Marty (not his real name) agreed to be interviewed for two Quarter Pounders plus large coffee with 8 sugars and 8 creams. This is a combination my five-year-old nephew Little Josh would call “totally damn gross.” I would agree.
Burgers and coffee? It’s like something out of a cop show!
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Marty is finishing an argument with an employee in a store we will call Schmallgreens. It’s on the corner of home and homeless. Apparently the employee has told Marty he does not seem to have any addictions—so why would he be homeless?
Marty says the “kid is spoiled and dense and stupid” and obviously unaware most of the customers in the store are homeless. People hoping for money outside the front door are roofless. Folks wandering down the sidewalk have no keys to an apartment.
You get the idea.
“How can this kid miss the fact we’re all homeless up in here?” I look around. It looks like any pharmacy on any autumn afternoon. People are shopping. Pushing carts around. “And NO they are not shoplifters,” he says loudly, seeming a little angry.
I respond, “Don’t get mad at me... I’m not the one who said it.”
Marty sighs and says, “We are just trying to make it through the day.” He looks at me and says, “You have NO idea what it is like, being Black and homeless in this town.”
I respond, “Tell me a story.”
So he looks at me, opens his coffee to check if there is sugar and cream in it (I guess) and looks back at me. “Being homeless in Chicago is f*cking terrible,” he whispers… “I pray hard every day things will change for me and my buddies.”
He motions to a friend and gives him one of the burgers. The friend shuffles off and mutters “Thanks, bro.”
I have seen this before—giving people food or money and then watching as they give most of it away immediately. I say nothing, just look down at my notebook. The qualitative researcher in me makes me jot down notes, especially of anything ‘important” and anything that “doesn’t fit.”
“It all started when the Earth was new, and dinosaurs ruled the world,” he says, in a very serious deep voice.
I interrupt to respond with “Please do not go back quite that far.”
He laughs. He is a funny guy. Educated. Degree in English. Into poetry, rap, says if he had a place to put them, he would collect “little Pokemon guys.”
He says something in a language I do not recognize.
“You cannot understand elves?” He adds, “there are two different dialects.”
Marty is an expert on Elf language. On Hobbits. On Tolkien in general.
Marty can talk about many, many topics to avoid talking about the topic we are supposed to be addressing.
He insists he has no addictions to booze or weed or cigarettes… So he resents being asked about addictions.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was getting to that part,” he defends. “I broke up with my girl and the world went to hell.” He describes his beautiful girlfriend, her big protective brothers, and the big argument…”
“She and I had been together for 10 years. She always wanted to get married. I wanted to mess around with other ladies. She knew about it. She would scream at me and threaten to kill me and asked why I didn’t love her enough. Things would always blow over. Then there was the last time. We had just moved up here from the South Side. We had a great place—and an extra bedroom where she had all her sh*t for sewing. She made wedding dresses and jewelry for women. She sometimes made men’s clothes. But mostly she “fixed” things… like necklaces that broke or a jacket that got torn. She was really good at repairing sh*t that other people wouldn’t try to work on. She got calls all the time from people at dry cleaners and people from our old neighborhood that needed “a dress made right” to fit somebody else… like when a granddaughter is going to where her grandma’s wedding dress but it need to be changed to fit the girl…”
Marty pauses so I ask him, “She sounds very capable and cool…so what went wrong?”
“I never valued her… you know you’re supposed to honor and value your lady…”
Marty pauses again.
“I was making good money—working for a company collecting money—for car payments and towing and other fines and fees…” He winks at me, “Not people to f*ck with, if you know what I mean… they paid great and I had money to burn…”
“So you were making a lot of money, and she was busy with her work…” I offer.
Marty looks at the floor and remains quiet.
“You can tell me what happened.”
Marty yells at me, “I’m f*cking getting to that part!”
I sit there and say nothing. I set my pen down. I look at him.
“What happened was… we had another big argument about money. I had bought some earrings for a girl I was seeing on the downlow… she was so beautiful and we were having fun times together. She got pregnant and my girlfriend found out…she was screaming at me and calling me a fool and she was throwing all my sh*t out in the street”
Marty sits up straight and takes a deep breath. “Then I did something really stupid.”
He sits there, quiet. So I ask him, “What did you do?”
He looks down at the floor, and he says quietly, “I hit my girlfriend.”
I ask him, “You hit her?”
“Yeah.” He sits there for a moment and goes on, “And things got worse.”
I respond, “Wow!” I look at him and he looks crippled, suddenly, shrinking down into the booth. “Was she okay?”
“Yeah, she was fine, just a little scared, I guess,” he answers and sits there for a moment, maybe remembering that terrible day.
He continues, “I kept apologizing and she was crying and yelling at me. She called her brothers and they both came over to our place. They came in the apartment and beat the f*ck out of me and dragged me out in the street and beat on me some more.”
“Damn!” I respond. “So then what?”
“Well, I knew I had some broken ribs and a f*cked up knee and I crawled away and hoped they wouldn’t come after me. I was praying to God it was over… but they followed me into the alley and her older brother started to beat on me with a pipe he found… I passed out.”
He takes another deep breath. “I woke up in the hospital… had to lie and say I didn’t know who the guys were… couldn’t remember where I was… said I think they wanted my wallet…”
“So I guess you didn’t go back to your girlfriend’s house?” I venture. “Was she okay?!”
“She was fine. I never went back and some friends of mine said her brothers would come after me again if I tried to talk to her.”
“And when did you become homeless?” I ask.
“When her brothers dragged me out in the street, that’s when I became homeless,” he answers.
So I ask, “When was that?”
“Three years ago,” he answers. “No addictions, but I DID get fired for being in the hospital so long.”
“I don’t suppose there was any way to get your boss to pay your medical bills—or any way to sue him?”
Marty laughs, “Not unless I wanted to be put back in the hospital for awhile.”
Like many Americans, Marty was working for a guy who did business in his own special way.
“So did you try to get a similar job? Try to work full-time again?”
Marty responds, “After all that, I didn’t really give a f*ck anymore. I just go to all the free dinners and hang with friends. I don’t care.”
I tell him, seriously, “Three years is a long time to hang… don’t you want to make some money and meet a new girl and…?” I don’t know what else to ask… or what to say. I don’t really know how people decide which goals are important and which are not. I have heard Marty’s story and don’t know what should happen next.
Marty eats his burger. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Sure, I just wish I could do something to help,” I answer.
“Help with WHAT?!” Marty yells.
I just shrug my shoulders. I will have to come up with a plan to help him.
.
Note: Hearing stories like this, I wonder where to start, helping the person to tell the details? Helping the person to find a place to live, a place to work, a group to fit in? Helping him find people with a purpose? What is the purpose? Marty’s life presents many more questions than answers. I start thinking of all the agencies he needs to go to, all the offices he needs to sit in to get help, food, housing, friends, support. If only there were enough time to help everyone…