by Adam Shepard
That first night we watched Crank starring Jason Statham and Amy Smart. It was a new release—in theaters—and somewhere in between the sound fading in and out and one of the people in the theater on the screen getting up to go to the bathroom, I realized that I was watching my first bootlegged film ever. And it wouldn’t be my last. One of the guys was scoring pirated copies of a wide variety of feature films from a guy around the corner for just $5, and we were reaping the benefits. One time he even took up a collection so that he could purchase a “package deal” of the illegal discs for our viewing pleasure.
Call me crazy, but those are the times I’ll never forget. When I’m eighty and sitting in a wheelchair at a retirement home in Florida with little or no control of my bladder, and the nurses are talking about how that old Mr. Shepard is “ringy as a pet ’coon,” I’ll be sitting back remembering those nights at the shelter. Those times when I was just hanging out with the fellas, sipping on warm soda, munching on stale cookies, and watching bootlegged movies. Down and out, back to the wall, can’t get any worse. Not a nickel to our name, nowhere to go but up. Too cliché? That’s what we were! Looking around the dark room, I couldn’t help but admire the stark complexity of our situation. We sat on the bottom rung of all social and economic ladders, and we knew it. We knew we sucked. Yet there we were, gathered together in the dining room slash living room slash auxiliary sleeping quarters of Charleston’s premier homeless shelter, our eyes transfixed on the TV screen, wondering whether or not the hit man Chev Chelios would stay alive long enough to settle the score with his nemesis. And on Friday, we could get up and either go to work, or we could sit out in the yard, insignificant to the rest of the world, and wait until noon when it was time for the volunteers to serve us lunch. But eventually we would all “get it”; whether it was that Friday or ten Fridays from then, eventually we would all wake up and realize that we were tired of the meaningless monotony of our lives, and that it was time for us to get going on living. Either that, or our allowed year at the shelter would run out, and we would be dismissed to the streets. Then, we would really get it.
Six thirty in the morning was the best part of my day, every day. No doubt about it. I was awake, I was clean, I was fed, and as the warm breeze hit my face when I walked out the front door of the shelter, I knew the day was mine. It was also reassuring to think that most of the rest of the people in the country were still sleeping or rolling out of bed while I was already out and about, getting a jump-start on the rest of my life.
Plus, this particular day was Friday. Everybody loved Friday, even if it meant another day at the labor agency performing crappy jobs for people who didn’t give a crap about us. And that’s where I was headed.
Even in the early morning, it was an ambitious walk, safety-wise, but it was my only option if I wanted to work that day. The EasyLabor van didn’t come to the shelter every day. Angela from EasyLabor had explained that Saturdays could be busy or slow, so I figured I’d work on Friday for a few bucks to go job hunting over the weekend.
EasyLabor had an abundance of construction tickets, so I went out on the first one that had a vacant spot. It happened to be located downtown on Cannon Street where they were turning a block of three-story houses into apartments, so I passed on the opportunity to ride the van and opted to take the two-mile walk. It was just after 7:00, and the ticket said to arrive at 8:00, so I knew I could make it there in time. That is, if I didn’t get lost. Which, of course, I did. Well, I don’t know if you would call it getting “lost” since I knew where I was, I knew where I was supposed to be, and I had passed by the construction site three times before another worker from EasyLabor came walking along and showed me exactly where to go. At least I had one more guy to be late with instead of arriving solo.
Ken, the foreman at the site, didn’t seem to care that we were late. He handed us each a shovel and gloves and pointed to a pile of dirt. “That pile needs to be spread over there. Take your time, though,” he said as he squinted up at the sun. “It’s gonna be hot as balls out here today.” Unlike other construction jobs, he apparently didn’t have a budget to adhere to, so he didn’t hang around to monitor our progress. In fact, I didn’t see Ken again until 12:30 when I went searching for him to ask if we could take a lunch break. He was on the backside of the roof instructing the subcontractors on what needed to be done to build the window arch over the third floor.
“Sure, take a break,” he said. “Take all the time you need. Just make sure that dirt pile is moved!”
Which it was. In fact, our work had been completed for over an hour. I had wanted to go find Ken after we finished, but my partner commanded me to relax for a while, and his body mass told me not to upset him. But then hunger pangs had begun to rumble in my stomach, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I devoured two packs of peanut butter crackers and three cans of Vienna Sausage before I realized that I would need to ease up a bit in order to stretch my personal supply of food as long as possible. If my work ethic was going to be the superhuman power behind the success of my journey, it was looking like my appetite was going to be my kryptonite.
The EasyLabor crew on this particular job was five strong, three men and two women. The other three had been hauling cinder blocks from the first floor to the second floor all morning. Even though they had established an efficient system of getting the blocks upstairs, they still had nearly two hundred blocks left. I felt bad that they had been working hard while we hadn’t really done anything meaningful, but that was a moot point. We spent the rest of the afternoon on those two hundred blocks. It was hot, damn hot, and humid, and the cooler of water that Ken had supplied had been empty since ten. We each took turns at the water hose in between trips up the narrow flight of stairs with a cinder block in each hand. None of us were afraid of hard work, but we also knew the effects that the sweltering heat could have on anyone that didn’t remain hydrated.
Ken had disappeared to the hardware store by the time we finished, so we had to wait around for twenty minutes until he returned. While he was gone, I started a conversation with George, one of the neighbors who also happened to own the three buildings that we were working on. We discussed sports, Charleston, sports in Charleston (a short conversation), and Ken’s impending bout of unemployment. Evidently there had been a budget for Ken to follow, and he had already exceeded it.
George invited us all back to the construction site on Sunday to do some work on the side, and I told him that I would be there bright and early.
“Easy, kid,” he said. “It’s Sunday. Go ahead and sleep in.”
I explained to him that I was staying at the shelter on Meeting Street and that we weren’t exactly afforded the indulgence of sleeping in, but that I could come whenever he wanted. With newfound interest on his part, we settled on 10:00 Sunday morning.
Ken finally returned to sign our ticket and with the $5 I saved by walking to work instead of riding the EasyLabor van, I netted $36.48, bringing my total savings to $36.48. I had already purchased all of the essential goods that I needed to survive for a few days, so I didn’t need to stop by Family Dollar on my way back to the shelter.
I was off and running. I had money in my pocket and a smile on my face. I caught up with Marco just before check-in and we shared the day’s stories. Things were getting tenser with his father at home, so it was looking like he was going to be spending more and more time at the shelter, which wasn’t terribly bad news, since I felt we could make the ascent out of the shelter together. Even more on the upside, he had registered for classes for the coming semester at the local community college. Pending the results of his financial aid application, he would be enrolled in a two-year culinary arts program that would put him in a position where he could work his way up to be a chef at any restaurant in Charleston.
Dinner was lasagna—lots of it—and following a shower, I hit the sheets early after a long day of hard work. Angela had again mentioned that she had plenty of jobs for us for the next day, so I decided to
delay my job search yet again. I was overcome with the anxiety of remaining unemployed, sure, but I refused to let those feelings get in the way of the task at hand. The cash that I could earn over the weekend would give me the freedom to implement a serious job search beginning Monday.
FOUR
BIG BABIES
Saturday, July 29
If there was one thing that I liked about working for the temp agency, it was the anticipation and excitement that came each day with each separate job. Sure, the pay sucked, terribly, but every day was a different experience. One day I could be a construction worker, and the next I could be a landscaper or a baby-clothes hanger.
Yep. That’s right. A baby-clothes hanger.
A slew of department stores and retail shops at the newly constructed Regis Outlet Mall in North Charleston were putting the finishing touches on their floor layouts. My first weekend in Charleston happened to be the final weekend before the shopping center’s grand opening, and several stores had received late shipments of their clothing lines, which was great for EasyLabor, as it had scored several contracts with Eddie Bauer, Nike, and an infant clothing store. And it was great for me. I was looking forward to a change in pace from the rigorous outdoor chores I had been performing.
When Angela called out the names of those who would be going to each location (eighteen of us in all, most of whom were shelter residents themselves), I began to realize, to my surprise, that our jobs were never selected based on gender. Six people were going to Eddie Bauer, eight to Nike, and the remaining four of us—all males—were assigned to the infant clothing store.
We piled into cars and the EasyLabor van and traveled twenty minutes to the mall. We were all dropped off in the same location in the back, and we dispersed to our specified locations. None of us had been on that particular ticket before, but we found the store with no problem.
And, of course, nobody was there to meet us. The store was empty, and the lights were off. No worries, though. It was 8:30 and the ticket said for us to start at nine.
But once 9:00 rolled around, I was curious. At 9:30, I was anxious, and at 10, I was heated. The four of us had been sitting around on empty paint buckets or pacing back and forth for ninety minutes in front of the store, while the workers for Eddie Bauer and Nike had been slinging clothes and shoes for an hour.
Just after 10:00, and just before I was preparing to walk to the bus stop to head back downtown, the owner—an older lady drenched in makeup and noticeably overweight—opened the doors. She had her arsenal of full-time employees with her, and she apologized for being late. Traffic, she said.
Traffic? On a Saturday morning in North Charleston. All of you? At the same time? Yeah, OK.
We were upset, the temp crew and I, but we also knew that we were defenseless, forced to succumb to the owner’s beck and call. We were on her time. When she showed up, we did what she told us to do. When she was finished with us, she would discard us just as she would discard an empty canister of lipstick. It was a cruel system, and we felt victimized, but we accepted it. After all, our far less enchanting secondary option was to be without work for the day, and as I said, any work was better than no work.
Motivated by the understanding that I was working my way out of this destitute life, I remained back in the shadows and listened to orders. Our task, hanging the new baby clothes, was elementary and dull: cut the box open, remove a pile of clothes, place them on the correct rack according to size and color, remove the plastic wrapping, throw the plastic away, lather, rinse, repeat as directed. There was nothing exciting about our job that day. I just wanted to get through it.
On top of the monotony of hanging the clothes, we had to deal with the owner and her posse. While we were able to dodge the fussy ladies for parts of the day, it seemed that the owner had delegated power to her cohorts to pick on the day labor crew at their leisure. And they took full advantage of that power. “Would you mind?” was replaced by, “Hey, that doesn’t go there,” and bathroom breaks were awarded with the understanding that we would “Hurry on back now.” Occasionally they would even try to cheerily sneak in condescending orders with, “Hey, Anthony, how’s it going over there, hun? Great…Say, why don’t we converse a little less and work a little more? I believe that goes on that rack over there. All righty? Super.”
As the 1:00 hour approached, they started to rush us. “We have to have these boxes emptied by the time lunch gets here!” Boy, if that didn’t kick me into gear.
Shoot, lunch? Now you’re talking my language, babe. Hand me that box right there. Nope, that one. I’ll tell you what. Let’s get a little system going here. You open boxes and take out the clothes. I’ll remove the plastic.
Lunch? That’s all she needed to say from the beginning!
A half hour later, we had completed an hour’s worth of work. We emptied the last three boxes as the owner signed our ticket for four hours. It had taken some hard bargaining, but we managed to squeeze a little extra time out of her because she had arrived late.
“I’ve called the labor agency, and they’re sending someone to pick you up,” she told us. “You fellas can just wait outside.”
I was pissed. I hated to work hard for that lady in the first place, but I had done it with the idea that we would be munching on pizza or sandwiches by 1:30 instead of the crackers and potted meat that I had packed in my bag. Nope. No lunch. Just a kick out the door.
Adding a little drama to the afternoon, the owner insisted on searching all four of our bags as we exited the store. To me, it wasn’t a fair gesture since all of our bags had been stowed away in a corner while we worked. It seemed like one more opportunity for her to represent her control over us.
I didn’t have a problem with her checking my bag. But Mario did. As we would later find out, he hadn’t stolen anything, but he had had just about enough of the owner’s absolute rule.
“Naw, forget that. You can go ahead and forget about checkin’ my bag. You know good and well I ain’t steal nuthin’ from your stupid store. Ain’t none of your clothes gonna fit me, anyway.”
“April, call security. Tell them we have a shoplifter.”
“Security? Are you serious? Yeah, a’ight. Hey, April, call security. And tell ’em to stop by the Nike store to pick up some running sneakers on their way over here, cuz I’m a fast mother.”
With that he marched out the door—with us in tow. I had just met these guys, but I was learning that if there was one thing you couldn’t touch, it was the chemistry of four poverty-stricken workers standing up against abusive higher power. We never confronted security, but even before he opened his bag later to show us, I knew that Mario hadn’t stolen anything. He couldn’t have. He had been working with me on the other side of the store all day.
Our concern for confronting security waned as we sat around back waiting for the van to come pick us up. And waiting. And waiting. Among many other lessons, I was discovering that few people in my current surroundings had any concern for time. Ann did when it came time to wake us up in the morning, and Harold did when it came time to check us in at night, but the bottom line was that my clock was set on the convenience of everybody else.
After we had waited for an hour, I garnered the nerve to go back in the baby clothing store to ask the owner what the situation was with our ride and if I could perhaps use the phone to call them again.
I couldn’t tell if I was more upset by the fact that she said, “No, they should be on their way,” or if it was the beautiful spread of meats, cheeses, and other sandwich toppings of which there was undoubtedly a surplus. Whatever it was, I lost it. It went a little something like this:
“Y’know what, lady? I’m sorry if this offends you at all, but you suck. And I mean that in the most mature way possible. I mean, here we are, four hardworking men at your service today, and you and the rest of these ladies do nothing but abuse us. You boss us around like we’re just your little servants here to do whatever you want. Sure, maybe that’s what we are,
but that doesn’t give you the right to treat us the way you do. I don’t know what it is with people like you—maybe you think you’re better than the rest of us; maybe you’re trying to vent your own insecurities. Who knows? That’s none of my business. But what is my business is that we came and worked hard for you today, and you treated us like shit. And that’s just not right.”
Even though I clearly did not pose a threat to anyone, I was surprised she even let me finish. By the end of my discourse, my tone had cooled from disrespectful to reasoning as in, Don’t you understand how you’re acting? But her state of mind did not fancy reasoning. She wanted me out.
“April, call security.”
“April, there’s no need. My point’s been made. I’m leaving. But I’m taking some turkey with me. And this roll. And is that honey must—”
“Out!” She was not amused.
In hindsight, I should have grabbed the whole platter and taken it outside to my new friends. I would have been a hero. They would have thrown me on their shoulders and paraded me around like Notre Dame did for Rudy.
I’m not quite sure where my newfound gall had come from. I felt passionately about what I told her, but I never intended to approach her. Before I began my project, I convinced myself that it would be wise for me to maintain a low profile. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself, and I certainly didn’t intend to intrude on a lifestyle that I was, in essence, borrowing.
But then I met the owner of that baby clothing store, and all of those inhibitions washed out the door as my pride sailed in. Just like many of my counterparts, I didn’t care anymore. I had nothing to lose! I began to let myself be me. If I felt something, I said it. If I didn’t have an opinion, I remained silent. I laughed if something was funny and didn’t if it wasn’t. It’s who I was before I embarked on my project, and it’s who I was gonna be throughout the course of my project and beyond. People could either accept it or not. I didn’t care. Hell, what were they gonna do? Not like me? Fine! I’d rather have one friend that respected me for who I was than ten friendships built on faulty foundations. It’s so much more fun that way, too. I didn’t have to be fake or pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. I didn’t have to run around wondering what people thought about me and whether or not they liked me. Take me or leave me, folks.