What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  The Shelter was a mostly windowless brick structure, solid, and industrial. It consumed a full square block in depressed NE, an area probably in some developer’s plan to become prime DC real estate in the near future. Gentrification of city neighborhoods was pushing toward the northeast. As Zoie looked at the building, she wondered how the Shelter would survive the speculative onslaught. It wouldn’t.

  A group of homeless men congregated near the Shelter’s entrance. Their shabby clothes and vacant looks were unmistakable.

  Several men mumbled unintelligible greetings and stepped aside to let Zoie pass. Others extended open palms, seeking change, a dollar, or a cigarette. One man tipped his hat before extending his hand. In New York she’d learned the drill: ignore them if you can. The guilt that plagued her as she passed was quieted by the knowledge that she’d given regular contributions to the two homeless characters who frequented the streets near the Foundation, the men who’d saved her life.

  Close to the Shelter’s entrance, more men were camped on the hard sidewalk, their backs supported by the building’s wall. A lone man slept sprawled across a solitary bench, next to the building. No one seemed to mind that he’d taken the whole bench for himself.

  On any other day, Zoie would have crossed the street to avoid this weird congregation. They were not like the young men whose menacing presence caused trepidation when she passed certain street corners. Neither were they innocuous like the men who gathered to play checkers. She fortified her walk. She was there on official business, there to help. One way to help was to gain more knowledge about their plight in order to be an effective advocate on their behalf.

  Zoie tugged at the cathedral-sized entrance door. It didn’t budge. She tried again, this time with her briefcase bag slung over her shoulder and pulling with two arms. As she angled her foot and leaned into the pull, a dark hand appeared above hers on the door’s handle. Its knuckles strained in a tight grip. With a single pull, the door opened. She caught the weight of the door to keep it open and then looked back to see who had come to her aid. “Thanks,” she said faintly, but her helper had quickly disappeared into the small crowd before she could see him.

  The Shelter’s reception hall had the same industrial feel as the building’s exterior. Its walls were painted a dreadful green, a mixture of mint and swamp, if swamp were a color. Wooden benches, the kind used as church pews, lined the walls. A tall reception desk, like the ones found in police stations, occupied the far end of the hall.

  Zoie headed to the high desk, where a bearded man was busy shuffling papers, unaware of her presence.

  “Excuse me,” she said to get his attention.

  Head down, the bearded man continued to perform what looked like filing.

  She tried again, this time louder. “Excuse me!”

  Again, there was no reaction.

  Frustrated, Zoie raised a fist to bang on the high counter, but before she had a chance, she heard her name called from across the hall.

  “Ms. Taylor. Ms. Taylor?”

  She spun around. “Yes.”

  The call had come from a young man. He looked as if he were in his early twenties. With a quick step, he made his way to where Zoie was standing and extended his hand. “Hello, I’m Tarik,” he said with a voice as upbeat as his smile. “Jahi thought you might be here by now.”

  Tall and thin, he had a runner’s body. Tight, wooly curls drifted over his cocoa-colored forehead. The dark shadows under his black eyes gave him an exotic look. Ethiopian, Zoie guessed, though she’d detected no accent.

  “Have you been waiting long?” he asked.

  “No, I just arrived.” She looked back at the bearded man and wondered what his problem had been.

  As if reading her mind, Tarik said, “You’re wondering about Carl—he’s deaf. We shouldn’t have him solo on the desk, but it’s been a rough week. Several of our volunteers called in sick.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Jahi’s in his office,” Tarik continued. “He’s on a call. I’ll take you there.”

  Tarik headed out of the hall and down a long corridor. Zoie followed a few steps behind, going deeper into a labyrinth of halls and doors. Except for a few posters plastered here and there, the place was void of decoration. The posters warned of AIDS. One portrayed men sharing hypodermics, but a giant X covered the scene. She recognized one poster as the famous food pyramid, the one with bread and pasta as the foundation foods. It was out of date. Somehow the poster seemed absurd in a homeless shelter. While eating healthy was an admirable goal, how about the goal of just eating?

  Zoie was trying to take it all in, but Tarik moved fast. She stretched her legs to keep up with his strides. Many doors lined their path; most were closed. There was no time to look behind them. Their signs read Laundry, First Aid, Social Services, and Legal Aid. Perhaps she would see what was behind these doors as part of her tour.

  Jahi’s office was far from the entrance, deep in the bowels of the place. As they continued down the hall, the place was surprisingly quiet, a quiet broken only by the clicks of her tiny-heeled sandals on the tiled floor. She noticed that Tarik’s soft loafers made no sound. En route she saw a few men shuffling in the halls. They, too, were quiet. But other than those few people, the place seemed deserted. She wanted to ask, where’s everyone? But she didn’t get a chance.

  “Here we are,” Tarik said, stopping at a door with a milky glass pane, with a stencil that read Director. “I hope he’s off the phone.”

  Tarik reached for the knob.

  “Hey! I’m next!” said a man seated on another pew-style bench, the kind she’d seen everywhere. It was as if the place had been furnished after raiding a church. The man making the complaint looked to be in his mid-forties. He was dressed in a faded camouflage t-shirt, black pants, and worn high-top sneakers. He leaned forward and restated his claim. “I’m first. I’ve been waiting.” His furrowed brow signaled that he was not too happy.

  Zoie looked at Tarik, bewildered. “No problem. I can wait,” she said.

  “No. I’ll handle this,” Tarik said before turning to the man. “Frank, what are you doing here? Remember what Jahi told you?”

  With lips in a defiant twist, the man shrugged and looked down the vacant corridor.

  “Frank, are you listening? Jahi said he’d see you only if you wrote down what you wanted to talk about,” said Tarik, his tone stern. “Did you do it?”

  “Humph. I’m not talking to you. You’re not the boss of me. I’m talking to Jahi. What I’ve got to say is important.”

  “Well, if it’s so important, why can’t you remember? Jahi doesn’t have time to waste.”

  To watch Tarik talk to the grown man as if he were talking to a child made Zoie cringe.

  Frank didn’t respond, but his defiant expression transformed into confusion. It was as if he hadn’t comprehended a word of what Tarik had said, as if English were a foreign tongue. With a gentle tug of her arm, Tarik pulled Zoie a few feet away.

  “Ms. Taylor, this is Frank’s usual modus operandi.”

  “Do you really have to treat him like that?” she asked with a challenging tone.

  “I know I sound harsh. Unfortunately, when some of our residents act like children, we have to treat them like children. Frank continually demands to see Jahi.”

  “It must be to tell him something important. Does Jahi ever talk to him?”

  “Sure. But when he’s in Jahi’s office, Frank just freezes.” Tarik shook his head. “He can’t remember what he came to say.”

  “I see,” Zoie said with a sigh.

  “Jahi had to put a stop to it. He told Frank that he’d only see him if he wrote down what he wanted to talk about.”

  “Seems fair.”

  “Except that Frank won’t do it.”

  “I see. Maybe he’s not capable,” Zoie said.

  “I doubt that. I believe Frank used to be a teacher.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Some of our reside
nts have mental challenges. Don’t feel guilty about Frank.”

  “Okay,” she answered with a raised brow, before gesturing with her head and eyes toward Jahi’s door. “Look now.”

  Tarik turned around. Frank had taken up a position in front of Jahi’s door.

  “Frank, move. Go ahead now,” Tarik commanded, shooing the man away. “Go around to the kitchen, and get some lunch.”

  “Can’t. They’re closed. Stopped serving,” Frank grumbled, but he stepped away from the door.

  “Tell whoever is down there that I sent you.” Tarik took out a small pad, scribbled a note, and handed it to Frank. “Give them this. They’ll give you something to eat.”

  Frank read the note and grumbled under his breath. Reluctantly he headed down the hall, in the direction from which Zoie had just come. He looked back at Zoie with a look that made her a little afraid.

  With Zoie behind him, Tarik knocked before opening Jahi’s door.

  Jahi was behind his desk, his combat-booted feet propped on a disarray of paper. His cell phone seemed glued to his ear. He motioned for his visitors to enter.

  Zoie and Tarik entered. There were two chairs in front of the desk, but they chose to stand. Zoie’s eyes scanned the small office. There were more AIDS posters, tattered and yellowing memos tacked to a cork bulletin board, and stacks of files on what looked like a folding table. Jahi sat with his back to a large window, which looked as if it hadn’t been washed in recent years. Through the window’s smudge and haze, Zoie saw what looked like an inner courtyard with a loading dock.

  Zoie could feel Jahi watching her, though he kept the phone close to his ear. He offered an “uh huh” here and there but seemed to be doing more listening than talking.

  “Okay, we can talk more later. I’ve got to go,” said Jahi, finally ending his phone conversation. Then he jumped up to greet his visitors. “Ms. Taylor, welcome to Mahali Salaam.”

  Zoie extended her hand for a business handshake, but Jahi took her hand and held it between his two in the manner he’d done with Regina that day at the Foundation’s office. He fixed his eyes on hers.

  Unlike Regina, Zoie neither blushed nor giggled. Having witnessed the Regina episode, she was fully in control, fully ready to resist whatever extra charm he dished out. Nonetheless, Zoie felt the power of Jahi’s eyes. They seemed more intense than that night at the charity dinner or the time she bumped into him at the Foundation. Maybe the intensity was due to his being in his element, on his own turf.

  “Tarik, thanks for seeing Ms. Taylor to my office,” he said, turning to the young man.

  “No problem, boss.”

  “Are you going to be around later?” Jahi asked.

  “Sure, I’m here for the afternoon,” Tarik answered.

  “Good. I may need you later.”

  “Okay,” the young man answered, though seeming disinclined to leave.

  “Tarik, it’s all right. I’ve got it from here.”

  The Mahali Salaam facility was a three-story building, but the second and third floors were sealed off, pending future development. The place was a former bread factory and regional headquarters for a major distributor of baked goods. Zoie imagined that when the place had been in operation, the fragrance of baking bread probably permeated the neighborhood. That smell had long faded. The scent of industrial disinfectant had replaced it.

  “Jahi, where is everyone?” Zoie asked as they walked the Shelter’s corridors, during her private tour.

  “Most of the staff come in around four. Right now folks are in the kitchen, cleaning up from lunch and preparing for dinner.”

  “No, I mean the residents.”

  “Zoie, remember we’re an emergency shelter.” He looked at her as if that explanation meant something, but it didn’t, so he continued. “Emergency shelters are shelters of last resort. A place to sleep and to catch a shower and a meal. The men can’t leave their possessions here over night. Registration for a bed for the night starts at five. Between five and six, they’ll be lined up outside to register for the night. Since it’s July and not raining, we’ll run at half-capacity. In the winter this place will bulge to its limits.”

  “So you mean the homeless have to go back out on the street during the day?”

  Jahi sighed. “Yes, that’s the way it works, unfortunately. Checkout, as we call it, is at ten in the morning. I wish it could be otherwise. We have services, including a mailing address, that they can sign up for. They can come back in for a specific appointment. Look, I’d like nothing better than to put these guys under a permanent roof.”

  “Are you working toward that?” Zoie asked.

  “We’re working toward a separate short-term-stay facility, like the one we have for the women.”

  “And when will that happen?”

  “I can get you more details on our plan. It all takes money. That’s where Crayton comes in. And it takes the city’s cooperation.”

  “I guess these men will be glad to have something more permanent,” Zoie said.

  “Zoie, you’d be surprised. Some will; some won’t. You’re not going to believe this, but a lot of men actually like living in the streets.”

  Zoie frowned.

  “Oh, yes,” he continued with a half smile. “You see, the street represents freedom—a life without rules. Or so they think. However, every environment has rules, just different rules. Out there they’re at the mercy of the hoodlums and even the police, not to mention hunger, the elements, and deteriorating health. Many of these guys really belong in a mental-health facility. You see, our clientele are mostly what is known as the chronically homeless. Quite a few of the men are veterans who have been without permanent addresses for years. Stop me if I’m preaching.”

  “No, go on. I’m fascinated,” she said, tilting her head. “I’m here to learn and understand.”

  “Well, good. We need for folks to understand. A lot of people just want to write checks without knowing the sordid details. They don’t want to get their hands dirty. They want to keep the horror of homelessness at a distance.”

  Zoie looked at the floor, hoping his bitter remarks weren’t directed at her.

  “Don’t let me get started,” he said. “Let me show you the dorms.”

  What Jahi called the dorms was room after room of bunk beds. Some rooms had space for twelve occupants; some rooms were more intimate, able to hold only eight people. From college Zoie had known dorms to be wild and crazy places, the rooms often as distinct as the students themselves. These rooms were stark. Their only decorations were more posters warning of the dangers of HIV and AIDS and a placard near the light switches spelling out the Shelter’s rules: “No Smoking, No Fighting, No Weapons, No Loud Music, and No Yelling. Lights out at 11:00 p.m.”

  Similar to a military style, each bed’s sheets were tight with a single blanket. There was nothing homey about this place for the homeless. It was a place with a roof, away from the cold and the rain, but an institution, nevertheless.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jahi said in an eerie mind-reader fashion. “It’s Spartan.”

  Zoie nodded. “I suppose it’s like a barracks.” She clung to her briefcase as if she expected someone to emerge from the vacant corridors and grab it.

  “Yes, it’s Spartan—but clean and safe,” he continued. “Every day we change the sheets and put out fresh towels. Every day we clean this place from top to bottom. Folks who live in the street can carry diseases. We can’t be too careful. We must protect the health of the other residents and the staff.”

  They took the back stairs down to the kitchen.

  “The men line up on the side of the building near the kitchen entrance. They don’t have to register for a night’s stay to get a meal,” Jahi explained.

  A double door opened to a large cafeteria-style facility with about twenty picnic-style tables, each of which was covered with a plastic gingham tablecloth. A large white board hung on the wall, listing the day’s menu. In the background Zoie
could hear the clatter of pots and pans and a radio blasting Beyoncé.

  Jahi and Zoie passed through the swinging door and into the Shelter’s industrial kitchen, a place alive with activity. Based on Zoie’s quick count, at least seven people were busy with various culinary tasks. Each cook was dressed in a white chef coat and disposable head coverings. The peeling of the potatoes, the snapping of the beans, the scrubbing of humungous vats—such things created a general rhythm. No one seemed to notice Jahi and Zoie’s arrival until a short Hispanic-looking man, who was tying up some garbage, looked up and greeted Jahi with a smile. “Hey, boss. Looking for Hank?”

  “Yeah, Rico. Where is he?” Jahi’s voice was loud against the radio’s blare.

  “I think in the storeroom.”

  “Ask him to come out for a second. There’s someone I’d like him to meet.”

  “Sure.” Rico left to find Hank.

  Zoie walked deeper into the room, doing a 360, but being careful not to get in the way of the work in progress. “I’m impressed,” she said, moving back toward Jahi, who had not gone much farther than the door. “This is quite an operation.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much nonstop. We serve food three times a day.”

  “Amazing operation,” Zoie said wide eyed.

  “With the exception of Hank and Rico, our staff are all volunteers.”

  For the first time, Zoie saw women. Each acknowledged Zoie’s presence with a nod and continued with her task.

  Hank came out to greet them. He was a tall man, almost Jahi’s height. “Hey, man. What goes?” he said.

  He and Jahi exchanged the “black power” handshake, which Zoie found curious since Hank was a white brother.

  “Hank, this is Zoie Taylor. You have to be nice to her. She’s our hookup with the money.”

  “Oh, a dignitary!” said Hank, extending his hand. With curly brown hair, a moustache, and a full-length apron, he could’ve been a bartender at an Irish pub. “A pleasure to meet you. Jahi here didn’t need to mention the money hookup. Visitors are always welcomed—especially those that want to come help out in the kitchen.”

  “Hank’s always recruiting,” Jahi said with a smile.