HOMELESS–Part 1

I was shopping with my wife one afternoon–a frigid day in early January. We had just left Walmart and I drove past a homeless man leaning against a stop sign with a handmade sign exactly like the one I describe here. I have often wondered how people become homeless and why so few of us seem to care. That sighting was the inspiration for this story. It’s long so I’ve divided it into six parts. I hope you enjoy it. Sr. Longo


Part 1—I meet and befriend a homeless woman.

CHAPTER 1

It was the sign I saw first—“HOMELESS,” it said—just some marker on a torn sheet of cardboard about three feet high and less than two wide. “Anything will help. PLEASE!” I looked around at the modern shopping center and the hundreds of mostly new cars and wondered not for the first time how something like this could happen. Then I wondered what would happen tonight when the temperature was supposed to go down to 23—nine degrees below freezing. By this time I had driven my Honda Accord past the unfortunate guy and was on the way to the highway.

I’m no softy. I grew up just outside New York City and I’ve seen beggars aplenty both in the city and on gambling junkets down in Atlantic City where the boardwalk is infested with them. In the past I’d just driven or walked on, ignoring and not even making eye contact–but something about this bothered me. I’d taken early retirement—really early–and moved to “warmer climes,” as the saying goes. I lived now north of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where everyone seemed to have plenty of money—money for golf, restaurants, shows and clubs in addition to the necessities of life—yet there were still some with no food and no shelter, and worse—no hope. Here, where there were so many with so much, there was still someone who could freeze to death in a matter of hours.

Instead of the highway I turned into Home Depot to swing around in a circle that would bring me back to the desolate soul leaning there against the stop sign. Parking my car nearby in the huge lot I walked up to the beggar. “I’d give you some money, buddy, but what guarantee do I have that you won’t spend it on cheap booze or snort it up your nose?”

“You have my word, Mister.” I was taken aback by the voice. I had expected it to be gruff—matching the rough clothes and heavy boots–but it wasn’t. Then, taking a really close look, I saw this beggars face was clean shaven—okay, not shaven, but hairless. Hidden under the knit cap and heavy sweatshirt and jeans was–I was sure–a woman.

Reaching out, I lifted the beggar to his/her feet and pulled the cap from its head. Several cars had driven past when her auburn hair fell around her dirty face. “I don’t believe it. You’re a girl!”

“Nobody’s called me a girl in years. I’m a woman and what’s not to believe?”

“Mind telling me how old you are? And what the hell are you doing here?”

“Why is it your business?”

“You’re sitting here begging for money and I have some, but I’m not turning any over to you until I get some answers.” I’d noticed that the sun was setting and in the few minutes I’d been here the temperature had dropped ten degrees. I was getting cold and I was dressed in heavier clothes than she was. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in my car where it’s a lot warmer?”

“So you can rape me? I don’t think so.”

“You know, for a beggar you’re awfully particular. I’m trying to help you and all I get is lip. I have half a mind to put you over my knee.”

She appeared shocked at my words, but slowly followed my lead as I walked to my car. I held the door for her then walked around to the driver’s seat. “So…why don’t you tell me your story? How on earth did you wind up here?”

“I think I’d rather hear your story before I share mine. How do I know I can trust you?”

I was tempted to laugh, but I didn’t. Actually, the more I thought the more I considered it a good idea. “Okay, that’s fair enough…my name is Douglas Robert Preston–Doug. I’m 34 and I’m officially retired.”

“At 34?”

“Yeah. Ever hear of the computer learning programs…’SAT for Idiots’ or ‘ASVAB for Idiots’ or ‘Spanish for Idiots’? I wrote that entire series—all twenty-three of them–and I made a real good living, especially since there were only three people in my company. I wrote code in my home office while my secretary and bookkeeper kept track of orders in my dining room. It was great—no commuting, no arguing with partners–and since I had no actual physical product–no production or mailing or returns costs. My customers downloaded every program and my overhead was almost nothing…less than a hundred and twenty thousand a year. Virtually all of that was for my employees’ salaries and our insurance premiums.

“I was clearing close to a million dollars a year after taxes and then I got a brilliant idea—‘Investments for Idiots.’ There are plenty of computer programs for every subject under the sun, but the investment field is like a deep dark jungle. I often think that the so-called experts make it that way so they can justify the billions they make at the public’s expense. My instructional programs analyzed a person’s errors and created new remedial lessons. The investment program works much the same way in that it asks questions just like the other programs, but it takes the data you put in on a stock, bond, or mutual fund and actually analyzes the information using daily info it picks up from the internet then it tells you what to do. It can even analyze stocks and bonds at random and make recommendations or do the whole buying and selling process automatically. To test it I used it every day for almost two years and it never made even a single mistake. I made millions—returning more than twenty percent in a market that was static at best–so much that the SEC came knocking at my door, thinking I had some inside information. Unfortunately, their “secure investigation” leaked like a sieve.

“I can’t tell you the name of the company, but when they learned about my program they figured their gravy train would be toast. Why pay some jerk five percent commission year after year when you could buy all of his expertise and more for a few hundred dollars? A few days later I answered my door and they were there with a bunch of lawyers wanting to buy me out. Their offer was too good to ignore. I sold the entire company and the rights to all of my programs. Even after taxes I still had more than I could spend in a lifetime. They agreed to hire my two employees for a minimum of five years at the same salary and benefits and I walked away with more than a hundred million–how much more will have to be my secret for the time being.”

“What? You made a hundred million and you’re driving an effing Honda?”

“Why not? A car is just a way to get from point A to point B. A Honda does that as well as a Mercedes and it’s a lot cheaper to maintain. This car has almost everything a Mercedes or BMW would have at less than half the price. What’s not to like? Anyway, I moved south to get away from the snow and here I am. Now you know my story; what’s yours?”

She looked down and took a deep breath. “My name is Jessica Fuller–Jessie. I’m twenty-three and I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen. I ran away from home because my step-father was raping me several times a week.”

“Couldn’t you have gone to the police?”

She laughed. “That rat bastard was the county sheriff. He had me watched like a hawk…told everyone it was for my protection because he claimed I was out of control. I was an honor roll student back in high school. How out of control could I have been? I had just graduated when he and my mother went on a cruise, leaving me home alone. One of the deputies was supposed to look in on me, but one night I bolted right after he left. I took my mother’s car and drove it down to the train station thinking that might throw them off the track then I grabbed my backpack and hiked five miles out to the interstate where I hitched a ride.

“I’m no fool. I knew I’d have to come across as payment for a lot of the rides either with a blow job or fucking. It was worth any price to get away from that asshole. My mother was no better. I tried to tell her what was happening and she called me a liar then she hit me and accused me of trying to steal her man. What the fuck? Why the hell would I want a fifty year-old man with a gut like Santa Claus?

“I figured that if I just kept on traveling I’d be able to keep myself away from them. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years—hitching rides and staying alive. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve fucked in that time, but I’m away from him. Every now and then I call a friend and she gives me the low-down on everything since my last call. Seems the mighty sheriff has had his hand in the till and the state cops are all over him. With luck he might get himself arrested. My last big ride was with a long-haul trucker—a nice guy who didn’t even try to get his way with me. He fed me and let me sleep in his cab for three days, but he reached the end of the line out in Lumberton, you know…up in North Carolina. I got a ride here from a Canadian couple day before yesterday. That’s my story. Not much, is it?”

“I don’t know. Seems you’re a survivor. I think a lot of people would have given up by now. Ever think of settling in one place and getting a job?”

“My step-father would be all over me as soon as my employer listed my social security number and I got a paycheck. I’m free of him, but I’m fucked job-wise.”

I sat silently for a few minutes before speaking. “You’d better buckle up. Driving in parking lots can be dangerous.”

“Where are we going?”

“Walmart…I can’t take you to dinner looking like that. You’ll need some new clothes and let me see your head for a second. Hmmm…you have head lice. Not too surprising considering how you’ve been living. We’ll have to get something to treat it.”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

“Neither have any of the men who’ve picked you up since you’ve been on the road. Let’s just say for now that I don’t want to read that you’ve frozen to death when I pick up tomorrow’s paper.” I started the car and drove maybe a quarter mile, parking only a few slots from Walmart’s entrance. I sent her in to the women’s clothing department with instructions to get at least three sets of everything—more for underwear, bras, and socks. “See about some sneakers and maybe some shoes. If there’s nothing you like there’s a shoe store right down the lot…maybe a hundred yards. I’m off to the pharmacy to get something for your hair. I think I’ll get you some regular shampoo and conditioner, too.” I pushed a cart in her direction then took one of my own. She turned left and I turned right when we were in the huge store.

I had to wait on line to speak with a pharmacist, but that was hardly a surprise. It was Walmart, after all. I explained briefly about the problem and she recommended a product on the shelves, telling me that a fine-toothed comb was included. After listening to her instructions closely I picked up a bottle of the shampoo then went looking for some other “necessities.” Shampoo and conditioner were first then a toothbrush and some mild soap for her face. I already had plenty of deodorant soap. I picked up some razors and shaving cream and some anti-perspirant. Then I walked into foreign territory—feminine hygiene products. I had no idea what she used so I got one of each figuring that we could just leave the others at the cashier. Thinking that I had everything I walked away, but turned back when I realized she would need a comb and brush, at least.

I found her in the women’s department with three pairs of Levi’s, two pairs of Capri’s, four tops, and a sweater. “I hope it’s not too much.”

“No…if anything it’s not enough, but it’ll be enough for now. How about some underwear and socks Then we can throw your old stuff into the trash. I don’t see any jackets here. Take a look at what I have and we can pick up the rest of the clothes.” She looked at all the feminine products and laughed. “Well, I assume you have your period. You’re too young for menopause and I had no idea what you used.”

“Most of the time it was whatever rag I could find. Thanks.” She picked up a box of tampons and put them in her cart then I added everything not a feminine product and abandoned my cart. A few minutes later we had bras—34B’s–and panties and socks. Amazingly, we found a cashier line with only one person ahead of us. Once we had checked out we returned to the car and I drove down to the shoe store. One of the clerks gave Jessie a dirty look which I suppose might have been justified considering her appearance, but my withering glare turned him in the opposite direction fast.
Jessie picked out a pair of New Balance sneakers and a pair of basic black—well, I’d call them ‘loafers,’ but I was sure they were actually called something else. Back in my car, I drove to my house.

“I live about twenty-five minutes away up in Sunset Beach, North Carolina. When we get there I’d like you to go to my guest bathroom. Drop your clothes outside the door. You can lock all three doors so you’ll be assured of privacy. Use the medicated shampoo on your hair then if you wrap one of the big towels around your body I’ll come in and use the fine-toothed comb to pull out any nits. Now…don’t be insulted, but the pharmacist said you might have them in your pubic area, too. She suggested either the shampoo or shaving the area. That would wash any lice and nits down the drain. I think you should check your armpits, too. If we don’t get everything the first time around we can continue tomorrow morning. You can have your choice of the extra bedrooms, okay?”

“Like I’m going to argue. I assume you’d like to fuck me so why am I sleeping in a separate room?”

“Let’s get things straightened out before we even think about it. I’ll make an appointment with my doctor tomorrow, too. I think you should be tested for STD’s. Again, please don’t be insulted. Did every one of your partners use a condom? I’ll bet not, and you weren’t exactly in a position to insist.”
I had turned off US-17 North onto NC-179—Beach Road—that would lead straight to my house.