and made an appointment.  The pastor told me of one of their ministers who helped those in need.  We had a nice talk about life; my seminary days; and what I needed.  I told him I needed a car and a place to live.  He told me of a program in town that gave cars to the poor, who couldn't afford one.  They were high mileage cars that had been refurbished.  He also told me about a woman, who lived near Lake Murray who needed a man to clean her yard and stay over her garage.  I may have mentioned before that I hate yard work.  During our discussion, the minister asked a strange question.  He asked if I was a member of his church, because he didn't see my name on the membership roll.  I told him that I wasn't.  I was an old friend of the pastor.  Then, he said that he couldn't help me.  He said that if they helped everyone who came off of the street, that the line would be out of the door and down the block.  I thanked him.  He said that if he heard of anything, he would let me know.  I never heard from him.  I didn't go see the woman near Lake Murray, and I never got a car.  Had I not heard that voice from God, while trying to commit suicide, I would have been turned off of the church altogether.

 The next Sunday, I joined First Baptist Church.  Or maybe "rejoined", since I had done it twice before.  The pastor greeted me at the front and told me how much my parents had meant to him and this church.  I thanked him, and at that moment forgave him for snubbing me when my mother had her stroke in 1991.  I had harbored ill feelings for him for 18 years.  I'm thankful that God brought me back.  Forgiveness is necessary to move on, especially when the other party has no idea what they did.  I went through the new member orientation and was recognized in a service for coming home.  I also resigned myself that I didn't need to grasp for straws anymore.  I had a church home and a bed at the Mission.  And one other thing:  I gave up cussing like a sailor.