No Good Deed Goes Unpunished: Stealing Homes from the Homeless

I'm going to jump to a conclusion here because it's fun and it's what I do best. After I jump to the conclusion, I'll actually do some research on the subject and clear up any fallacies in a later post.  

The conclusion:  someone--the city or a business--stole Diane's house.  

I want to Act Now and Raise Hell. I want to find the person(s) in charge and Rip Them A New One (you'll have to forgive the capital letters in inappropriate places. Someone else was doing it and it really slayed me so I'm doing it when I feel like it.) Who do they think they are? That's what I'd ask them. Ok, I'd ask that first and then I'd fill a glove with a brick and slap them till the brick became dust. I'd shake out the bits as I held the glove by its fingers while I tapped my foot and waited for an explanation or some sort of retaliation.  

Whatever their answer, it won't satisfy me--well, that is unless the reason was that Diane's house was placed over nuclear waste or something. Then I'd see their reasoning and have to concede that it was in her best interest.

As it is, Diane has no home. She had no home before, then, someone gave her one, and now it's gone.

Diane lives on a bench near a parking lot that serves a row of businesses on Demonbreun street in Nashville. Every day I drive by the bench a few times during my comings and goings and I look for her, to make sure she's still alive and kicking. Often she's got her broom out and is sweeping up the gutters in the area or she's standing sentinel over the parking lot, guarding the cars while patrons shop at the boutiques or eat at Otters. She never begs. She maintains a quiet dignity and minds her own business.  She wears black and brown leisure suits with heeled boots. Sometimes I see her reading the paper or blowing smoke into the air with her head tilted back. Typically she wears some kind of hat, and in winter she dons ear-muffs.  

In short, I love her. She's become dear to me simply through seeing her there every day and feeling like I know her. I try to stop and visit her as often as I can.  She never asks for anything.  She greets me like we're old friends, asks, "What's up," and appears to remember the sundry things I tell her about my life. If I give her anything, she always asks if I can afford it and appears hesitant to take something if she has nothing to give back. She has a beautiful smile and weathered skin that fans at her eyes into delightful laugh-lines.  

I have longed and wished to be able to take better care of her. I've imagined countless scenarios of adopting her or finding a place for her to live. These, you might say, are prayers. The day I drove by and saw that the blue tarp with which she covered herself at night was now draped over the trailer hitch of a camper, some sort of new hope for humanity bloomed in my heart. I shared the news with Stoker and he told me that one of his clients who also takes care of her had mentioned that she had a camper. The client had been inside it and told Stoker about its condition and how Diane planned to fix it up. Apparently some good Samaritan in town gave it to her--it had just been sitting in his back yard collecting dust, he said. So he GAVE her the camper.

You know what this means, of course? It means that we who live in the city are not completely unaware of those around us who suffer. It means that we can be a community. It means that we can share and help shoulder the burdens of our neighbors as long as we know who suffers. It means that we don't require the government to force us to give. It means that people are Good. It means there is Hope for us.  

It means a whole lot more. Knowing that others care for Diane really buoyed me up. I worry about her on rainy nights. I worry about her on cold nights. I worry about her on warm nights. I worry about her in the crushing heat and humidity. I can't do it all by myself. That there are others who assist her means she's not really alone.  

The camper was simply an awesome thing. I asked her if anyone was giving her trouble about it being in the parking lot. She told me the parking lot is essentially hers. She takes care of it. "After all I do for it, guarding it, keeping it running, they can't give me trouble." But apparently they do. They must have given her trouble. A few days later, it had been moved out of the little fenced area by the small nondescript building on the far side of the parking lot.  

Today it's gone and the whole area has a new fence. I can't see the camper anywhere.  

It's like they've declared war on her. To me. Do I overreact? Maybe. I don't know who They is. I don't know who could have such a cold heart that they'd erect a new fence just to keep Diane away. Does she really harm the parking lot? She doesn't steal from the pedestrians. She has class and grace. Do the businesses heedlessly worry that Diane discourages customers? She's not panhandling. After speaking with the clerks in the boutiques, I have gathered that they help take care of Diane and care about her.  

She belongs to us. I'm not the only one who loves her and who worries about her welfare. I suppose the social workers of the government tell us not to help the homeless. They claim we simply enable them. "There are social programs to help them. There are official avenues they can take to get help. There's the Rescue Mission over on LaFayette." Blah blah blah. So I should wash my hands of it. I should turn away from them. I should ignore them. I should feel exonerated to keep my money pocketed and pretend to not hear their pleas.

I don't feel exonerated when I ignore them. I feel like a liar. A cheat. Someone who worships money and wealth. I used to be stingy about it. I got so overwhelmed with the number of requests upon moving to Nashville that I DID feel exonerated when I read the newspaper article encouraging me to ignore the beggars. But as I have come to realize, we are all beggars.  

Let me use Christ as an example. He did not say to only give to the people who actually really do need it: the people who are just down on their luck for a short spell; the people who are generally useful to society but are under extenuating circumstances right now; the people who don't spend the money on beer or liquor. Give to everyone. It may not change them, it changes you. It shows that your heart is not set on riches or the things of this world that turn to dust, that have no life, that give no love.  

And who are we to judge? If you give when you can, indiscriminately, to the people who ask, then you never take the chance that the one you just turned away was really down on their luck, at wits end, about to jump off a bridge if someone somewhere didn't show them some type of kindness. If you always give, God, the Universe, Karma, whoever or whatever it is you believe in knows that you are always to be trusted. That you are one person in the sea of faces who can be the answer to someone else's need or prayer.  

The social workers will not tell us this. Their job is to take this responsibility from us, from the community. It's better for them if we are distanced from the many faces of those around us who suffer and need our help. It makes the government the answer to all our problems, instead of strengthening the community by making us feel like we are Part of Something Bigger than Ourselves. And I truly think that this unravels the fabric of our community.  

The knowledge that others were taking care of Diane made me feel like I was a Part of Something. I still feel that way. And I feel more than ever that she is someone I will fight for.  

What Good Are Pockets if They Don't Hold Anything?

Stoker and I have it worked out where each of us gets ten dollars a week to spend however we want. We both typically use it to buy a drink here or there, or some lunch (and by drink I mean non-alcoholic beverages). Stoker gets the money out of our account when he deposits his check because my check is direct-deposited. This morning he gave me my ten dollars, which was seven this time because last night I spent some of it on a one dollar sundae and some fries from McDonald's.

I put the money in my back pocket, as I'm wont to do and have done since childhood. These days I try to take better care of my money and often put it in my humongous wallet. But we were saying goodbye to each other and I was standing there with the car door open, about to leave for work. I didn't have time to do the responsible thing and put it in my wallet.

But see, I have on these damn corduroys I got at J.Crew. They have been a problem before. Countless times strangers have come up to me and said, "Excuse me, you're about to lose some money." At first I think they're being aggressive, maybe they're going to ask me for a ride or some money. But then they tell me I'm about to lose my money. And not because they're going to steal it.

So the problem, which I never really explained, is that these pockets suck. They don't hold onto anything. Receipts, paper, paper money, you name it. If I put it in, the money falls out. Once I lost a wad of money at Best Buy. I was so distraught. I called Best Buy on the chance someone had turned it in. They had! My hope for humanity was saved! I really couldn't believe it. It killed me that someone had turned in the money.

Today I was excited about lunch. I was going to go find a bagel shop and have a bagel sandwich. I love bagel sandwiches and it frustrates me that there's no Einstein's in Nashville. Because in addition to great sandwiches, they have the best pickles. And I love pickles (in case you're wondering, the second best place to get pickles is the White Owl, in Logan UT. They make them with jalapeños and they're delicious). Before I drove off in search of a bagel shop, I checked all my pockets, couldn't find the money, and then remembered that I hadn't moved the money from my pocket to my wallet! The money was gone and I cursed up a storm.

So, instead of a bagel for lunch, I got a preservative laden, sugar laden, very unhealthy cheese Danish at the gas station. Why? Because I was depressed that I'd lost the money. I know, I know. It's also unhealthy to indulge in unhealthy food when you're sad. You shouldn't do that. Do as I say, not as I do, and don't copy me.

I looked everywhere for the money. I returned to work and checked the bathrooms. For all I know, I'd flushed the money at some point without realizing it. Literally, 'money down the drain.' I decided to email the entire company about the lost money. I just knew the money was out there somewhere, trying to find its way back to me. But I had to go through the proper channels. I emailed the lady in charge of mass communication. I told her that I'd lost my weekly allowance and asked her if she could just send out a quick email to the entire company about it.

Then she called me. She said that she hadn't done her good deed for the day and the Lord has been kind to her, so she was going to leave the money for me underneath her keyboard. She was about to go to a meeting and she wanted me to go up there and pick it up while she was gone. She, herself, has always tried to live within a budget, she can respect that about me, and wanted to help out.

A part of me felt so stupid for making such a big deal about a trifle. It was seven dollars, after all. But when you make so little, seven dollars that you've allotted yourself seems like a lot. On the other hand, everything I make goes to me and Stoker, so it's not like we're neglected.

Really, it's the principle that matters. It's so stupid to lose your money. I mean to literally lose some physical cash. I bet you fifty thousand dollars that my mom hasn't lost a cent in twenty years. I mean, literally, literally misplaced it, or dropped it somewhere, or flushed it down the toilet. It's just not respectable to lose your money.

A part of me didn't want to take the lady's money. But I always tell people that part of helping others is accepting return kindness. I know it sounds stupid and probably selfish, but it's true. I think it's also a show of character to be able to accept it graciously. This is a subject I could discuss more, but the point is, it was difficult to swallow my pride regarding the money.

I went up to her office and found the money where she said she'd leave it. I felt like a thief and worried that if someone looked through the window of the door, they'd see me rooting around her desk while she wasn't there and turn me in to security. It was probably one of the strangest feelings I've ever had. At the same time, it made me think a lot about human kindness. Have you ever thought about how we're all we have? That if all people stopped being kind, there'd be no one left to be kind? I mean, Mother Nature isn't kind. Animals are not usually kind (though some will argue with this). Yes, God is kind, but God works through people, and that's why if each of us decided to stop being kind, there'd be no hope left.

It felt like this woman whom I have never met, wanted the kindness to be sort of faceless, to be a secret. I understand that. I still told her thanks in an email and told her that I try to be kind but sometimes I get hurried and impatient and sometimes I forget that there are hearts behind the faces. And I told her that her act made me feel better, not about the money but about humanity, and that I'll return the favor in the future, to someone else.

In the meantime, I plan to stitch up the back pockets of these stupid J.Crew pants and then I plan to sue J.Crew for damages*.






*I wonder who I can get to represent me. Does anyone know a lawyer who understands the importance of pants?

Surcharge My Ass

I wanted to go to a show tonight. This band, Phoenix is playing. Some of you may have heard of them. A bunch of French young men who’ve gotten together to play what the young folks like to call the “rock n’roll.” Though I’ve heard some young people call it “electronic,” which I assume is like the rock n’roll. I have no idea why I’m talking like that. Forgive me. I have what I like to call a “minor migraine.” So I took about a million little brown pills, what I like to call Ibuprofen, to assuage the burning upper back pain and that fabulous dull headache. No really. I’m sorry, I’ll stop with the whole “I like to call it,” ‘they like to call it” bit.

So I go to the good ole’ Smith’s to buy some tickets. Advertised price on the website: $12 in advance, $15 day of show*. When I get there, I pull out my debit card, already to pay, knowing what I’m getting myself into and what to expect as far as price goes. I say to the girl in the spirit of hustle or be hustled, hoping she’ll sell them to me for $12 instead of stupid $15, “So what, how much are they anyway? $12?”

She says she doesn’t know, but looks it up on her ancient computer (so it could be wrong, really, because it’s so old and decrepit).

“Okay, actually it’s going to be $22.75.” She turns, looking a little frightened, because honestly, I’m ripped. I AM RIPPED. I work-out like, 3 times a week or something. Plus, she too realizes how absurd this price is.

“$22.75?!” I repeat, stupidly, like an annoying old lady with poor hearing, clutching her hat, gloves and handbag in arthritic hands, all hunched over. You can imagine me yelling something like, “Speak up, young lady!” But I don’t. In reality I look large and threatening. It’s my demeanor. I really project when I’m angry. “Are you serious? I just looked on your website and they were advertised for $12.”

“Did you look today? They sometimes go up the day of the show.” She’s projecting too, but projecting the innocent little Bambi deer-look. I almost feel bad for being so annoyed. And honestly, I haven’t been that rude. It’s not like I told her to go to hell and punched her out or something.

“Yes I looked today. Just a few minutes ago.”

To make a long, stupid story short. The price difference was because of the SURCHARGE. She explained that there was a $7.75 surcharge. So I told her "surcharge my ass" and "go to hell" and then I left. I don’t LOVE Phoenix, the band, that much. I like them. But not $22.75 much. I’d have to get two tickets, too, because I was obviously going to take my lover, Stoker**, with me. Also, it’s not like I have no experience with surcharges on concert tickets. I used to have to explain them when I worked at the Graywhale and we were a Ticketmaster outlet. But $7.75 is OUTRAGEOUS.

I’m telling you this hilarious, sad story because I’m calling for swift and sudden change in the concert ticket industry. How many shows can a person go to a month or a year if every ticket is already between $12 and $30 in addition to a surcharge? Like two, or something (and I’m not talking the $100 ticket prices for acts like Bob Dylan and David Bowie. These are small, indie-type acts. It’s a joke, not to mention, absurd). Most kids are in college anyway and we’re already dumping thousands of dollars into our music addictions. I have news for you, I am not made of money. Money does not grow on trees. My parents are not ATM machines. Stoker is not an ATM machine. My credit union’s ATM machine is not an ATM machine. I mean, does not give away free money. So I say someone should make one of those free online petitions to require that ticket outlets start listing the damn ticket prices with the surcharge already added in. No more of this false advertising.








*A $3 increase just because IT’S THE DAY OF THE SHOW? What? Why? Whose idea is this? Who do I have to speak to to get some service around here? I mean really people. Do they do this to increase sales so people will buy their tickets way in advance so the show is more likely to sell out? What’s going on? And speaking of, I’d say hours before the show should be considered ‘in advance.’ So whose definition of ‘advance’ are we going by, anyway?

**And yes, he’s afraid of my muscles.