This Far From Homeless...
Scan down for a peek of my latest novel, Geronimo's Laptop (historical fantasy)
photo by Dejan Marjanovic
I used to spend a lot of time in downtown Seattle. This story is a compilation of the homeless people I met on the streets mostly around Pioneer Square where I worked…
This Far From Homeless
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Macky glances into the office window as he shuffles by. There it is—the
chalk. He has to have it before he goes home. He can’t take his eyes off
of its slender form as it rests on the powdery tray below the blackboard. It
is about six feet away from the front door; stealing it will be risky.
The frantic man nervously paces back and forth on the sidewalk. He has to be
careful not to alert the secretary inside that he is watching the chalk. Watching her. He could have scrounged enough money to buy a piece of chalk, but where? Stores in downtown Seattle don’t sell piddly stuff like chalk.
It is getting late; he has to make his move soon. Not only will the office
be closing, but a storm is on the way. There is no door and no lock to his
home on the street; if he doesn’t get back soon, someone else might move in.
His friend, Leo, always tries to save him a spot, but he is a small man and no
match against the bigger homeless men who sleep underneath the freeway
overpass.
There is enough space under the bridge to keep eight men dry on a
cold, rainy night. No more. It is first come, first serve—unless a man bigger
than you wants your spot. Whenever that happens, the best thing to do is
just roll up your bedroll and skedaddle. No spot is worth dying over. If all the spots are taken, he’ll be forced to spend the night in the shelter. He’ll
be off the street, and the food will be hot, but it is a dangerous place
to be late at night. Robberies and beatings are common once the supervisors
lower the lights and go downstairs. Leo had been rolled there last year. No
one came to his aid while he struggled.
Macky turns his attention back to the office. The secretary is getting up
and going to the backroom, probably to get her coat. The ragged man takes a
nervous breath and rushes through the door. He ignores the woman’s purse
and grabs the piece of white chalk. As he runs back out the door, he hears her
call out, “Who’s there? Is anybody there?” He grabs his grocery cart and is
halfway down the block before he dares to slow down.
His knees are weak and his heart pounds. Sweat from his brow rolls down his face and mixes with the first drops of rain. Who knows what might happen if he gets caught stealing? The new mayor is cracking down on street people. If he gets jailed, his spot under the overpass will be gone for sure by the time he gets out. None of the street people know what to expect right now. They could be arrested merely for jaywalking. At least, the craziness won’t last forever. Macky knows from observation that, in a few weeks, the mayor will tire of timing the traffic lights, intimidating the jaywalkers, and hassling the street people. Then things will go back to normal. Every new mayor is the same.
No one notices a ragged Macky racing a cart with every worldly possession he has in the direction of the industrial area. Everyone is scrambling, head down, trying to get out of the weather before the storm hits, some of them hurriedly sip coffee to celebrate the end of another workday. As he races by the office workers, the air is pungent with Starbucks coffee. Longingly he glances in the coffee shop window. He has enough money to buy a small cup, but he doesn’t have enough time to stand in line. Luckily, he doesn’t have to. A sympathetic young barista rushes out and—keeping pace with Macky—gives him a 13-ouncer.
“Have a nice night, Macky,” he says with a smile.
Macky nods and mumbles a thank you. He’ll stop by in the morning and sweep the sidewalk in front of the shop. He’ll clean the outside tables and chairs too. The sparrows that sleep up in the trees dirty the seating area at night. Macky has been helping out at the coffee shop for a couple of years. It makes him feel good to help, and it is a way to pay for the free coffees that come his way. It doesn’t matter to him that the coffees are leftovers that customers have decided—for whatever reason—they don’t want. Macky pats the lid of the steaming brew. Maybe it will bring him luck tonight. He doesn't take a sip right away. He’ll save it until he gets home so he can share it with his neighbors, Leo and Hazel.
The closer Macky gets to his home, the faster he picks up his pace. The grimy raincoat that is almost in shreds sails outward behind him, exposing his Visit Las Vegas sweatshirt and World War II vintage green wool pants to the rain. His shoes are separating from their soles and his sockless feet are crusted with dirt that softens when he runs through a mud puddle. Even his dark hair, thick with the grease of neglect, rises slightly as air rushes underneath it, like the wings of a too-heavy airplane trying to lift off a runway. His eyes strain ahead to see if Leo is at the underpass but his sidewalk home was still too far away. Passing trucks, pedestrians, and buildings obstruct his view.
Finally, he catches sight of Leo rushing from the other direction. He is late
too. Macky’s heart sinks; they are doomed to a shelter for the night. They
are both out of breath when they arrive at the underpass. Amazed, they
find it almost deserted. Only Hazel squats in her usual spot. She’d felt sick
that morning, so she hadn’t gone downtown to panhandle.
“Where is everybody?” Macky asks the shivering woman.
“They all left. The storm drain is plugged up. The cars are throwing water
all over the sidewalk.”
“We’ve got to fix it!” Mackey shouts. “Quick, before it gets dark.” Macky
dives into the gutter and fishes around the drain with his hands, pulling out
clumps of garbage, grass, and discarded paper. All the time he works, he is
watchful of passing cars.
Leo goes to work soaking up the wet cement with wads of newspapers. The
water will only be a problem until the commuter traffic is over. After that,
the road sees few cars.
Macky reaches into his pocket and tosses the chalk to Hazel, who silently
goes to work drawing their living rooms. Even though no one else is there
and she can use all the space she wants, Hazel draws the same size
rectangle for each person. Six feet long, three feet wide. Each shape joins the
next for safety, even though the rules of the sidewalk say no other homeless person
will infringe on their territory. The same rules are not honored by
people who don’t live on the street; regularly, strangers thoughtlessly walk
through the trio’s living rooms. That won’t be a problem tonight; the
weather will discourage foot traffic.
Meanwhile, Macky is joined by Leo who uses an old discarded pool cue
he has in his cart to probe the drain and try to loosen the blockage. Finally, the
two hear a swoosh as the drain clears and the water runs freely down the gutter
and through the drain.
The coffee is still untouched. Although its smell is tantalizing, it will
wait until they have their houses set up.
Macky meticulously lines up all of his possessions in a straight line on the inside front edge of his chalk living room wall There is a tin can with three new cigarettes and a small chipped dish. He adds a cracked candleholder with the candle still in it that he found behind a restaurant.
Leo lines up his newspaper that they’ll all share before he puts it underneath his bedroll to insulate himself against the cold, adds some cigar stubs, and a tiny tablet with a castoff pencil.
Hazel sets out a little framed photo of her daughter at her college graduation. It is protected by a resealable bag she snagged out of a garbage can.
When the traffic slows, the workers in their shiny commuter cars are
embarrassed at the sight of the squatters. Curiously, they stare through their car windows at the chalk outlines and the little treasures on display in a neat line in front of each rectangle. The three, and their living rooms, will be forgotten by the time the cars get through the Spring Street intersection.
Up ahead, Macky can see the flashing yellow lights of a police motorcycle escorting the grannies, driving their old beat-up yellow import with the
hatchback. They stop at all of the underpasses in the area two or three
times a week, bringing sandwiches and hot coffee to their fellow man. The
food is purchased with their meager pension checks, assembled with love,
and dispensed with grace.
When one of the women hands a shivering Macky a sandwich, he asks her, “Why are you doing this?”
The woman answers, “Because I know that all of us are just this far from homeless.” As she talks, she holds up her thumb and index finger—almost touching. Then, with a smile and a wave, she is gone. She and the rest of the grannies don’t make them uncomfortable by insisting on praying with them. The
women don’t try to change their lifestyle. They never try to make them
ashamed of their circumstances. The grannie’s no-strings-attached gift of food
and drink is the only contact most of the street people have outside their
peers.
Macky splits the coffee from the barista three ways so they can drink it
with their sandwiches. It is still warm, thanks to their feverish activity. The
coffee from the grannies will be saved until breakfast. They’ll be glad to have
it, even though it will be cold. In the current political climate, no one wants
to start a fire and risk being arrested.
The winds were just beginning to pick up as they take their first sips. Leo
tells the two he was a victim of a prank while he slept on a bench in Pioneer
Square. The badge the young pranksters had pinned on his jacket lapel pictured
a woman with boobs that blinked. He hasn’t taken it off, and Macky senses that,
for some reason, he is afraid to. Mostly, the group is quiet; no one talks about their day. Hazel will not reveal the ever-widening ulcer on a varicose vein
on her left leg—right above her happy face tattoo. Macky will not mention to Leo that he’s heard Microsoft stock split today—he knows his friend won’t be interested. Macky only knows Leo has stock because his friend had sold some of it to pay his hospital bill last year after he was hit by a truck that had jumped the curb. Macky, too, has his secrets: he will not mention his terrifying chalk experience or the businessman who had tried to spit on him as he had crossed an intersection.
Most of all, they will not talk about the choices they’ve made in their lives
that brought them to huddle night after night under a cold, wet overpass.
The commuter traffic slows. As it darkens, the candle in Macky’s living
room radiates a soft glow that bounces off the wet pavement and throws shadows
on the back cement wall. They are home for the night. It is cold and wet, but they are safe for another day. Tomorrow, they’ll get up and start all over again.
the end
After years of living on government reservations, Geronimo wants to take his band of Chiricahua Apaches back home to Arizona but he has powerful opposition in President Teddy Roosevelt, who has never liked Indians, especially Geronimo. Historical fantasy/humor. Coming sometime in February ‘23 on Amazon and others. Paperback and Kindle.
In 2021, Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, a play I wrote for Rudy Ramos and directed by Steve Railsback, was chosen by The Los Angeles Times as one of their 19 Culture Picks. This book is an extension of that play.