Scratch Beginnings

by Adam Shepard

  Diane was waiting for me at the bus stop across the street, barking to the moon about how her boyfriend had left her for his homosexual lover. Six years ago. She didn’t care that she owed me 48¢, but she was grateful for my courtesy nonetheless. When I inquired about the location of the homeless shelter, she invited me to come home with her for the evening. As intriguing as her invitation sounded, “Naw, I’ll try my luck on the streets,” sounded even better. A bus ride was not in my budget, and Diane had no idea where the shelter was, so I left her in her stupor and continued down Rivers.

  I walked across the street and asked a half-asleep police officer whose patrol car was positioned in a speed trap if he could direct me to the nearest shelter. He seemed bewildered that I was not concerned about the eight-mile walk to get there.

  “Straight down Rivers, right on Reynolds, left on Meeting. The shelter will be on your right. You really should take the bus,” he said.

  I expected that he’d offer me a ride, and my enthusiasm began to grow; but before my expectations became too high, a “lady of the night” approached the car, and the officer greeted her by name. She told him that people were talking about me and that I probably should get going to wherever I was going. Neither of them appeared interested in hearing my fabricated story about my deadbeat dad or my druggie mom or how I came to arrive in Charleston in the first place. Fair enough. I wasn’t their problem, so I continued down Rivers.

  Three people had asked me for money so far, as I’m sure they would have done with any newcomer to the neighborhood. One guy, Joe, spent five minutes telling me his life story (birth to present) before he asked, “So I guess what it all really means is…Can I get a dollar so I can get something to eat?” He didn’t appear happy with my refusal, and I imagine word was starting to spread that I was a financial miser. But I had no other option. A dollar here and a dollar there would exhaust my start-up capital very quickly.

  My visibility became impaired as the streets became more obscure the farther I walked. When I reached the Church’s Chicken at the corner of Reynolds and Rivers, I made a conscious decision that my trek on foot would have to end there. I couldn’t see thirty feet to the right or left, and groups were huddled together in front of me, so I wasn’t going to continue walking that way. My endeavor was serious, but it wasn’t that serious. Conveniently, I stood in front of a bus stop anyway, so I decided that it would be wise to give in and take the ride downtown.

  I took a seat on the cement bench that served as the waiting area for the bus.

  “Hey man, how’s it goin’?” a man standing by the stop asked with great enthusiasm. Assuming he was after the same thing as everyone else that had approached me, I replied, “Well. I’m doing well. Listen man, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money.”

  And then began his tirade.

  “What the hell are you thinkin’ about muh’ fucka’? I din’t ask you fo’ no money! I said, ‘How’s it goin’?’ I din’t mention a damn thing about no money! Why you stereotypin’ and thinkin’ I want money?”

  “Whoa, man. Chill out.” Our initial dialogue was so overwhelming that I thought he was kidding. “I promise you I’m not stereotyping. It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that what muh’ fucka’?” He cut me off. “It’s just that what? You see me come up here and try to talk to you and you think I want money? Is that it?”

  Some of his friends sitting across the street in front of the gas station were really excited about my appearance in their neighborhood. Country comes to town. They decided the time was right for them to chime in. “Get ’im, D! Get that muh’ fucka’! He ain’t got nuttin’ on you!”

  Their words were still echoing in my head as I weighed my options. I could unleash my fury and start pounding him, which appeared to me at the time, and even more so now, both unintelligent and unlikely. My story very well could have ended on page six. Or, I could try to reason with him.

  “Easy…D. Listen, buddy.” Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I was almost pleading. “I promise you I’m not stereotyping. Three guys have already asked me for money tonight, and I just wanted to let you know up front that I didn’t have any.”

  He didn’t seem to care. He began to circle me like a lion preparing to pounce on his prey. His face was fuming, and his mouth was foaming. I stood up to take defense. He couldn’t wait for me to say the wrong thing, but I wasn’t going to.

  “Check this out, D,” I said, trying to reason with him and quick. “My pockets are a little light right now, but the next time I come up this way, I can assure you that my wallet will be fat, and we’ll go get something to eat.”

  My attempt at reasoning was simply fueling his fire.

  “You don’t get it. I don’t want your friggin’ money, you—”

  As if I was being dealt my lone get-out-of-jail-free card, I spotted the bus coming down the street. It was the most reassuring sight throughout the course of my experience in Charleston. Was I scared to fight D? No. Was I scared to fight D on that side of town? Damn right.

  My impending battle with D ended just as swiftly as it had begun. The bus slowed to a stop in front of us as I was trying to prolong our encounter with small talk. Another thirty seconds and my night would have taken a very dramatic turn. I hopped on the bus as D hollered behind me, “Make sure you bring some money next time!”

  I was the only person on the bus, which turned out to be the No. 10 route’s last run for the evening. My $1.25 bus ride was well invested. It rescued me from the streets and also allowed me an opportunity to reflect on the first short leg of my journey, two hours that I had all but prepared for. Was this really Charleston? Where were the million-dollar mansions and the bed-and-breakfasts and the horse-drawn carriages that I’d seen in photos? Where was the market? Gone With the Wind’s producer sure had embellished his portrayal of the southern bourgeoisie. What exactly had I gotten myself into?

  The ride took fifteen minutes and the driver dropped me off right in front of the shelter.

  Though dimly lit, the shelter was much more pleasant looking than the surrounding buildings. To the left of the shelter stood a convenience store barred shut to protect against late-night intruders, while a series of abandoned warehouses stretched to the right. The trash littered throughout the rest of the neighborhood was noticeably absent in and around the shelter’s common area. Two large trees greeted guests to the shelter and they were surrounded by a yard abounding with bushes and monkey grass. I thought I might have spotted a weed creeping out of the mulch, but I was probably mistaken.

  Welcoming me at the front door was a large white sign with red and black lettering designating my location: Crisis Ministries, 573 Meeting Street. I rang the doorbell.

  No answer.

  I rang again and waited. Still no answer.

  I knocked gently on the door and steadily increased to a full-force pounding. A lady yelled from across the street that they were closed.

  Closed? I couldn’t even think of a witty response. How could the shelter close?

  “They stop taking people at nine. You gotta show up at seven thirty if you wanna get in.” For $10 she said I could stay the night at her place. Once again, an intriguing offer for inexpensive lodging that I quickly refused. On the streets, confrontations were in the open. Behind closed doors, anything could happen and nobody would know.

  Shortly after I had begun to make myself comfortable on one of the two benches outside the shelter door, I spotted someone coming around the corner of the side of the building. Police officer number two for the evening slowly made his way toward me.

  Sergeant Mendoza, his badge read, stood five and a half feet off the ground with an additional two inches as he boasted about his role in serving the guests of Crisis Ministries. I could tell immediately from his demeanor and the austere look on his face that he took his job very seriously. Clean-cut with the walk of someone on a mission—someone with important dealings to tend to—I couldn’t tell if he was thirty-five or
sixty, but his body was built like he was twenty. He had retired as an officer in the army, he explained, and was presently the only officer in the Charleston police force who enjoyed the beat at the shelter.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?” he asked, concerned.

  “Well, uh, uh, yessir. I’m looking for a place to sleep.”

  “Well, uh, uh, do you think you would be more comfortable inside as opposed to sleeping on that four-foot wooden bench?” His wisecrack lightened the mood.

  “Yessir, but I was beating on the door, and the lady across the street told me the shelter was closed.”

  Sergeant Mendoza, who I later discovered was addressed by everyone—his wife included—as “Sarge,” went on to echo the same thing she had told me. Residents are processed from 7:30 to 9:00 unless they have a late worker’s pass. But they had room that evening for one more.

  “You’re on the wrong side of town to be sleeping outside,” he explained. “You won’t make it through the night out here.”

  He led me inside the shelter, into the place that I would call home for the next seventy days.

  After double-checking with Harold, the front desk clerk, to make sure there was room enough for one more person, Sarge gave me the okay that we would find a place for me to sleep. If I had known about the sleeping arrangements at that moment, I would have known what a joke that was. There’s always room for one more at Crisis Ministries.

  After the initial registration process (“Fill this out,” “Sign here,” etc.) and a background check that returned no outstanding warrants, Sarge led me to a back room for part one of my orientation. What could have easily been a fifteen-minute crash course on How to Survive in a Homeless Shelter was stretched into an hour-and-a-half seminar that included an overview of the shelter, facts, statistics, a bathroom break, and even a one-man skit on how to let somebody cut me in line. “You might be called a sissy,” I was informed, “but being a sissy is better than seeing a fight break out in here. Please, we don’t need any more heroes in here.” I was beginning to think that Sergeant Mendoza was extending our late-night session in an effort to relieve his own boredom, but I didn’t care. I was mesmerized by my current situation, my entrance into a world saturated with dormancy, druggies, and deadbeat dads. A world loaded with potential but short on ambition. A world of independence—free from responsibility—where each day would be mine to seize, or, if I chose, to squander. High hopes for someone with only $23.27 left.

  Sarge continued his spiel, detailing the three different types of people I would find in the shelter, the ABCs: the mentally afflicted, the bums, and the victims of circumstance. Without hearing my story (which I was more than prepared to relay to anyone who would listen), he assumed that I was an innocent victim of circumstance. He, like everybody else, didn’t care to hear how I happened upon his front steps, but he explained that Crisis Ministries had the resources necessary to get me back on my feet.

  He went on to discuss a variety of issues that were not to be disregarded carelessly by an outsider like myself.

  Lesson 1: Don’t use the blankets from the floor; you’ll get scabies. I told him that my sleeping bag had a built-in inflatable pillow, but he was not impressed.

  Lesson 2: Keep your valuable belongings with you at all times. Things have a way of disappearing around here. I had already planned on it.

  Lesson 3: Some of the guys might bother you or try to hit on you; ignore them and walk away. All righty.

  Lesson 4: Don’t go to work for the day-labor agencies; you’ll get screwed. Go to the employment agency on Lockwood and get a real job. Cool.

  Before he took me on the tour of my new domain, he had to take a few minutes to respond to a resident who wasn’t feeling well. I took his absence as an opportune moment to read through the Men’s Shelter Rules and Regulations.

  * * *

  All guests must complete a TB test with the nurse at the shelter (regardless of your last testing date) within five days of coming to the shelter. Failure to do so will result in eviction until the test is completed.

  All guests are required to attend orientation with the Intake Coordinator and to work individually with a case manager in order to receive additional case management services.

  Guests may not have alcohol or other drugs in their possession in the Shelter or on the Crisis Ministries’ property.

  Disrespecting and/or cursing the staff, volunteers, or other guests will not be tolerated. Fighting, stealing, or other violent behavior may result in immediate ban from the Shelter.

  No smoking in the Shelter. Smoke breaks are at 9:00 P.M. and 10:30 P.M.

  All guests are required to shower on a daily basis.

  Guests who choose not to spend the night at the Shelter will not be allowed to eat breakfast, to change clothes, or to be assigned to the Clean-Up Crew.

  Chores will be assigned in the A.M. and P.M. by the Shelter staff. All guests are asked to participate in the clean up of the Shelter at some point. Failure to complete a chore will result in the appropriate consequence.

  All guests’ bags should be labeled. Crisis Ministries will not be responsible for lost or stolen items.

  Chairs are the property of Crisis Ministries and are not to be removed from the building.

  Crisis Ministries has a minimal number of lockers for rent for residents who reside on the premises regularly. All locker transactions are held between the hours of 5:00 A.M. and 7:00 A.M. only; the morning assistant will assist you at the front desk. Locker rental fee is $1 per week.

  * * *

  On the back was a list of the Daily Schedule.

  * * *

  Wake up is at 5:15 A.M. All cots and mattresses must be picked up and put away by 5:45 A.M. on weekdays. Wake up is delayed an hour on weekends and holidays.

  Breakfast is served at 6:00 A.M. on weekdays and 7:00 A.M. on weekends and holidays.

  Everyone is expected to leave the building at 7:00 A.M. on weekdays and 8:00 A.M. on weekends and holidays unless a time change is deemed necessary by the staff.

  Lunch is served in the Soup Kitchen from 11:30 A.M. until 12:30 P.M. Monday through Saturday and 12:30 P.M. until 1:30 P.M. on Sunday. Shelter guests will be allowed in the Soup Kitchen for the first thirty minutes of lunch, and then the kitchen is open to the community.

  The Clean-Up Crew checks in at 7:00 P.M., and all other guests will enter at 7:30 P.M., at which time dinner will be served. All drinks and food are to be confined to the dining area, and no food is to be stored in bags, lockers, or the dormitory.

  Guests checking in after 9:00 P.M. must have a late worker’s pass or permission from their case manager.

  Guests may do their laundry at the discretion of the staff and their ability to monitor the laundry/cubby room.

  Lights are turned off at 10:00 P.M. Television is turned off at 11:30 P.M.

  * * *

  When Sarge returned, he took me on the promised tour of the grounds. We started outside so we could “save the best for last.” Behind the Men’s Shelter, to the left of the shelter for women and children, he pointed out two crack houses that were operating in full force. He showed me the line not to cross—out of bounds for all shelter residents.

  “If I catch you on the other side of this line, you are evicted from the shelter for three days,” he scolded, respectful yet stern.

  He used his electronic passkey to gain reentry to the building through the back door, which took us through the Transitional Dormitory. It was very nice, elegant, almost. This was the suburb of the shelter, the “Hamptons” to the inner-city lifestyle of the shelter on the other side of the wall. Just as the name would suggest, it reminded me of life in my college dorm with an added European youth hostel feel. There were fourteen cubicles in one huge room, each cubicle complete with a bed, a chest of drawers, and plenty of storage space. There was a TV area with sofas and two computers sitting on top of black wooden desks lining the back wall. A mini-fridge stood next to the TV with a microwave on top. What struc
k me as particularly odd was how clean and tidy everything was. The floor was not dusty, the magazines on the coffee table were not flung all over the place, and it didn’t smell anything like what I had anticipated. Sarge explained that through a graduated program I could work my way up to live in the Trans-Dorm, although I later learned that veterans of the military are given preferential treatment, so, regardless of my rank on the waiting list, my chances of being accepted to live in the Trans-Dorm were slim.

  And then we walked through a back door and into the general population section of the shelter.

  Disgusting. Reaching the immediate conclusion that daily showers were not enforced, my first instinct was to pull my shirt over my nose in order to extinguish the reeking stale body odor, but I didn’t want to give off the impression that I was a softy before I even truly began my journey. Nonetheless, I was nauseated.

  The expansive room was noticeably plain, with its white walls and white tile floors. No pictures; no decorations; no furnishings. The floor was lined with two rows of mattresses on each side of a four-foot divider wall that split the room in half. It was nearly 1:30 A.M., so nobody was awake, although a few people rolled and moaned in their sleep. And the snoring. Oh, God, the snoring. There’s nothing harmonious about the chorus of a room full of men snoring in unison. My college roommate snored like a warthog choking on his tonsils, so you could say I was used to it, but ninety-plus roommates added a different dimension.

  Sarge walked me through the dining area, which was also jam-packed with sleepers. Now I knew why there was always room for one more at Crisis Ministries: if there’s no room over here, then there’s probably room over there.