When I saw three parking lots in close proximity, I quickly ruled out the indoor lot. It would have no outbuilding for Pete to occupy. Another lot offered spaces for the adjacent office building, with a gated entrance. Pete’s had to be the open-air parking with a small out-building bordering an alley.
A lot attendant stood sentry in a booth at the entrance. I walked by, close enough to see the sign with hours of operation. The lot would close at ten o’clock in the evening. An inefficient lock sagged over the knob. The only access came from inside the parking area, where the attendant watched. I walked around the corner into the alley at the building’s backside. My lips pressed together in a frown as a heaviness took over my limbs. No place here to rest my head.
I’d head back toward Stanwix Street at five o’clock and try Three Rivers Mission. Perhaps I’d make another connection. I needed more than just Pete. If I couldn’t secure a bed there, I’d come back here after ten to meet up with Pete. I would need to pick up a flashlight with the remains of my $27.50 since the dilapidated shed contained no windows.
Six and a half hours left until the shelter doors opened. I headed in the direction of the bus station, where I could claim a bench. While walking, I began to formulate my plans. Pete should do fine. His constant chatter had given me a start.
At the bus station, I found a bench, stretched my legs out and laced my arms through the straps of my backpack, and dozed. When I woke, I jotted some notes on the pad I kept hidden inside my backpack. I detailed Pete’s appearance, his mannerisms, his loud voice, the cough. I wrote specifics about the personal stories he so freely offered. He had worked in a steel mill at one time. I’d need more information about where and when.
I intended to have my name on at least one of the top awards for excellence in journalism after this project. I set my eyes on the Pulitzer. A few local and less prestigious awards hung on my wall, but I hungered to be out there among the best, ready for Charles Harrington to see his son with something besides disappointment.
The project wouldn’t be effective unless I lived among people on the street, interacted with them, built relationships. Only then could I collect enough information to develop an outline for my documentary. I would need two more people to provide bios.
Once I left the bus station, a few hours remained before the shelter doors opened at five o’clock. I walked Penn Avenue toward the Three Sisters’ bridges. Crossing the Roberto Clemente Bridge to the Northside offered a change of scenery and an impressive view of PNC Park. I found a grassy square that provided a good place to watch people coming and going, where I could enjoy some green space in the middle of a cement world. A street vender sold hot pretzels from a colorful cart. I dug through my backpack and pulled out a dollar.
“I’ll have a pretzel, please.”
He reached in the canopied stand with a napkin, produced a lukewarm pretzel, and handed it to me.
“Thanks. Are you always in this location?”
He tucked my dollar bill in a leather pouch secured around his waist. “Everyday.”
“Does this area get many homeless people? Do they camp out here at night?”
He eyed my frayed jeans. “Not up here. There are what we call Bridge People that have a little homeless community under the railway trestle on East Street. You can find them there at night, but some hang around all day. Guy calling himself Rocko comes by sometimes when I’m closing up and takes the leftover cold pretzels. If you’re looking for a place to stay, find Rocko and tell him I sent you.”
I tipped my head. “Thanks. I just might do that.”
Wrought iron benches had been placed in sporadic fashion throughout the grassy park. I chose one that provided a wide view.
The pretzel’s salt awakened my mouth, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I savored each bite. Large oaks evidenced how long this green expanse had been protected from city expansion. A few green leaves left their branches behind and floated to the grass, beating the autumn deluge that would come in a few weeks.
When the brightness dimmed and the wind picked up, I started my return trip to the downtown area. As I made my way back across the bridge before darkness surrounded it, the September air turned cool, and I walked into the wind. It swept over the open bridge, intensified by moving traffic. Wind stung my ears, along with the whoosh of cars speeding by and an occasional honk from an impatient driver. With my head down, I held tight to the front of my jacket with the broken zipper and turned my collar up.
The visit across town proved to be costly. I had nothing but time on my hands, yet it sneaked past the five o’clock deadline. When I arrived, the shelter was full. I didn’t mind since I still needed information for Pete’s profile. I’d join him in the little vacant storage shed.
I revisited the diner where we had lunch. The low cost accommodated my skimpy stash. Ten o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. After I ate, I hung out around the parking garage like a voyeur, watching the cars coming and going, careful not to stand under the streetlight. No need to call attention to myself. Very few cars remained in the lot, but the gate attendant continued to the end.
Finally, the lights went out in the gatehouse, and the attendant slid into his own car. Turning it toward the exit, his headlights came on and the car disappeared into the line of vehicles exiting the city. I waited about five more minutes just in case he returned for something. Crossing the street, I strode over to the outbuilding like I belonged there and opened the door.
When the door creaked open, whatever rodents had been disturbed scratched and scurried their way to safety. A musty smell of damp wood assaulted my nostrils with its foul odor. I hit the switch on my brand new two-dollar flashlight. Pete and D.J. were already there and sound asleep! How the heck did they get in here? I’d be sure to ask in the morning.
As accommodations went, this turned out to be a miniscule step up from under the bridge. It offered a windbreak from the cold and a semblance of privacy, but comfort proved to be illusive. Pete, on the other hand, slept on what appeared to be an exercise mat. Something he either found or kept here.
Finding a clearing on the wood floor, I pulled out my cardboard and blanket and puffed my backpack for a pillow. D.J.’s eye opened, a decided frown swept across his mouth, and his eye closed again. I lay my aching legs down for what I hoped would be a full night’s sleep.
~*~
Exhaustion was the only explanation for falling asleep so quickly. A few hours of deep sleep were followed by a restless slumber until fissures of daylight shone through the ill-fitted door. There was no sign of D.J., and Pete was still out cold. An empty bottle of Black Eagle Bourbon lay beside him. I tried to peer through the slender gap. What time did the lot open? Since no one was in the booth, it would be better to get the heck out of there before I became trapped inside.
Pete didn’t budge when I creaked the door open on its rickety hinges or when the blast of cold entered with the hazy morning light. I slipped out and hustled away from the empty lot, heading toward St. John’s and a hot cup of coffee.
Well into my pancakes and second cup of coffee, Pete and D.J. walked in.
“Morning, Pete. Morning D.J. I joined you in your vacant shed last night, but you were out cold.”
Pete grinned. “That I was, Scotty.”
D.J., as usual, had no reply. He knew I’d been there since he had to step around me to leave in the morning.
“So, Pete, how’d you get in there with the parking lot attendant watching? I waited until he left before I sneaked in.”
Pete’s wide grin caused his bloodshot eyes to dance with light. “It’s all in the timin’, Scotty. All in the timin’.”
Well, that told me nothing.
Taking a long drink of my coffee, I set it down and stabbed a fork into one of my pancakes. “So, Pete, you worked in a steel mill? Which one?”
“Weren’t here in Pittsburgh. That was when I was living in Johnstown. Most of the boys headed to the steel mill when we was old enough to get in
.” Pete’s thick Pittsburgh dialect distorted the words, but I’d lived here long enough to work through it.
“You were pretty young? How long did you work in the mill?”
Pete cackled a laugh. “Not too long, Scotty. Them were hot, dirty days. Got me outta there as soon as I could.”
Pete didn’t need much encouragement. I brought fresh ears to hear his old stories. Boisterous and animated, he didn’t answer my direct questions but went off on a rabbit trail-of-a-tale about missing his stop on a boxcar and finding himself in Weirton, West Virginia, having to hitchhike with truckers to make his way back to Pittsburgh.
As I listened, I tried to imagine Pete in another life. Did he have a wife or kids? What else had he done? I peppered a few questions his way, but his responses always included a cackling laugh and vague information.
“Me? I done me a whole load of different jobs in my life. You should’a seen me when I tried my hand at weldin’ stuff together. That was a jiagunda fire.” He laughed until a coughing fit took over.
I searched his eyes and his exaggerated red cheeks, looking for a younger man. How old might Pete be? Seventy? Maybe not as old as he looked. The bottle could add years to a face.
My attention turned to the left. I tuned out Pete’s latest escapade to ponder the man called D.J. He hadn’t spoken a word or made eye contact with me or anyone else. He looked younger than Pete. I wanted to say early fifties, but even as I entertained that number, I suspected I had it inflated. Graying hair veined through a light shade of brown. The thinning of his hair created an endless forehead that rested over his deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. A Ralph Lauren dark green polo, once high quality, now exposed a rip at the shoulder and frays near the hem. He’d been on the streets for quite a while and hadn’t weathered it well.
Let’s see if the silent man does more than grunt. “So D.J., how about you? What did you do before you hit on hard times?”
If I surprised him by being so forward, he showed no sign. He also lingered before responding, raising his head from its unremitting downward position. Just about the time I had given up hope of getting an answer, he spoke. “I played the numbers.”
His eyes turned and challenged me. I let it drop from there. I had a small piece of his story. He’d been a gambler.
Pete gathered up his trash. “Let’s get a’movin’ fellers.”
Yesterday, D.J. had not joined him for panhandling, but this time he stood to leave. Hurrying to keep up with Pete’s swift movement, I followed him to the same corner, watching to see what D.J. would do. He claimed his own bus stop bench short of Pete’s corner but showed no sign of doing anything but sitting. Before I left Pete to find my own corner, I inquired.
“Does your buddy panhandle? I don’t see him getting anything ready?”
“D.J.? Naw. He says he got everything he needs.”
I dug a little deeper. “He’s a strange one. Eyes a little dark, you know. Kinda scary.”
“Naw. Don’t you go worryin’ none ‘bout D.J. He got a lot of stuff to be thinkin’ about. Gotta think it outta his self, that’s all.”
I arched my eyebrow. “What kinda stuff?”
Pete fluttered his hand to motion me away from his space. “Just D.J. stuff. Now get on outta my corner. See you at the diner.”
With that, Pete sat down and pulled out his sign. I started to walk away when he called. As I glanced over my shoulder, he tossed me the extra sign. A lady crossed the street, holding the hand of a young child, a girl around five or six. She skipped, her mass of blonde curls bouncing. D.J.’s eyes fixed on the little girl, his expression impossible to define. A prickly cold crept over me. I shook off a shiver and continued to my panhandling spot.
~*~
The endless hours of wandering the streets could make a person go crazy. I planned to be at the shelter on Stanwix in time to get dinner and a bed. I needed to make more connections. In the meantime, with hours to kill, I had a craving for a coffee. Glancing to make sure Pete and D.J. weren’t around, I slipped into the coffee shop and took a seat in the far back.
Sipping my caramel macchiato and eating a blueberry scone would’ve felt routine if only I’d had my laptop. Instead, I took out the old notebook from the bottom of my backpack. As a visual person, I did better seeing things in writing, creating a flowchart, sequencing steps. I would follow three people from their early life to homelessness. What happened? Where did things break down? What distanced them from the other people in their earlier lives? Parents. Siblings. How effective were government programs and non-profits? If I pulled off what I hoped to accomplish, I would pull my audience into each story. Each of the three men would come alive and become real to the readers. A few life changes one way or the other and that might have been them.
Pete would be one of the three. An early evening in the vacant parking lot storage might be helpful. The bourbon should make him loose-lipped. But I needed three bios in the documentary. D.J. obviously had a story, but could I crack that exterior? Also, a gambler wouldn’t carry the same level of reader compassion … and his fixation on the little girl disturbed me. No, I wouldn’t choose D.J.
An increase in traffic noise broke into my deep concentration. Horns honked, bus stops filled. It had been two hours. I’d overstayed. Throwing my notebook into the bottom of my backpack, I stopped at the door to make sure Pete and D.J. were nowhere in sight. I still had to protect my cover, and impoverished men didn’t choose coffee shops that sold five-dollar espresso drinks
Sprinting back to Stanwix Street, I joined the line creeping toward the door, hoping to gain entrance. Two days in a row I had misjudged my time. Right before the doors closed, shutting me out, I saw a familiar form. The kid in the hoodie from the Tenth Street Bridge. The one with the bulging backpack. He made it through the door before the FULL sign appeared, shutting me out. A destitute teen would be certain to hold human interest. I’d attempt to cross paths with him again.
How does a teenage kid end up in a place like this? Couldn’t he go to his parents for help? I exhaled a deep breath as my father came to mind. What would he say if he saw me inching my way up a food line? My mother would try to hide that information from her socialite friends. My father would try to find someone to sue. I smiled as I imagined them looking at my photo holding the Pulitzer. Would that finally be enough?
~*~
I hadn’t planned a trip home until the following week, but when I missed the shelter, I decided to do a short overnight in the comfort of my own bed. There would have been benefits to spending the evening with Pete, but the parking lot outbuilding didn’t include the luxury of a shower, and I’d become offensive.
Happy to leave the city behind for a brief reprieve, a slight twinge of guilt reminded me that Pete and D.J. didn’t have that option. I claimed a seat at the far back of the bus heading toward Sewickley. We stopped on Church Street, and I exited, making the easy walk to Stella’s to pick up a Greek chicken salad to go. A block from my home, Stella’s Café offered a touch of panache in the lazy little town with its quaint shops and outside dining.
Bells jingled when I opened the door, announcing the arrival of a customer. Some unknown teen worked the checkout counter. I asked for Stella just as she walked through the swinging door from the kitchen.
“I’ve been late coming in because I’m taking care of some schmuck’s dog while he plays make believe.”
I chuckled. She mastered wordplay to the envy of many a writer. With her blond hair bound in a tight knot and covered with netting, she held a tray of desserts for the display case near the door. Effective marketing tool. Everyone coming and going would walk past the cannoli, triple layer chocolate cake, and lemon meringue pie.
I held open the door to the pie keeper, not sure how her slender frame held the tray and balanced it with one hand.
“Admit it, Stel. You love that dog like she’s your own baby.”
“The dog’s great. It’s the owner that’s two degrees left of normal. I gather you hav
en’t been home to say hello to your shower. You finished in the city?”
“Not by a long shot. Just for the night. I have to go back tomorrow, but I’d love to have a Greek chicken salad and take my favorite girl home with me tonight.”
With the tray empty, she rubbed powdered sugar from her hands onto her splattered apron.
“Sorry, buddy. I’ve got to work.”
I humored her. “Well then, I’ll settle for second favorite. Can I let myself into your place and take her?”
“Mi casa es su casa. You’ve got the key.”
“Thanks, Stel. I’ll put her back before I head into the city in the morning. I owe you.”
“Yeah, about forty times now you owe me. Think up something big.”
With my salad in hand, I turned to walk out the door, pausing when she called after me. “Hey, be careful out there.”
4
Claire Bassett
The generic bedroom did nothing to identify the occupant, male or female, young or old. Nothing to hint at hobbies, interests, or even color preferences. The nondescript white walls and tan window blinds posed a stark contrast to the children’s bedroom. Their room had served as my mother’s guest room, decorated for the cover of a home interior magazine before we converted it to a kid’s room. Mine had been overflow storage. The only decorative item was a sepia picture of Bradley, Kevin, and me as children.
I squeezed the last of my clothing into a drawer and forced it shut, a knot settling in my stomach. Twin bed, dresser, nightstand, and a tiny closet. From one spot in the room, I could touch each of those items. An open tray table beside my bed held my laptop. It would serve as my make-shift office.
Dad poked his head through the opened doorway. “You have enough room in here, Claire Bear?”
I smiled. His old nickname for me reached beyond my despair. I was the middle child and only girl. When I was young, Dad would come home from his day of teaching, scoop me into his arms, and ask, “How’s my little Claire Bear today?” As a teenager, I’d give him my exasperated sigh when he called me that in front of my friends. I never told him that I really loved hearing that nickname.
The Least of These. Page 3