$4.73 and 45 minutes

10/08/13

Every other Tuesday is production day at Street Sense.

Which means I'm normally staring at a computer screen 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. or later if I can stay.  I edit stories, design the layout of some of the newspaper pages and write last-minute news briefs.

Production has to be my favorite day.

It's tiring, thrilling, rewarding - all the elements of a well-spent day.

The morning began in the normal fashion, with multiple cups of pumpkin spice coffee (courtesy of my Mom - she's the best), and layout design.  I learned how to work with Photoshop.  Always a new challenge.

After a measly one page designed and a news brief written about mandatory insurance through the Affordable Care Act *cough*boring*cough* I rolled out to City Hall to cover an event.

It was the first meeting of a special task force assembled to discuss the future of the CCNV (Center for Creative Non Violence) shelter - the largest, and only federally run shelter in the city.  The years have taken their toll and of course the shelter needs some work, so leaders of many organizations related to homelessness and housing gathered to get it going.

Coincidentally, the first woman I met, Starda, was a resident of the very shelter that went through recent lawsuits and my editor had told me to write a story about.  I had tried contacting the shelter unsuccessfully, and needed some human voices for my story.

During the meeting, another homeless woman, Shacona, stood up and accused the shelter of mistreatment, mentioning that she had filed a lawsuit against it.

Bam.

I found another source.

I stayed late to talk to Shacona, and man could she and her boyfriend Eric talk!  I thought they were never going to let me leave.

I rushed back to the office as soon as I could break free, determined to stay late and help with more layout design.
"I'm hungry!  I'm huuuuuungry!"
The voice was loud, obnoxious, slurred.
The body from which it came was a 40-something, black man in a black hoodie and jeans, holding out a soft drink cup, rattling the change inside, sitting right outside the Church of the Epiphany gate.
I rushed passed him to get back into the office and back to work.
A twinge of guilt tugged at my heart.  I didn't even make eye contact, or smile at him, or say a kind word.
No matter; I'm broke.  I can't give money to every homeless person on the street.  But within a few seconds I made up my mind that if he were still there when I left for the evening, I would buy him dinner.

No sooner had I put my backpack down in the office than my editors told me I could take off for the day - I'd done enough good work.  I was willing to stay late, but they released me to go home early.
Just outside the gate, that loud, obnoxious, slurred voice greeted me again.
"Do you want something to eat?" I said.  "Are you hungry?"
I noticed he was wearing no shoes.  Just dirty socks.
"Yes," he said, looking me in the eyes.
"Ok, let's get some dinner.  What do you want?"
"Can I have some pizza?" he smiled, revealing four missing top teeth.
His tone of voice struck me - so childlike.  So joyful.
"Sure, let's go find some pizza," we began walking to a pizza place just down the block.
His name was Nathan.
I shook his hand.
I bought him a slice of pepperoni and an orange soda.  Just before I paid the cashier, he asked, "Are you sure?" with a genuine, cautious, grateful strain of hope.
"Of course I'm sure."  I paid $4.73.
I sat down with him while he ate his food, but I wasn't hungry.
He was so excited to have company that in 45 minutes he only ate half of the slice.  He'd lived in DC his whole life and wanted to know what things were like in California.  I compared Oakland to Anacostia, the high cost of living in San Francisco to that of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, and the LA Times to the Washington Post.
It was like speaking to an excited child.  He shook his head energetically when he got into telling me a story; I laughed and held back the tears that threatened to flow.

Mental illness or retardation are my best guess - the heartbreaking reason for his homelessness.  He seemed disgusted by kids selling drugs, so I can't imagine he was a junkie.
"Where do you stay, Nathan?"
"On the streets."
No shelter, no housing.  But he was trying to get an apartment.  Not in the projects, he specified.  A real apartment.  But how could he get an apartment, when he didn't even have shoes?  How will he even stay warm when winter sets in?
I wondered if those four missing teeth had been knocked out of his mouth by a strong blow.  He looked less capable of surviving on the streets than myself.
The people in the restaurant looked at him with distrust.  If I left him in there alone, the manager would probably kick him out.  So I let two buses go by.  It's not like I needed to be home immediately anyway.
I showed him pictures of my parents and my sisters.  He had a hard time believing that I was half black.  He was excited on my behalf that I was the auntie of a baby niece.

Nathan waited by the bus stop with me, continuing to tell me his stories.  The D6 bus pulled up behind the W17 and I was caught up in conversation so I didn't see it until the driver was pulling away.
I stood up and yelled, "Wait!" waving my arms.
The bus driver gave me the stank-eye and made a dismissing motion.
Nathan apologized, thinking it was his fault I missed the bus.  It wasn't his fault, I assured him.  But I had to catch the Metro, so I patted him on his skeletal shoulder and said goodbye, stay safe.
I took the Metro to Union Station, preparing to walk 10 minutes beyond that to get back to my apartment.  However, fare cards include free transfers within the hour, and I saw a D6 at the stoplight.  I walked to the next bus stop and waited, grateful I wouldn't have to walk the entire way home.
It was the same bus.
The driver recognized me - his face displayed the shock.
"That's what you get for leaving me behind!"
Yes.  I said it out loud.  To his face.
No regrets.
Like a boss.
He was dumbfounded.  If there was ever a moment to believe in human teleportation, that was it (cred goes to my boyfriend for coming up with that one).

I don't know if anything could have made my day better.  It cost me $4.73 out of my wallet, and 45 minutes of my hectic day.
And it was worth a thousand times more.
I'm positive that I benefited more from him than he did from me.
Three days per week, I work with homeless vendors through Street Sense.  With time, I'm learning compassion, and kindness, and the value of each person's story.  But every day I pass by dozens of God's most precious creation lying on the streets.
I don't have the money to feed them all.  I don't have the time to talk to them all.
But I spent $4.73 and 45 minutes on Nathan, and that shed to the ground a bit more of the stubborn selfishness surrounding my heart, like the autumn leaves I rarely experienced in California.