Disability

  After consulting with USC Supportive Housing, it was decided that I should apply for Social Security Disability.  One reason was that I would have more money than I had.  I was getting $90/month in a Belk pension.  HUD would take a portion of that for my rent, which came out to $17/month.  If I got disability, I would have to pay more in rent, but I would also have more money for other things.  I also got Food Stamps.

 Due to my lack of stamina from the pneumonia and the health issues from sleeping on concrete, they thought I would be a good candidate for it.  The catch was to find a lawyer that would take my case.  I made an appointment to see a lawyer on Taylor Street.  She had looked at my claim and declared that I didn't have a case.  I wasn't disabled enough.  I went back to the USC office and told them.  It was a setback, but they told me about another lawyer who might do better.

 Her office was on Bull Street.  They took cases for free.  I had my medical records with me, and she told me that I had a case.  I am guessing the first lawyer just didn't want to be bothered with a pro bono case.  So, my new lawyer scheduled me to be evaluated by a doctor.  His office was on Devine Street.  His examination was a little strange.  I laid down on a table, and he asked me to raise my legs as high as I could.  I got about six inches off of the table.  He then took my legs and raised them further to almost a 90-degree angle.  In the process, he pulled my hamstring.  He then asked me to get up off of the table.  I got dizzy and almost fell down.  He wrote up his report and sent it to my lawyer.

 The next step was to get a stress test at the hospital.  I was given a sheet of instructions.  One of them said not to eat for 8 hours prior to the test.  My appointment was at 2pm, so I had no breakfast or lunch.  When I got to the hospital, I asked the front desk where the office was that I needed to go to.  They told me to follow the green line on the floor.  I did that and found myself in the parking lot.  Wrong way.  A nurse happened by, and I asked her where the office was.  She took me there.  It wasn't anywhere near the green line.  The examiners were nice.  After doing triage, they had me get on a treadmill and start walking.  A few minutes later, I was about to pass out.  They gave me some orange juice and cookies and asked why I was so dizzy.  I told them it was because the sheet said not to eat before coming.  They told me that was a mistake.  Mindreading is not one of my talents.  So, I left there and walked up to Burger King and chowed down.

 It came time for my hearing before a judge.  They told me that it was at the Strom Thurmond Building.  I went to the Federal Building but found that there was another building with the same name some six blocks away.  I got there in time for the hearing.  My lawyer told me that this judge was strict, but we had a good case.  We went into a small room.  There was enough space for the judge, a stenographer, two lawyers and me.  My lawyer told me to answer questions from the judge truthfully.  I did.  He asked me what kind of work did I do before becoming homeless.  I told him that I had done retail.  My lawyer said that I had lost stamina and could not do the work I had done in the past.  The judge then asked if I could sit on a stool behind a register, and I said yes, but that most stores were not set up that way.  He then suggested that I get a job at Walmart as a cashier sitting on a stool.  I told him that they didn't have those.  I guess he didn't like my attitude, because my claim was denied.  My lawyer apologized to me, and said there wasn't more she could do for me.  Case closed.

 So, I never got Social Security Disability.  Even though, I deserved to get it.  There was a guy I knew who got his on his first try, before going before a judge.  He went out and bought a moped.  It was stolen the next day.  

Gingerbread

  After doing the narration for the July 4th musical in Lancaster, I was thinking about going back to my first love, which was acting.  I got an email one day from one of my drama mentors--Catherine Eaker.  She and her husband Gene had been the head of the Drama Department at Columbia College for a lot of years.  My first real acting experience was to work with 16 high school students from around the city back in 1970-71 at Columbia College and being directed by Catherine.  The education that I learned in that semester was invaluable.  Then, I was asked by her to perform in the lead role of  "The Butterfly That Blushed" in 1981.  Again, I learned a lot from her.  She set me on the course to act in plays, films and TV.  I was also inspired by her to write plays and perform them.

 Catherine invited me to join her Gingerbread Theatre company to do one of her original plays at the Greek Festival in 2011.  I was flattered.  It was a three-person play.  The other two were Gene Eaker and a girl I didn't know.  The day before our first rehearsal, I threw my back out getting off of the couch.  I had back problems for many years, but things got worse from sleeping on concrete for six months.  The rehearsal was at the College Place Methodist Church on the other side of Columbia College.  I hobbled two blocks from my apartment over there.  I got the script, and we did a read-through.  I had a good time with them.

 I took the script back to my apartment and began trying to learn the lines.  I hadn't had trouble in the past learning lines, but this time was different.  I was working out blocking (movement) for the stage and voice inflections.  I was analyzing emotions and character development.  All the things one did to get a good performance.  There are many kinds of acting preparation.  Mine comes from figuring out who the character's traits are and reactions to events.  Some actors get so immersed in the process that they become that character away from the production.  That's called "Method Acting".  I am not a method actor.  I am an experience-based actor.  It is called "Sense Memory".  That's why some people are amazed about what I can remember.  It is based on my work as an actor.  I remember an emotion, and how I felt.  I then project that into my character to make it believable.  But, this time was different.

 I first noticed that my voice was weaker.  I had less stamina to stand on stage for very long.  My breathing was labored.  I was having trouble with the lines.  Things were not going well.  I realized that the 6 months worth of pneumonia that I had, when I was homeless, had taken its toll on my lungs.  The sleeping outside on concrete had caused my joints to hurt.  I began to cry.  I realized that I could no longer act in anything I had not written.  With my Bible-character monologues, I could put in pauses to help with my stamina.  To do something that someone else had written, I couldn't do a character in the professional way I had been trained.  In acting, I am a perfectionist.  I am a technician.  If I can't do it the best way I know how, then I am not going to do it.  I had to reluctantly call Catherine and tell her that my body was just not up to the rigors of a play.  

 I had been acting in plays since I was 11 years old.  I had been given accolades for my acting in 4 schools.  I had gotten awards for my work.  I had worked with some of the greats of stage and screen.  Now, all I had were my memories.  Someone once called me a "legend" in acting circles.  Maybe I was.  I was.

Bluff

  I had put all of my stuff in storage at a place off of Bluff Road in Columbia, while I was homeless.  When I got off of the street, it became necessary to get my stuff back and put it in my new apartment.  There was a bus stop within 50 feet of my door.  The bus would go into town, and then the bus route number would change to reflect going to Bluff Road, but I didn't need to change buses.  There was a stop right across the street from the storage place.  I had to cross four lanes of traffic, but it wasn't too bad.  After picking up some stuff, I could get back on the bus the next hour and go back to my apartment without having to change buses.  It worked out well.

 I took my backpack on my trips, which averaged 3 times a week.  I would pick up clothes, videotapes, records, books, and other things.  It actually took about eight months to get everything moved.  My best friend for 20 years agreed to help me with some of the bigger stuff like bookcases, and my bed frame.  He had been wanting my "A Hard Day's Night" framed movie poster, and I agreed to give it to him as payment to help me move my stuff.  The poster was worth some money, but I was willing to let it go.  If you would recall, my friend's name was Del.  He was 1/3 of The Cobbwebs band.  After he helped with two trips of the big stuff, I gave the poster to him.  He didn't help any more.  A couple of months after that, Del wrote on Facebook some criticism about his brother.  I contacted his brother to say I was sorry about what Del wrote.  His brother told Del that I had said something, and Del got mad at me.  He didn't want anything to do with me, despite our 20-year friendship.  He also got mad at Chris, who was also 1/3 of The Cobbwebs, because Chris took Del's brother's side.  The Cobbwebs basically ended as a band after that, at least in its current form.  I don't think Del realized that putting something out on social media means everyone can see it.  Anyway, Del won't speak to Chris or me.  No communication whatsoever.  I did see him at a Newt Gingrich rally at the State House a couple of years later.  I was shaking Newt's hand.  Del was about three feet from me.  I said hello.  He looked right through me.  In going through the South Carolina Treasurer's website of unclaimed money, I saw that Del had some money coming to him.  I emailed him to tell him about it but got no response from him.  I heard from someone that he would see the email was from me, so he wouldn't open it.  I eventually wrote a letter to his parents and asked them to tell Del about the money.  I have often wondered whatever happened to Del.  He was a good friend.  We had a lot in common.  I even tried apologizing to him for something I didn't do, but he wouldn't open the email or a letter I wrote to him.  He would enjoy seeing my collectibles now.  His loss.

 I finally was able to get the last of my stuff from storage with the help of my friend Weesie.  We threw a lot of stuff away like stereo equipment and big speakers.  I closed out my account with the storage facility, and I could finally call my apartment home.  Oh, I also heard later that Del sold the movie poster, because he needed the money.  It was worth about $2000.  I don't think Del got that.  All the best, Del.

Eyes

  I had worn glasses since the 4th grade.  It was obvious then, because I couldn't see the blackboard in class.  For those of you who don't know what a blackboard is, ask your mother or grandmother.  I wore thick glasses, because I was severely nearsighted and had an astigmatism.  As time wore on, I had to get bifocals.  That was hard to get used to, and I kept tripping on curbs and steps.  But, things got worse.  When I was walking and came to an intersection, I would see three cars instead of two, or two cars instead of one.  Sometimes, I would have to guess which one was real to cross the street.  When I was in church, I had to sit close to the front to be able to read the song lyrics on the big screens.  I was going blind.

 Because I didn't have any insurance, I needed to see an eye doctor who would take indigent patients.  I looked around town, but I couldn't find any.  I reached out to an old friend from church named Rick Milne.  He was an ophthalmologist in Columbia with a thriving practice.  I asked him who in Columbia did eye work on indigents?  He said for me to come see him.  I told him that I couldn't afford him.  After all, they had commercials on TV.  He said for me to come see him.  So, I made an appointment and went to see Rick.  He examined me and told me I had cataracts and needed surgery to remove them and put in new lenses.  How much would that cost?  He told me not to worry about it.  He would do it for free.  Tears flowed.  I was given some eye drops to prepare for the upcoming surgery.  I hated that.

 My brother took me to the surgical center.  The nurses prepared me.  They were going to do one eye, and then the other in two weeks.  I asked why not both eyes at the same time?  They said because I might have an infection and would need one working eye at a time.  Before the procedure began, Rick said a prayer over me to calm me down.  It was beautiful.  They gave me an anesthetic for my eye, but I was awake the entire time.  The surgery went well.  I was given a plastic patch to wear over my eye for a couple of nights, while I slept, to avoid me scratching my eyes.  I also got more eye drops. 

 I noticed something amazing about the brain.  When one eye is not good, and the other one is, the brain will recognize the good eye as to one to see through.  I could see great out of my new eye, even though the cataracts hadn't been removed from the other eye.  It was weird.  I went back for the second eye procedure.  It went well, since I knew what to expect.  Rick said that I could throw away my old glasses, but I would need reading glasses for up close stuff.  My brother took me to the dollar store afterwards, and I bought two pairs.  I also had to start wearing sunglasses when outside during the day.  There was a glare in my eyes.  Rick said he had put UV lenses in my eyes, but I still needed the sunglasses.  They make me look cool now.

 As a result of this surgery, I found out some amazing things.  Things that may sound trivial to some.  I could see leaves on trees.  I discovered that there were place names on TV weather maps.  And, I didn't have to sit up front at church.  I also found that I was reaching for nonexistent glasses on my bedside table, when I woke up in the morning.  That took time to get over it.  I found out later that Rick did mission work for those who could not afford eye surgery.  Otherwise, the cost would have been around $4000.  Rick passed away a few years later from cancer.  I may have been one of his last patients, but he was such a blessing to me.  I was blind, but now I see. 

 

Lancaster

  Tom Eggleston and I had been co-directors of the Drama Ministry at St. Andrews Baptist Church in Columbia back in the mid-2000's.  He went on to be the Minister of Music at First Baptist Church in Lancaster, SC.  We ran into each other one day, and he asked if I would come there and narrate their 4th of July presentation.  I could also do one of my Bible-character monologues on the Wednesday night before the 4th.  He said they would pay me to do it.  I said yes.

 I hadn't done anything in a while, but it is like riding a bike.  He took me up there on Wednesday afternoon, and I met with the pastor.  I was torn between two monologues.  The first was Hosea, which I was most known for.  I had done it the most, having written it in 1979.  It had gone through some changes over the years.  It was mostly about relationships and marriage.  The other was a monologue that was more improvisational in nature.  It was called "The Fishing Disciple".  I had a basic outline for it, but I would interject things in it that would appeal to the audience I was doing it for.  After talking with the pastor, it was decided that I would do the fisherman.  I asked Tom what was the predominant sports team that Lancaster would cheer for, and he said the Gamecocks.  They had just won the College World Series, so it was easy to weave that into the piece.  When I came on stage, the first words out of my mouth were:  "How 'bout them Cocks?"!  The audience cheered, and I knew I had them in the palm of my hand.  That is a feeling that every actor wants.  It is better than crickets.

 The monologue was well received.  Tom had given me a copy of the musical program for Sunday with the narration.  I went over it several times at home and worked a little with the choir.  Tom had introduced me to them as an actor who had worked with Burt Lancaster and Halle Berry, among others.  One elderly man pulled me aside and asked if I had ever worked with Jimmy Cagney.  I politely told him no, while wondering how old did he think I was.  

 As I was preparing for the program, I realized that I had a hard time seeing the narration that I was to read.  I had bifocals, but they weren't helping.  My suspicion was cataracts, but I couldn't let Tom know.  I was afraid they wouldn't pay me, so I went ahead the best I could.  One thing you learn as an actor is how to build your emotion to a point and then come back down.  There was a place at the end of the program, where I had to say "This is My America!"  I had built up to that point a little too soon in the narration.  By the time I got to that line, I was screaming.  It wasn't what I wanted to do, but I couldn't avoid it.  The audience never knew.  They thought I was supposed to do that.  It worked.  Afterwards, the Drama Professor at USC-Lancaster came up and told me that I was a good actor.  I would have preferred "great", but I took it as a compliment.

 A word about First Baptist Lancaster.  My great grandfather was the pastor there in the late 1800's.  My grandmother was born there.  I saw his picture on the wall in the History Room and read some of his sermons.  Some people said there was a resemblance between me and him.  I guess.  There is an old family story that didn't paint him in the best light.  He had a black woman, who took care of my grandmother as a baby.  One day, she was putting the baby on a wagon and accidentally dropped her on the ground.  The pastor whipped the woman for dropping his daughter.  It was a different time.

Support

  There were some homeless people who had tried USC Supportive Housing, but had dropped out of the program.  They didn't like jumping through their hoops.  When one is homeless, there is a sense of freedom.  There is very little community responsibility.  You just have to find out where to eat and where to sleep.  The rest of the day is spent filling up the time by walking around or going to the library.  You have to develop a sense of discipline to be in that program.  And, there needs to be a level of trust on both sides.  They need to trust you that you will follow their rules.  You need to trust them that they will keep you housed.

 I had to go to meetings at their office once or twice a week.  They gave constructive counseling on living a life off of the street and getting back into society.  I went through a 12-step AA program there.  Even though I hadn't had any alcohol in 11 years, I knew it was easy to relapse.  They also had an NA meeting.  I hadn't had any illegal drugs since 1981, but I have an addictive personality.  I have tried to stay strong, but it only would take one time for me to go back into those depths again.  I was assigned a case manager who visited my apartment once a month, and I would see her in the office once a month.  So, we would visit every two weeks.  She also would inspect my apartment to make sure I was following the rules.  The main rule was not to let anyone live with you.  I had homeless friends who wanted to do that.  It was hard to say no.

 Once a month, I would visit with their licensed therapist.  We would talk about stuff.  Sometimes, I would laugh or cry during those sessions.  She helped me with the transition.  We also had group therapy with others in the program.  I got to meet some great people who had gone through what I had.  We helped each other.  One man in particular was a guy named Mickey.  He had a 4th grade education and could barely read.  He had a great spirit about him and loved life.  Another guy named Duck had been on the street for a long time.  They helped me in figuring out how to become real again.  Mickey went onto get his GED.  

 I grew to love the folks who worked for USC Supportive Housing.  So much so that I encouraged others in my circle of homeless friends to get into the program, too.  One did.  His name was Marcus.  I'll write more about him later.  God sent these helpers to me as His angels.  Yes, angels do exist.

Villa

  It came time for me to move off of the street and into an apartment.  The one chosen for me was on Fairfield Road near the split with North Main Street.  It was called Villa Hermosa.  It had a common locked door that opened up to a courtyard.  The apartments faced the courtyard on both sides, and it had two floors.  It also had a pool, but the management must have been doing biological experiments in it, because it didn't look good.  It also had a couple of washers and dryers on each floor.  Each apartment had its own key to their door.

 When I walked in, I was amazed how big it was.  There was a living room area with a kitchen.  The next room was the bedroom.  There was a walk-in closet, and a bathroom with a tub.  The Supportive Housing folks had furnished it.  I had a love seat couch; a Sony 19" TV (without a remote); a large table with 4 chairs; a mattress set; a wooden chair that broke; a vacuum cleaner; plastic hangers and a dresser.  They also gave me a blanket and comforter.  My bed frame was in storage, so I had a temporary one until I could get mine.  One thing that I was told that I may feel like I want to live out of my bag, rather than putting my clothes away.  They were right.  I didn't have much trust about things after being on the street.  Once I realized that this was my place, I put my clothes away.  It took a couple of months.

 The apartment was near everything.  A bus stop was right in front of our door.  There was a Food Lion a block away.  The library was four blocks away.  CVS was three blocks away.  Columbia College was a couple of blocks away.  And, the post office was about a mile away.  Even though I wasn't a student, I had spent several years judging drama and speech tournaments there, so I was able to go to their library and read.  Until I got my own wi-fi, I was able to use theirs or the one at the public library.  

 One day, a friend came to visit.  He knocked on the locked outside door, and someone let him in.  He asked a woman if she knew which apartment was mine.  Her response was, "Oh, you mean the little white boy".  From then on, I was known around the complex as "the little white boy".  It was a term of endearment.