THE LOCAL LENS
THOM NICKELS
They come to the
neighborhood in droves. Sometimes they come as couples and occasionally they have
a dog in tow. They set up camp in the strangest places: in front of convenience
stores, pizza shops, Dunkin Donuts, and dollar stores. They canvass traffic at
stoplights with large cardboard signs. Talk to them and you’ll find they have
slightly different stories. Some come from good homes, like Anthony X who grew
up in the Philadelphia suburbs
where he played the guitar and sang so well that his music can still be seen on
You Tube. Anthony studied film production in LA and produced a number of short
films before his life crashed.
His life crashed
because of heroin. Anthony left LA for Philly where he met a beautiful girl who
had a knack for making a quick buck under the El.
Couples bonded by
heroin addiction rarely celebrate 5th or 10th
anniversaries. Heroin is a jealous mistress; it wants no other lover. Anthony and
his girl soon planned a road trip to Texas
where they dreamt of a bohemian existence with Austin ’s
music community. The road trip began with a bang. They posted Facebook photos
of themselves eating tacos on Greyhound, and then Texas
photos showing them bathing in a creek. Anthony’s girlfriend then met a man
with a lot of money and Anthony was history. Devastated, the former film
student disappeared into that overcrowded nightmare known as the state of California .
Most but not all of the homeless are drug
addicted. Some homeless people are just down on their luck and rebound quickly
when offered a job and a place to live.
Some of the
homeless are road trippers who travel from city to city. Like the legendary
American hobos of the 1940s, 50s and 60s, they ride the rails and sleep in
boxcars, following a rustic tradition that has its roots in American
literature. The poet Carl Sandburg and the novelist James Michener, for
instance, both lived as train hobos for a while. Generally, road tripper types have
no intention of settling in Philly. Consider the case of Garth, 25, a native of
Vermont , who came to Philly with
his guitar because there was trouble at home. Garth is a light party drug type
(no heroin), but his lifestyle has made him homeless. Maybe it’s his long hair,
but Garth says that cops will ask him to leave popular panhandling spots while
ignoring born and bred Philly homeless who panhandle for drug money.
He
complains that everyone he meets assumes that he’s on heroin. He also doesn’t
like it that people seem to not like him because he’s not “from around here.”
Recently I introduced
myself to two homeless guys after telling them that I was writing a book on the
homeless problem
The two men, Chris and Ron, said they usually hang
out in lower Kensington by the Somerset El stop where they panhandle for drug
money. Chris, 28, has a beard that’s reminiscent of Francis of Assisi. He looked
quite at home perched on top of a metal recycle bin as he told me that he had
just come from a hospital where he tried to get himself committed. As if to
prove his story, he showed me the hospital Johnny under his shirt. He tried to
commit himself, he says, because he’s tired of life on the streets.
Chris has been on
the streets for 3 years although he says he showers and keeps himself clean
when he visits friends or finds a hospitable spot to wash up. Chris’ friend,
Ron, who has been on the streets for a year, grew up in the Northeast.
Chris says he
misses his family “something awful” though he’s careful to add that his family
problems have nothing to do with his drug addiction. Ron won’t even talk about
his family. His eyes tell me that it’s just too painful to go there.
Both Ron and Chris
love the idea of getting clean. This comes into play when a guy their own age
walks by and hears them talking, then offers Chris a job as a dishwasher for
ten dollars an hour at a local Fishtown eatery, Chris asks how he can apply.
“Online,” the manager says, “It’s easy.” But it’s not easy. How is Chris going
to get access to a computer unless he goes to a city library? Gone are the days
when you could just walk into a place and fill out an application. He would
also have to get clean before he starts work. One of the disadvantages of being
homeless is that you are always losing or getting your state ID stolen. “Well, maybe I’ll see you,” the manager says,
“Remember, ten dollars an hour!”
Chris and Ron continue to talk about making
ten dollars an hour long after the manager leaves. Chris says he would save his
money and find a “nice place to live” but Ron doesn’t say much. Perhaps Ron sees
that housing in today’s world is just too expensive for people with low income
jobs.
We are joined by a homeless man with a black
eye (he just had a fight with his girlfriend) who’s pushing around a set of
golf clubs.
The scene is
becoming as bizarre as an independent foreign movie.
The man trying to sell golf clubs obviously
stole them. At least that’s what Chris thinks. “Who golf’s in Port Richmond,”
he says. “Nobody here wants golf clubs!” Chris is right, of course. Port Richmond
and Fishtown have nothing in common with Haverford or Bryn Mawr. Besides which,
the clubs look like really cheap golf clubs. “This might work if they turned Cione
Park
The man with the clubs dusts off all the knobby
tops like they are Lions Club trophies. He looks around the parking lot for potential
buyers but there are only a few people headed to their cars drinking Big Gulps
and ten Puerto Rican kids riding by on bicycles with their front tires in the
air. The golf guy reluctantly shoulders the clubs and leaves but no sooner does
this happen than he’s replaced by a pretty woman with braided hair in green camouflage
pants and a corded vest that must have once been on the racks at Nordstrom’s. .
She has a striking profile and, together with
Chris—after a hot shower and a pedicure—they could make a living as Calvin
Klein models. The girl sits down by the front door with her change cup as
another homeless person comes up from the rear. I ask Chris if this is some
kind of homeless convention and if he knows any of these people. He shakes his
head no. The newcomer carries a triple tiered knapsack straight out of the
Apollo Moon Landing. It’s a wonder he can move under its weight. There isn’t
enough time to get his story, but I introduce myself anyway and tell him that I
am gathering stories.
The whole world
seems to have gone Mad Max. Suddenly
there are more homeless people at this convenience store than there are
customers, but I’m glad the police aren’t chasing them away. Still, I can
empathize with the police: if 100 homeless people came here, would that be good
for business? I think not.
Life gets stranger
when another homeless man approaches and asks if anybody has a cigarette. He’s
a tall guy with a scar on his right arm and, lighting up after finding a butt
on the ground, tells Chris and Ron (the girl won’t join us) his story. He says
he’s the only person to ever survive jumping off the Ben
Franklin Bridge
Ambrose Bierce
couldn’t invent stories like this, but what I’m telling you is true.
He lifts his shirt
up and shows everyone the scar on his stomach from the operations he’s had
since he jumped. Everyone wants to know how he survived the long drop to the
water. He says he lost consciousness immediately after jumping and “woke up”
underwater with his shoes planted in the mud on the bottom of the river.
Somehow he managed to free himself and swim up to the surface where he saw a
patrol boat. Lucky for him, the people on the patrol boat saw him jump, so they
were ready. He says all the nurses and the doctors at the hospital call him the
Bionic Man whenever he goes for checkups.
Surviving two or
three years as a homeless person in the city is an endurance test of the
highest order. But if there’s anything “good” about being homeless, it’s this:
If ever there’s a world calamity, it will be the homeless who will lead the way
because they’ve had so much practice surviving on the streets. They will become
survival mentors for the rest of us, showing us how to pitch a cardboard tent
in an alley, how to make a bed out of newspapers, how to brush your teeth with
your index finger, or how to select “safe” dumpster food from the nasty stuff.
They will be the
masters of the new age.
