Friday, November 18, 2005
How the OTHER Other Half Lives
Last night something sort of unusual happened to me as I was taking the trash out. To be fair, the fact of my taking the trash out was unusual in and of itself. The area between our back door and the dumpsters is rather dark and scary and full of nooks in which swarthy men with knives could be hiding, so I don't frequent it. But due to some rather pungent Chinese-food-related trash, I felt a more urgent than usual need to make the trip.
None of which is the point. As I was approaching the back gate, I heard some rustling. I told myself it was only the wind, or perhaps a friendly talking squirrel. But it turned out to be a lady, and I jumped approximately ten thousand feet into the air.
"Oh, my goodness, my goodness, yes, we're going through your trash," she said.
"Oh, that's all right," I responded, rather needlessly.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "This is my husband. Yes, we are homeless. Yes, I have a drug problem. Yes, I have been in and out of the mental institution."
"Okay, well..."
"Are you throwing that away? Here. Let me take it. Any clothes in here?"
"Uh, no. Mainly that's just... trash."
"All right, well, you got any clothes upstairs? Or medicines?"
And I remembered the bag of flannel shirts, Simpsons t-shirts, and other clothes I probably haven't worn since eighth grade that had been sitting in my room waiting to go to goodwill for about six and a half years. And, God help me, I went to get it. And I ended up getting a hug from a homeless lady.
"And yes, I drink, but don't tell nobody," she said as we parted.
Her secret is safe with me.
Last night something sort of unusual happened to me as I was taking the trash out. To be fair, the fact of my taking the trash out was unusual in and of itself. The area between our back door and the dumpsters is rather dark and scary and full of nooks in which swarthy men with knives could be hiding, so I don't frequent it. But due to some rather pungent Chinese-food-related trash, I felt a more urgent than usual need to make the trip.
None of which is the point. As I was approaching the back gate, I heard some rustling. I told myself it was only the wind, or perhaps a friendly talking squirrel. But it turned out to be a lady, and I jumped approximately ten thousand feet into the air.
"Oh, my goodness, my goodness, yes, we're going through your trash," she said.
"Oh, that's all right," I responded, rather needlessly.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "This is my husband. Yes, we are homeless. Yes, I have a drug problem. Yes, I have been in and out of the mental institution."
"Okay, well..."
"Are you throwing that away? Here. Let me take it. Any clothes in here?"
"Uh, no. Mainly that's just... trash."
"All right, well, you got any clothes upstairs? Or medicines?"
And I remembered the bag of flannel shirts, Simpsons t-shirts, and other clothes I probably haven't worn since eighth grade that had been sitting in my room waiting to go to goodwill for about six and a half years. And, God help me, I went to get it. And I ended up getting a hug from a homeless lady.
"And yes, I drink, but don't tell nobody," she said as we parted.
Her secret is safe with me.
