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  They thought we were dumb or ill or both. They thought we had given up on life and had no purpose. They thought we were a waste of taxpayers’ dollars. They thought we thought we were owed something.

  They were right.

  And they were wrong.

  There was no simple answer to the homeless issue in America. In my nearly two years living on the streets, I had met peers who fit all those impressions people had of us. And I had met peers who fit none of them.

  Me? I was an example of life flipping upside down so hard that right-side-up made no sense. I earned a bachelor’s degree in English and an MBA. I had seen the inside of the Sistine Chapel, enjoyed plays on Broadway, frequented the High and Fernbank Museums, shopped on Rodeo Drive, parasailed in Barbados, swam with stingrays in the Cayman Islands, danced salsa in Cuba—before President Obama lifted the embargo.

  And I had slept on the ground beneath the skyscrapers of Atlanta and the steps of churches.

  How could I have experienced so much, but had so little? That was the thing that people didn’t get: I had everything I experienced, which means I had more than most. I just didn’t need more of anything. I’d had enough.

  I didn’t deserve anything else.

  I asked people for money, so I could buy enough to live. I asked that lady almost every day for months, and she always answered with this idea that she’d be doing me a favor to buy me food. Fast-food restaurants were the death of healthy lifestyles, so I always refused her offers for food instead of money by just looking at her.

  This time, though, I was so hungry that I had to take her up on her offer. I hadn’t eaten fast-food in four years. Still, the memory of the taste of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese was strong—and I gave in to my hunger.

  Others offered me food, but I considered them just token gestures. I didn’t feel any warmth from them. You would think a guy who had nothing would not care where something came from. And most of my . . . my peers, my street comrades, didn’t care. But I did. I needed to feel good about the people who help me.

  It was a personality quirk, one of the few parts of my being that I retained over the years. I appreciated the lady because I could see she was troubled. Her life was a routine. Get into a routine and it was an easy indicator of someone lacking in self-esteem and living a boring life.

  But also I could see the compassion in her eyes as easily as I could see emptiness in her life.

  “How do you think you could say something like that to me? You? Where do you get off?”

  The lady was more transparent than I ever had been. When I was troubled—which was every day, all day—it did not show in my face or words. Well, not often. But when she said that to me, it was clear I had upset her.

  “I know I live on the streets,” I told her, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t see. And it doesn’t mean I won’t speak up. You don’t have to listen. But I’m gonna speak when I want.”

  “But I’ve seen you almost every day for months. I have always been nice to you, offering you food. But when you finally say something to me, you curse at me? You’re mean to me? I don’t get it and I don’t like it.”

  “It wasn’t for you to like, but it was for you to get,” I told her. “And you will.”

  She walked away shaking her head. I knew she wanted an apology, but I hadn’t been big on apologies because if you had to give one, that meant you’d already done something wrong, and nothing could take away what you’d already done. An apology was just bullshit.

  I decided that if I saw her again, I would tell her that. If I saw her again. I also hung near the Starbucks in Midtown, near Georgia Tech or the Waffle House downtown by Georgia State University or the Popeyes in the West End, near Morehouse College. The main reason I went there was because I liked to see the kids working on making something of themselves in a world that was against them. They were young and enthusiastic and eager. Their enthusiasm about the future kept me from going insane. Well, totally insane.

  You’d have to be insane to sleep in shelters or on the streets, right? That’s what most people thought. I would say the majority of the homeless suffered from some sort of mental illness. Another percentage had their lives collapse, fell on bad times, and had no other recourse. And then there was me.

  I saw many others, too, who were drunks or drug addicts. But I was one of a few whose life collapsing brought out other issues. It was hard for me to call myself “mentally disturbed” because I didn’t feel that way . . . most of the time.

  My thoughts were clear. I looked at those students and engaged them because they reminded me of a better time in my life, when I was in college and looking at the world as a place of potential. But as excited as I was for these young students, I was just as scared for them. The world was not fair. Obstacles were everywhere. I read the paper. Sometimes. Racism was alive and thriving. It was going to hurt so many of these kids who wouldn’t be ready for it. I hoped they would be tough enough to survive it. Tougher than me.

  Not only that, but they would learn that things happened, horrible things, that prevented sleep, things that made could make life unbearable. I knew.

  If I were not such a coward, I would have killed myself. But I didn’t have the guts, if that’s what it took to end my life. Or I was not crazy enough. Either way, the reality was that suicide would have been too good for me. I deserved to suffer.

  The doctors said the fact that I took that position proved that I had mental problems. When I told them I wanted to punish myself they said I was crazy. Not in those words; they had more tact than that. But I could read between the mumbo jumbo. But I wasn’t crazy. I was sick—sick of the nightmares, sick of the daydreams, sick of the pain, sick of feeling worthless and sick of a life of filth.

  But I didn’t have the strength and courage—the whatever it took—to get off the streets and to check out of the shelter and to resume the life I had that seemed like a long time ago.

  Time passed slower when you live on the streets. A day was interminable. A night was longer than a day. I used to complain that there was not enough time in twenty-four hours to do all that needed to be done. That was before my life flipped.

  That was before I killed my family. After that, time slowed down.

  CHAPTER THREE: MY NAME IS. . .

  BRENDA

  I didn’t understand why I primped in the mirror or why I picked out my best suit or why I spent so much time on my hair. I was going to see a homeless man. Why did I feel a need to look my best for him?

  I had no answers. For some reason, I felt compelled to impress him. I had guessed I didn’t want to look like my life was shit, as he had so eloquently put it.

  The closer I got to McDonald’s, the more anxious I felt. I hadn’t expected that. I was glad there was traffic on Ponce. It gave me more time to compose myself.

  But the traffic eased and there he was—in the same spot, wearing the same clothes with the same attitude. I stopped myself before I checked my lipstick. But I was nervous. He was the one who should have been nervous. I was the one who was insulted and I was going to let him have it.

  But our encounter was nothing like I expected.

  I drove to work afterward feeling like I needed to see him again. Not romantically. God, no. But I felt something inside him that was interesting and, strangely enough, alive. But it was buried deep.

  He was smart. When I walked up to him, kind of passively, he said, “Good morning, young lady.”

  I had forgotten how his voice sounded; it was strong and confident, surprisingly so. He took away the power I thought I had in the way he said those four words. It was so pleasant, as if we were old friends. But he didn’t take away my sarcasm.

  “You’re speaking to me today like you have some sense?” I said.

  “You think I spoke to you like I didn’t have any sense yesterday? I have plenty of sense.”

  “That doesn’t mean you say anything to someone, especially someone like me, who has tried to help you.”

 
; “Oh, you’re special?”

  “Everyone’s special. That’s how we should look at people. I have always been nice to you.”

  “You think it’s being nice to assume I’m a drug addict or an alcoholic. That’s the only reason you don’t give me a dollar and keep it moving.”

  He was right . . . again. I had no idea what was up with the homeless. I figured drugs and alcohol had to be a major part of the problem. I could never drink enough or do enough drugs to not want to sleep in my own bed. But I figured something significant, something bad, had to have happened, starting with drinking or drugs, to end up on the streets.

  But once he said that, I recalled that he always seemed clear in his thoughts. His eyes were never bloodshot and he never had the physical traits of someone who was addicted. And I thought maybe it was reasonable for him to think I should at least try to understand his frustration without stereotyping him.

  Then the other side of my brain said: Stop trippin’. He’s homeless, for goodness sake. What else were you to think?

  “You’re an interesting man,” I said. I noticed people looking at me with strange expressions, looks that translated into: Why is she talking to this bum?

  I ignored them.

  “I didn’t give you money because I thought you needed food. Yeah, it may be fast-food, but it’s food. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

  What was I saying? He insulted me. And there I was offering him a quasi-apology?

  “I wasn’t trying to insult you, when I said your life was shit.”

  “Oh, you remember that?”

  “I told you I ain’t crazy. And it ain’t so much going on in my life that I forgot what I said yesterday.”

  “You’re a wise ass, I see.”

  “I speak truth. Period. I have no reason to not be straight-up honest. For instance, you’re depressed.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “OK. Name the things that you love.”

  “I love my sister, food and movies, reading, traveling. I love good wine. Why?”

  “See that. Asked you to name things you loved and you never said yourself.”

  He got me. I actually was not that happy with myself at that point. I ignored his valid point.

  “Well, I’ll be honest when I say I was really bothered by what you said to me. I didn’t sleep well thinking about it. You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s going on in my life. And because you don’t, you shouldn’t speak on it. Especially being nasty like that.”

  “I spoke the truth. If it’s not true, why does it bother you?”

  “It bothers me because you don’t have a right and you shouldn’t feel comfortable saying something so mean to someone—especially someone who has only been nice to you.”

  “You’re going to be late for work.”

  “There you go, assuming. Who said I was going to work today?”

  “Your shoes say it. Your suit says it. Why else would you be here? You come here every day at the same time, morning and evening. I could set my watch to you . . . if I had one.”

  It was exhausting talking to him. He was a classic oxymoron: a keen homeless man.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why? You’re not going to remember it tomorrow.”

  “Why do you think you know what I’m going to do? What’s your name?”

  “Rodney.”

  “I’m Brenda, Rodney. Brenda Lowry. And you’re wrong: I won’t forget your name.”

  “Rodney Bridges. I was once called R.B. It meant more than my name. It also meant ‘Rhythm and Blues’ because I loved music and was a smooth dancer.”

  “Don’t you still love music? Why would you say, ‘loved’?”

  “I haven’t really heard or focused on music in two years. It is what it is.”

  “Don’t you miss it? Don’t you want to dance and tap your feet and party and have a good time?”

  “A good time? I’m not in the market for that. I’m good.”

  “You’re a good dancer? I can’t see it.”

  “That’s not very astute. You can’t see anything in me—I’m homeless, living on the streets most nights, asking strangers like you for money.”

  “But why?”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Why is this your life? You obviously have a lot of common sense and intelligence.”

  “This could all be an act. You don’t know.”

  “Exactly. And you don’t know what’s going on in my life. So please don’t talk about it. My life is none of your business.”

  Then I turned as he pondered or didn’t ponder that and went inside the restaurant and ordered hot cakes and sausage. Because I had talked to the man longer than I expected and wanted, I was running behind time.

  When I exited McDonald’s, he was still there, in the same area, but talking to a second homeless man.

  “That’s her,” he said to the guy as I moved from the threshold of the restaurant toward the car.

  I stopped in my tracks. “Why are you talking about me?”

  “This is Chester. I was telling him about how nice you are, that’s all.”

  Chester was light-skinned and thin. He was solemn and withdrawn, far less loquacious than Rodney.

  “Hi, Chester.”

  He waved a hand and lowered his head. He mumbled something about space missions being fake. I turned to Rodney.

  “Is he OK?”

  “No. But he will be. Or he won’t. I don’t know. He has lots of issues. And drinking is one of them. Still, he’s a good man. Strong man.”

  “Where are your other friends, friends who could help you?”

  “Who said I needed help? I’m fine. Friends I had are gone. It’s just me now.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “Just did.”

  “About why you’re out here.”

  “Why you want to know? You don’t care about me.”

  “Well, maybe I want to care about you.”

  “Why would you want to care about a homeless man?”

  “Because I care about people.”

  Rodney looked at me intently, as if he were trying to see into my psyche or my heart. Or both.

  “You’d better get to work.”

  I glanced at my watch. I was behind schedule. But I wanted an apology.

  “If I say ‘I’m sorry,’ it does not get you the sleep back that you said you missed last night. And it doesn’t take away from the truth.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll see you this evening. Right?” he said. The way it came out, though, was if he wanted to see me. At least that was the way I took it.

  “God willing,” I told him, turning and heading for my car.

  I wanted to know more about Rodney. Unless he was a great actor, he had the brains to be a productive citizen. If nothing else, he could provide for himself.

  I went through the rest of the day on the temp job I had as an executive secretary at a law firm in the Bank of America building in somewhat of a fog. I became virtually obsessed with learning Rodney’s story.

  Instead of going to lunch, I stayed at my desk and did searches on homelessness in America. For me to miss a meal, that was rare—or more like unheard of. But I was engrossed in this subject. I found a website called makethemvisible.com. It showed videos of people and families posing as homeless—and how the public reacted to them. They either did not notice them or they were so used to seeing homeless people that they deftly ignored them.

  I sat there at my computer and tears flowed from my eyes. It hurt me to see how cold people could be to another human. It hurt so much because I saw myself. I was like those people who walked by without batting an eye. I pretended I was busy. I went so far as to act as if I were on my cell phone when I saw a homeless person approaching to feign being occupied.

  I offered Rodney food because we were in an open area where others were always around. I did not feel threatened. But in other cases, times I felt vul
nerable, I walked right on by, as if I didn’t see them.

  After browsing that website, I was embarrassed. I was ashamed of myself.

  “Are you OK?” Mr. Washington asked. He was one of the partners in the firm.

  “Yes, sir. I was just watching something on the Internet and it upset me.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  I wasn’t sure if I should share with my boss something so personal, but it was a temporary job and I needed to explain why I was bawling.

  “I met this homeless man; I see him every day. Today, we talked for the first time and he’s so smart. So I looked up this website about the homeless and it showed how most of us walk past them without noticing—or we act like we don’t see them. And I’ve been guilty of that a lot, and it just made me feel bad.”

  “Well, it’s a tough thing, Brenda. I’ve done it, too. I have given and I have ignored, and after each case, I didn’t feel good. Even when I have given, I wanted to give more. When I didn’t give, I felt guilty about it. It’s an issue bigger than us.”

  “But we’ve got to find a way to help. It makes no sense that people are living on the streets. In America? With all its boasting of ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.’ It should not be like this, Mr. Washington.”

  “It’s a problem around the world,” he said. “We were in Rome—my wife and I—last summer and little old ladies who looked so much like a grandmother or your favorite aunt, hounded you for money at certain tourist spots. My wife said, ‘I thought I got away from this by coming to Italy.’ I told her: ‘Honey, it’s a problem here, but worse in the U.S., which is sad because of who we’re supposed to be.’ ”

  Before I could say something, he was called away, which was fine because he didn’t have the words to comfort me anyway. Nothing would—unless I did something. And in that moment, Rodney Bridges became my project.

  CHAPTER FOUR: PARAGON OF PARANOIA

  RODNEY

  I was glad to see the lady, Brenda. I figured she had a basic name, a traditional name. Her name matched her personality. But she also carried herself like she was carrying the weight of something buried deep inside. It was subtle, but in the few years I was on the streets, I had watched people more than I had in all my life.