Forgotten

“That’s the thing about this city, a place where people never sleep,” I muse, catching a local bus, escaping the chill of the night air, vanishing among people with their lifeless eyes and deaf ears. Hush tones, breaking the sheer silence, drawing the attention of a few watchful glances that flicker with interest.

I lean my head against the cold window, and though it does not offer any comfort, it at least gives me rest as my eyes flutter shut. ‘The nightlife, with all of its enchantment, comes with a price.’  It comes without warning, like a serpent. It slithers its way in, wrapping around your neck, choking you until there is no breath.  And then you find yourself trapped, with no way out.

With a jolt, the warmth of someone touching my shoulder, I wipe the sleep from my eyes, gathering my stuff, stepping off the bus and back into the cold, tightening my coat, bracing myself from the wind. ‘Shadows,’ I whisper, strolling down the concrete path, street lights illuminating small circles along the way.  

The laughter of those who gather, young couples gazing into each other eyes, unaware of those like me, wanders among the city dwellers. You don’t see us, or at least never acknowledged we exist.  It is easier to look past people like me, the ‘forgotten’ ones, pushing our carts with everything we own. 

This life isn’t what I have chosen, once a long time ago I was just like you, had a job and a one-bedroom flat, uptown. I was respectable then, a circle of close friends. A closet was full of a good quantity of clothes, food in my stomach. Everything that society valued was necessary to live. If I can go back, I would, but it’s an impossible task. My life is part of a community, sleeping in makeshift boxes under the bridge. 

“Don’t feel sorry for me.” I said, “It’s a way of life,” searching for something to eat in a trash can, a stale slice of pizza. There are many places to find something to eat, all you need to do is look past the smell. I see the look on your face, and it’s the same look that people that live and work here, ‘disgust,’ after all, there is a better way of living.

All of us, homeless, have different stories of how or why we join the ranks of the ‘forgotten.’ I was working a regular job, paid my rent until losing it and my income. At first, I tried to find employment, but it was not easy, and like a domino effect, the rest followed. And I found myself homeless for the first time. 

Still, I never gave up hope, but the months, blended into another, as I like to say, “the writing was on the wall’, and after a week, I meet Ms. Sally Mae, an older woman who showed me the ropes of living on the street.” 

“Well, kid, it’s almost daylight. We need to find a place to rest.” I said, trudging along, pushing my cart, “Don’t worry. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

.” Good morning Ms. Sally Mae.” 

“Morning, CL, who’s your friend?” she asks, slightly tilting her head,

“Oh, just someone I ran into from the train station,”

“Trying to save another poor kid, huh?” Ms. Sally continues to amble down the street that is coming alive, with business people with their eyes and ears close to people like me. After all, if they don’t see us, then we don’t exist. 

It’s cool this morning, rubbing my hands together. That is what I never get used to, the cold of winter, a beast that claims the homeless. So many lives were lost this time of year, with little or no protection. Still, the strong do survive, like Ms. Sally and old man George. They have been out here the longest, and as old George says, “Never give up.   And that is what I do, kid, every day, moving forward, making the best of what I have available.”

“Well, kid, you hungry?” As we approach the corner of Fifth and Walnut, standing with other people huddling together, attempting to stay warm. A slide glance of one lady clutching onto a purse, familiar fear in her brown eyes. I have seen it before, judging eyes from those who passed by, And if they would stop long enough, people could see that I am no different from them, accept the streets are my home.

“Great, so am I,” I answer, a quick nod in your direction, ‘Good,’ I whisper, slowing down our pace, approaching a group of teenagers. Looking back, I see you distancing yourself from me, as though you are afraid of them making fun of you. “it doesn’t matter,” I mumble, “It’s all the same to me.”  

“So, kid, what’s your story?” I ask though I didn’t expect an answer from you. Still, if you wanted to tell me, I will listen. But, I know that sometimes a person, especially a teenager like yourself, finds it difficult to explain why they ran away from home. I found it helpful to understand why someone like you prefer leaving a good home to live on the streets. And maybe by you telling me, I can help you see that living here is a hard life, it’s not for everyone.

“Well, kid, here we are,” standing at the bottom steps of the Mission, you look down at your sneakers, ‘expensive, I imagine.’ The touch of my hand startles you. Is it because of who I am or something else?  Was it sadness? I wonder, or Is it fear? 

“Come on,” I said, pulling up my cart. These few steps, for a moment, you hesitate, then amble up the steps, reaching the top we go inside. A whiff of bacon and eggs greeted our senses, ‘ a welcoming sight for these poor eyes’ Fresh brew coffee and orange juice place on a table near the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” Brother Thomas said,

“Morning Brother Tom”

“And who is this fine-looking young man? He asked,

“This is…, Brett.”

“Welcome, please help yourself.”

 Every morning, people filter in here, a  place of warmth and plenty of good food. You and I stand in line, waiting our turn while scanning the room. Leaning closer, you ask about these people. Who are they? I answer, “They are like me, the forgotten who live on the city streets.”

“I think I’ll go back home,” you said, as we finish our breakfast,

“Good, I’ll walk you back to the train station.”

You wave good-bye, from the window of the bus as it rumbles down the street, black smoke bellows from the tailpipes disappearing in the bright morning sky. Clutching my coat from the cold wind, I stroll the city streets, searching for something to sell.

‘They are wanderers of the streets, whose names are forgotten, their stories aren’t the same, they keep no worldly treasures, no riches do they claim’ ( Reflections: A Journey from the Heart by Carol Ann Keefer)