Another Bullshit Night in Suck City (18 page)

A mountain of shoes reaches nearly to the ceiling. In another corner a mountain of t-shirts beside a mountain of sweaters. Mountains of pants, suits and underwear rise up one floor above. Tectonic fashion plates colliding. These new mountains loom above where the men sleep. This is the “overflow” shelter, Fort Point, a warehouse just across the highway from Pine Street. The deal to transform it into an “overflow” shelter, to get the men off the floors of Pine Street, was negotiated with the city in 1987. Other shelters have opened as well—the Laundry Room at Boston City Hospital, where you sleep to the sound of dryers tumbling sheets through the night; the Round Church, where you are offered a stiff-backed chair, and if you doze and fall from the chair you are asked to leave; the Armory, where you sleep beside a locked room filled with machine guns and dynamite. By now nearly every church basement in every town in America is lined with at least a handful of folding cots. At dinner with Emily’s parents one night Ray will ask me how many homeless there are in America now. A million, I’ll estimate, maybe two. Four hundred million people in America, Ray bellows, even two million is an acceptable percentage.

From the start Fort Point is like Australia—an island off the highway, floating on a cloverleaf off I-93, difficult to reach. Those who work there are cowboys, renegades, they make their own rules. Sometimes a guest who’s barred from Pine Street is given a second chance at Fort Point. A ten-story warehouse slated for demolition, directly in the path of what will be called the “Big Dig,” maybe it will last five years. To invest structurally in Fort Point is silly—to replace broken windows, leaking pipes, or even paint the walls. It takes on the feel of a theater set, the bare minimum to get the men fed, showered and into bed. The food is driven over from Pine Street in the same vans that transport the guys who cannot negotiate the highway, the ones who even if you walk them to the Mobil station on the corner and point to it,
That building right there,
draw a little map, still they walk off in the wrong direction. Truly a temporary shelter, which is perhaps ideal.

Above the men sleeping at the doomed Fort Point (“the Fort”) rise the mountains of clothes. A couple of live-in staff workers tear open trashbags of donated cast-offs, toss them into the appropriate mountain, using shovels, rakes, mostly their hands. Another couple of guys are in charge of sizing the shoes and pants, marking the size on a piece of masking tape. A job with no end, for the mountains before them grow faster than they can measure. Finally it’s decided that some of these clothes should be sold to the Rag Man, sold by the pound, the money used to buy new socks and underwear. Never enough socks and underwear. The Rag Man sorts through the clothes quickly—anything usable will be put in his buck-a-pound bin, the rest will either be shredded for mattress stuffing or donated to Third World countries as a tax write-off.

My father will end up sleeping at Fort Point even after he’s unbarred from Pine Street. Six months outside have filled him with bitterness. Or brought to the surface the bitterness he always carried, and this bitterness is directed toward Pine Street. The months he sleeps at Fort Point I will not see much of him. Within six months he will be barred from there as well, for bringing a bottle of vodka up to his bed one night, after months of going downhill. It’s February again, and he is Johnny Bench.

I’m making twelve dollars an hour, plus benefits. Medical, dental, sick days, vacations. The first ten visits to my therapist are covered. That spring, as part of a nationwide protest, tent cities are erected all over America. As shelter workers I suggest we print up t-shirts that read,
THE HOMELESS PAY MY RENT
, but no one else thinks it’s funny. Across from the tent city on Boston Common is an ice-cream shop, Emack and Bolio’s. The name comes from two men who stay at the shelter sometimes. As younger men they’d been radio personalities in Ohio, comedy and songs. We all know them. Ten years earlier they were being evicted from their Boston apartment, and a young lawyer took on their case, pro bono. They lost, but the lawyer offered them twenty dollars apiece for the right to use their names for a business he was starting with a friend. Emack and Bolio’s. The sign shows two hobos licking cones. Though they ended up being homeless for years on end, the real Emack and Bolio were also offered free ice cream for life.

My first summer at Pine Street I drove a van around Boston to pick up donations one day, mostly clothing. Brooks Brothers was one of my stops, the same Brooks Brothers where my father had charged his suits to my grandfather years before. A well-dressed man directed the van to the alley, where he met me at the side door, holding a box the size of a mid-sized television. He handed me some paperwork, pointed to where I should sign. I glanced it over and noticed the declared value of the box was ten grand. Four suits, each valued at over two thousand dollars. A tax write-off.
Ten grand?
I said, holding the pen. I tried to imagine Beady-Eyed Bill in a two-thousand-dollar suit. The guy looked annoyed.
Ralph always just signs, who the hell are you?

The Bootlegger sells one thing—pints of Pastene white port, sweet rotgut, four dollars a pop, no credit, no arguing, his trunk open until the product’s gone. Circling the shelter in his beat-up station wagon before dawn, he parks in the shadows between streetlights. We see him there just before the sun comes up as we bring the Van back at the end of the night. No one’s ever seen his face, not clearly, and no one knows his name. He lives somewhere in Southie, buys by the case. Even if you bought each individually at a package store it’d only be a dollar fifty per jug. But the package store won’t open until eight, and in three hours a lot can happen, none of it good. It’s a high-risk business—patrol cars, desperate clientele, darkness—hence the markup. The drunk has to have enough wits about him to put four dollars aside the night before. Some try to stash a bottle before stumbling off to sleep, but then you have to remember where you stashed it—it was dark then and it’s still dark—if it’s even still where you hid it, with the whole city searching for a sip from eleven to eight, the dead time. Even if you could afford a bar, if your clothes weren’t shiny and you didn’t stink, the bars close by one. One until eight’s a lifetime. If you work it right you blackout by eleven, and the sun blistering your lips wakes you. When the sun’s up you can always stem enough for a bottle—a
good morning
, a
beautiful day
, an upturned palm. It’s better if they don’t see you shake—many don’t understand that a sip stops the shaking.

At dawn dew shines off the blacktop. After I write up my notes from the night on the Van I end up leaving the shelter with the men, on their way to the labor pool or to the Bootlegger. I see my father by the Herald Building, half a block ahead of me, near where Martin hears his father calling. Lit doorways, brightening sky, the city beautiful and empty, cleansed by the darkness. I catch up with my father, fall in step, we walk together toward downtown. I ask how he is. He claims not to be drinking, but I don’t think he knows what this means.
I’m trying to put some money aside
, he says,
get my life back together
. Then, surprisingly, he asks if I think there’s something wrong with him, he’s been told he has paranoid delusions, and sometimes he thinks it’s true. I ask him if anyone ever diagnosed him, if he’s ever seen a psych doctor.
No, no, but I’ve been told I’m paranoid, that I have delusions
. A house built of cards and now the house is gone. We pass Danny, rising from a grate, wool-wrapped, army wrap, the blanket slides to the ground. What you fear your whole life comes to pass. You end up living toward it, you spend your life running from it but your foot is nailed to the sidewalk. You circle around it until you wear yourself down. As I look at my father I can see, for the first time, how afraid he is, how he’s been trying to run for a long time.
Do you think I’m delusional, do you think I’m paranoid?
Yes, yes, and for this I would even drive you to the doctor myself, in my own car, on my own time. But he wants no doctor, won’t commit to an appointment, he’s late for the slave traders, all the jobs will be taken, all the vans full, he’s got to scrape some money together. The bridge goes over the Turnpike here, we split off and I walk the ten blocks home, down the alley, along the wrought iron, a cage around me, a camera watching.

In my father’s bag he carries a change of underwear, socks, soap, a toothbrush, a comb. Pens to write with, paper for letters, the forms he needs to prove to whichever agency whatever they need to know. What was your last job? What was your last address? What is your mother’s maiden name? A paperbag with handles, reinforced with duct tape, inside a plastic bag, the type they give out at supermarkets. From this bag, in the restroom of the library or the bus station, he can make himself recognizable, to himself, which has become a daily struggle. Outside too many nights and your face begins to change, to alter. You spend time being invisible in public places, trying to look like you are waiting for someone, that you haven’t been in that booth, nursing that coffee, not long. You stretch it out, for when it’s gone so is your reason for being there.

At his table in the reading room of the library my father fills out a form from the Department of Health and Human Services. He’s trying for a disability check, as it’s becoming difficult to even work day labor, sleeping outside every night, difficult to pull himself together from his bag. On this form he lists his previous work experience as “Longshoreman,” “Laborer,” “Cab Driver.” The type of business for each is “unloading ships,” “construction,” “transportation.” The dates he worked each job (month and year required) are “varied” to “varied,” “varied” to “varied,” “7 days” to “10 years.” The days per week are “_____,” “_____,” and “seven.” The rate of pay is “union rate,” “union rate,” and “tips.” In part two he changes his job title from longshoreman to “scallywag,” which my dictionary defines as a scamp or rascal. The form asks:

• Use machines, tools, or equipment of any kind? yes or no.
  no
  .
  
• Use technical knowledge or skills?
  yes
  .
  
• Do any writing, complete reports, or perform similar duties?
  no
  .
  
• Have supervisory responsibilities?
  no
  .
  

My father will spend what’s left of the night upright on a bench, down near the Ritz. Across from his perch are a thousand windows, each window opens onto a room, the container and the contained. A thousand rooms he’s not inside.

At night the city empties of all but the most essential. Each building appears then, jewelry store or bank, separate one from the other, radiant. Stand before each anew. A rock in a river—waves, debris, current, it all passes over. In daylight the wind comes from all directions, a sheet of newspaper blows against your leg, turn your face to the wind. At three
A.M
. even the wind rests. The headlights of a car rise over the crest by the Steaming Kettle—its sign is the thing itself, an oversized bronze kettle that never empties of steam. The headlights brighten storefronts, news-boxes, Alice, tucked in her doorway, blanket over her head. Alice no longer sleeps in the ATM, no one does anymore, the cops chased them all to the blowers. We now know that Alice had a family once, a husband and a couple kids, and one night she was clipped by a car while broken down on I-93 waiting for a tow truck, and something jarred loose in her head. Organic damage. The police brought a photograph of Beady-Eyed Bill to Pine Street, taken by the bank cameras, asked if we knew him. A still from the goddamn movie of his life. More steam rises from sewer caps, the underlife forcing its presence upon us. And then the car recedes, its music fading down Park to Boylston, until its headlights fall on Brian. Ratcheted up, wired and sleepless, Brian wears three army blankets over his head like layered ponchos, a hole cut in the middle of each, making his slow way up, stopping at a barrel to poke for half a sandwich, half a beer, stopping at each payphone, checking the change slot, knowing that the phones release dimes secretly. If you sit on a bench long enough you can hear them releasing, hear the coin drop, all over the city—a tithe, the part of the field left unharvested.

My father closes his eyes. A siren cuts through Charles Street and his head is briefly all siren. The siren grows smaller, his head grows smaller, until it is the size of a cricket, or the size of the sound a cricket makes—it must be directly under his bench, moving its violin legs. Brian stands before my father, unwrapping a butterscotch drop, untying the cellophane slowly—now my father’s head is all cellophane, the whole city’s cellophane. My father keeps his eyes shut. Brian passes the golden lozenge into his mouth. He crinkles the wrapper and flicks it into my father’s cheek. My father opens one eye.

Brian rolls the hard candy in his mouth, slurring his words. He fishes another drop from his pocket and holds it in his upturned palm. My father wants to take it, but he knows it will be a trade, and there’s nothing he wants to give. He has no gift he wants to offer.

Brian offers the butterscotch one last time, shrugs, unwraps it, puts it in his mouth.

A police car slows, passes.

My father has closed his eyes again. He knows Brian, knows that if he brings out his vodka Brian will drain it, he will stand before him and praise the goodness of heaven and tilt his whole body back until the bottle empties into him. And they may be brothers, and they may have been kings, but only Brian will be drunk. And my father will still be on this bench. A sheet of newspaper blows against the bench, lingers, tumbles on, catches against Brian’s feet. He picks it up with a flourish.

Brian stands on the bench, waving his hands at the daffodils that fill the beds behind them,

Brian swandives into the daffodils, lying among the broken stems, arms outstretched, laughing,