Concrete

  After I "graduated" from the mission, I spent two weeks at the Winter Shelter.  I was glad it was only two weeks.  There were some fights between the homeless.  The ambulance was a common sight.  One guy got beat over the head by a dud grenade in a sock.  My friend Bruce got beat up for asking another guy to turn down the volume on his radio.  Another guy froze to death outside, because they wouldn't let his dog come inside with him.  I said goodbye to my friend Mike who moved back to Ohio.  

 When the weather got warmer, we had to fend for ourselves.  One of the cardinal rules about being homeless was not to tell where you slept on the street.  You didn't want the police to hear about your place and make you move.  But, I can tell about them now, since the areas have changed.  The first was on Gregg St. on the porch of Mirci.  Kevin, Bill and I stayed there.  The porch was kind of small, so Kevin and I slept on the concrete.  Bill slept on the wheelchair ramp, which was made of wood.  Kevin gave a sleeping bag to me to use.  He also slept with four steak knives for protection.  The area had a problem with crackheads, which is why we needed the knives.  Sleeping on concrete is very difficult.  It makes your back and hips hurt.  There was a reason why the homeless slept in the library during the day.  It was impossible to sleep at night.  

 One night, we walked a couple of blocks to a man's house.  Kevin knew him.  We just wanted to sleep under a real roof, because it was going to storm.  While we were talking with him, we saw some black SUV's pull up into the driveway of the house next door.  The guy told us that we might want to get on the floor.  He said there might be some shooting.  As it turned out, the police raided that house for drugs.  We heard some pops.  The three of us decided that we would rather brave the storm instead of getting shot, so we walked back to our porch.  

 I would leave our porch around 6am to get some breakfast at the hospital.  After I left one morning, Kevin and Bill got robbed.  They thought I might have gotten tipped off about the robbery.  I hadn't.  It was just one of those things, but they didn't want me there anymore.  So, I hooked up with two other friends--Sandy and another Bill.  They were sleeping at the amphitheater in front of the art museum.  It was a strange place to be.  It was diagonally across from the Marriott.  Anyone with a room could see us.  It was behind some bushes, just steps from the sidewalk.  Police would drive by but not see us.  I slept on the stage.  Even though it was still concrete, it was a little easier to sleep.  When it would rain, we moved to a spot just outside a bank next door with an overhang.  The janitor would wake us up at 6am, when he came to work, but he didn't care if we were there overnight.  We had a couple of attempted robberies, but we fought them off.  Our place got so popular with the neighborhood that we had other guys staying with us.  

 If we pooled our money, we would get a motel room about once a week to sleep in a real bed and take a bath.  My friend Mark had a room at an extended stay motel on Two Notch Road.  He offered to let me stay there with him.  I had to pay him half of the rent for the place, which I was glad to do.  He had the double bed, and I slept on a fold-out couch.  He would want to watch late-night TV, which was right by my bed.  He would fall asleep watching it, and then I could turn it off, so I could sleep.  After a few days, I found out that Mark's father was paying for the room, and Mark was using my money to buy drugs.  I left one morning early and hiked  three miles to the nearest bus stop.  Mark called me and asked me where I was.  I told him that I had decided to go back downtown and stay with Sandy and Bill.  He thought I was crazy, but I didn't want to pay for his drugs.  I would rather have the hard concrete than the temptation of using drugs again.  It was the best decision that I made during those days.

 

Shorts

  I wanted to give you a few short things about my life on the street.  These little stories might make you laugh, or at least make you smile.  Although, some might not.

 Winter was coming on.  I wasn't prepared.  I had my long johns, but I needed more.  I don't remember the guy's name, but he recognized that I was cold.  He gave me a scarf and a cap.  That helped a lot.  The cap said "Marines" on the front.  I was in line for supper at the mission one night, and a guy saw my cap.  He asked if I had been in the Marines.  I nodded.  He asked when I was in the Marines.  I told him that it was Vietnam.  He told me his father had been in Vietnam, and asked me where I was stationed.  I just made up something.  My improvisational skills kicked in.  He then asked if I was in the Marines, why was I so skinny?  I just told him I had been sick.  He bought it.  It was all a lie.

 As I have said before, there were three main reasons why people were homeless (although there were many more).  Addiction, Mental Illness, and Economic (my group).  There was one guy on the street who liked to wear his underwear over his pants.  He also would run full steam into telephone poles.  He would knock himself out.  The ambulance would come and take him for a 28-day psych hold.  When the time was up, he would be released and doing the same thing.  He did this several times.  I hope he finally got some help.

 On Sundays, Trinity Episcopal would have breakfast for the homeless.  You had to be there in line as close to 6am as you could.  The doors opened at 7, and they gave out tickets for as many seats as they had.  My first Sunday there was the first time I ever saw anyone smoking crack.  These two guys were doing it while waiting in the line.  It wouldn't be the last time.  The breakfast was pretty good.  Afterwards, they would give you a bag lunch to take with you.  It consisted of a bologna sandwich, a banana, and a hardboiled egg.  I would take the banana and give away the rest.

 One cold Sunday night, I was walking toward Finlay Park.  A car pulled up, and a young man put down the window and called me over.  He said he had a warm bed at his house for me.  I politely said no.  Another afternoon, I was sitting in the park, when a very disheveled man came up to  me and offered to perform a sex act on me for $10.  I said no.  "$5?"  Again, I said no.  His name was Daniel.  I hope he got some help.

 I had a post office box.  One day, I got a check for $150 in the mail.  The note said that I would have to call an 800 number and reply how much I appreciated the money.  When they received my reply, the check could be deposited into my bank.  Everything was anonymous.  I would get a check about once every three months.  I also had to keep the gift a secret.  I don't know who did this nice thing for me, but I thank you.  I used the money for food and other things.  There were some guys who would get Social Security checks at the first of the month.  They would spend it by getting a room at the Marriott and ordering room service for a weekend.  Then, they would blow it all and go back on the street.  I never did that.

 I kept up with news and TV shows by watching them online at the library.  The Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue came out.  My homeless friend Mike and I accessed the issue online in the library.  The security guard threw us out for doing that.  He said it was pornographic.  The library computers had parental guards on them.  Maybe they should have blocked SI.

 The mission had different preachers to come in and do chapel at night for the residents.  There was one black preacher that liked to say "Amen" a lot during his sermon.  It became a sport for some of us to count how many amens he used.  In a 30-minute sermon, he managed to say "Amen" 149 times.  That record may stand to this day.

 

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.