Homeless For a Night
The experience was like the time the doctor gave me a shot of penicillin in the ass. The build up seemed to go on forever and the anticipation was much worse than the ultimate stabbing. Such was my night sleeping at the homeless shelter in London’s downtown Salvation Army Centre of Hope.
Spending the night at the hostel had been on my agenda for weeks, but the time never seemed right. And it never would have been right had I listened to that little voice in my head that kept asking: “Are you freaking crazy?” But, alas, curiosity triumphs over good judgment and I find myself walking up to the front door of the Sally Ann.
There is a small group of young people off to one side smoking and looking tough. In front of the main doors is a parked police cruiser. I really have no clue what I’m doing as I approach the woman behind the glass at the door. She’s initially a little frosty, but warms up immediately when I tell her I have never been in a homeless shelter before and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.
She tells me she’ll buzz me through the security doors and I should talk to the woman a bit further down the counter.
That woman also starts out a bit robotic, but she too softens when I tell her I’m new. She says she has to ask me a number of questions and needs to get me registered in the system. But she wants to see some identification first.
I was prepared for this, and decided not to attempt to fake them out and say I don’t have any ID. So I give my real name and show her my driver’s license. For a split second I worry she might know who I am, because, I figure, being a writer for the London Yodeller means I’m practically world famous. But she doesn’t betray the slightest hint of recognition and I don’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
I didn’t ask anybody if I could come. I knew the administration would never agree to it, and they’ll probably be pissed when they read this. I took the advice of the great philosopher Homer Simpson and decided it would be better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. You may have your suspicions about who I am, but you can’t prove anything, and neither can they.
The woman at the counter does indeed have questions. Lots of them. See asks me to verify my name and address, asks for my height, weight, eye color, level of education, medical history, medication allergies, how much money I have in the bank, if I’ve had a job in the last five years, if I’m on welfare or disability and if I’ve paid rent anywhere for the month. I answer her questions more or less honestly, shaving a mere ten pounds off my weight.
As we’re talking two cops walk behind her and go over to the computer where the other woman is sitting. They are both young and very tall, but the one guy in particular is huge and very fit with a way cool haircut. GQ cop is looking me over for some reason. He’s taking a good long look and I’m trying to remember if I ever paid those old fines and cleared up those outstanding warrants. He finally looks away and pays no further attention to me.
It seems my answer to one of the questions is a bit of a concern for the lady at the counter. She says that because I paid rent this month and technically have a place, I’m not considered truly homeless and can only stay at the hostel for a grace period of five days. Unless I can produce an eviction notice or some other compelling reason why I can’t go home, I’m
capped at five days. That’s not a problem for me. I’m planning an in-and-out hit-and-run job.
She is quite tolerant of my many questions about how things work. I’m handed a laminated sheet of paper with the rules. No smoking inside, no drugs or alcohol, no violence, no abusing the staff, abide by curfew between 11pm and 5am and no excessive swearing. I guess that means you can swear a little, but not to excess. All seems reasonable.
She then gives me an electronic key card that allows me entry and exit of the building and works in the elevator only to get me to my designated floor. She says they sort clients by age and gender and says I’ll be on the third floor. I’m instructed to immediately talk to the floor attendant when I get up there.
The first thought that pops into my head as I step out of the elevator is that either someone has forgotten to tell me I’m suddenly a senior citizen, or that minoxidil and night time wrinkle cream has been worth every penny. Why the hell am I in with a bunch of old men? I thought I’d walked into a nursing home; there are so many grey haired old guys.
Buddy behind the counter seems reluctant to look up from his computer screen when I approach, but after he takes a look at me, I can see pity on his face. He’s now my new best friend. He gives me lots of instructions and some general advice: “Use good judgment while you’re here,” he tells me. He needs to ask me why I’ve come to the emergency shelter for the first time. I’ve got a bullcrap story ready for him that only seems to make him feel more sorry for me. I apologize for being a douchebag, man. But I had to do it.
As we’re talking, some guy comes up and asks to be let into the laundry room. My friend tells him that it’s been vandalized and will be out of service until further notice. The guy is incredulous, “So I can’t clean my clothes?” No, he can’t.
And neither can anyone else. The attendant tells me someone picked up the washing machine, turned it upside down and tore out the wiring in the walls. In all his years, he’s never seen anything like it. They didn’t even break into the machine to take the money.
The attendant says I’ll have to wait a bit before he can give me sheets and a towel because he has to wait for security to let him into the storage room. Come back later, he says. He tells me there are two TV rooms and a patio out back where I can smoke 24 hours a day. That’s the place I want to be and I head for the door.
There’s a few guys sitting around on metal benches. One guy with really long grey hair and nerdy glasses is intently reading a novel and ignoring everyone around him. The guy I sit next to looks more or less normal, although he’s wearing too many clothes for such a hot night. He has particularly nice shoes. Black and dressy. Something a banker or lawyer would wear (I’ve met some bankers). His hair is grey and mostly concealed under the beanie he has on.
He smiles and says hello to me. The first thing I notice is how nice his teeth are. It would only occur to me later that they were too nice to be real. He tells me his name and points to the guy sitting across from us. He’s scrawny and looks, of course, old. He introduces himself and asks my name. Then we all start talking.
The conversation seems remarkably relaxed and familiar despite the fact that none of us know each other. It soon
becomes apparent to me that once you fall to that level, judgments are suspended in favor of a certain kind of camaraderie-of-the-damned. The guy with the nice shoes offers me a cigarette and pulls out a bag of smokes. I recognize them as being bootleg cigs from the native reserve. They’re the cheapest you can possibly get. I accept and ask him if he needs a light. He says he doesn’t smoke; he just gives out the cigarettes.
It’s remarkable how fast these guys take me under their wings. It doesn’t take them but a second to figure out I’m new to this. Despite the fact that I tried to blend in by not shaving for five days and wearing plain clothes, they clock me right away. They both start giving me advice on how to live as a homeless person. They tell me where the churches are that give out free meals. Nice shoe guy instructs me on how to navigate the shelter system; how to bounce around between the various hostels once your time was up at one. The big rule, they warn me, is never fight with staff because you won’t win.
It seems you can only stay at the Centre of Hope hostel for a maximum of 30 days under normal circumstances (normal for these guys, anyway) and then you have to leave. But the skinny guy says I can rent a private room upstairs with my own shower and toilet for a reasonable price. The room costs around $400 a month if you are on welfare, and about $500 if you’re on disability. You can stay there on a longer-term basis as long as you pay the rent on time.
Shoe guy tells me there are two washrooms at either end of the hall with showers. Right in front of the other guys, he says, “I can help you if you want to shower.” The others see me wince at his comment and I blurt out, “What is that supposed to mean?” He averts his eyes and says he was only joking. No, he wasn’t.
I’d noticed that for homeless people, everyone seemed quite clean and reasonably well groomed. No one smelled bad.
Apparently, there’s a reason for that. They have a code. You don’t come into their home and stink up the place. If you do, they’ll fix the problem and you’ll learn the hard way you better clean up your act.
I need to use the washroom and excuse myself. It’s old and depressing, but it’s reasonably clean. Usable at least. When I walk out of the stall, shoe guy is standing there. He had followed me in. He says the best shower to use is the one in the back and says he’ll show me. I peek around the corner cautiously. “See, if we shut this stall door, no one can come in.” I thought I had already made it clear there was no “we” in this equation. My look of disapproval seems to register.
He tries to lighten things up by pointing out the graffiti that has recently appeared on the walls. The one says, “Stay high pigs can’t fly.” It’s actually quite witty, I think. The other one is just crude, “Stick it right up her ass.” Buddy moves further into the stall to make room for me. He just doesn’t quit and I decide it’s time to walk away.
I return to the smoking patio to find the skinny guy talking to himself. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but he seems distressed. The guy reading the book is oblivious to both of us. Shoe guy returns and offers me another cigarette. I decline. I’m thinking this is maybe like prison, if I take his smokes I have to be his bitch.
This big guy comes strolling out and sits beside skinny dude, who is still talking to himself. “You haven’t taken your medication today, have you?” the man says to him. He doesn’t answer. “C’mon, man. Go downstairs and get your meds.” The guy says nothing, he just nods and gets up and leaves. “I have to stay on him,” the big man says, “If he doesn’t take his pills, he just deteriorates because of his schizophrenia.” He’s back in short order and the big guy gets off his case.
Then big guy resumes talking. He’s articulate and uses big words. He knows he’s not an idiot, and that’s the point. He wants everyone else to see it as well and holds court for a good fifteen minutes. Then he gets what he wants. “Boy, you’re smart,” skinny guy says to him. “Yeah, for sure,” says shoe guy. “I was tested in high school, my IQ is 167.” Just so you know, that’s 27 points above the genius level of 140, and seven points higher than Albert Einstein. He seems to read my mind. “But I can’t be that fucking smart, I’m here.”
He also can’t hide the obvious. He hasn’t been taking care of himself for a long time. He has several missing teeth and the rest are bad. He has that in common with just about everyone I encounter in the shelter. Bad teeth seem to be the hallmark of a rough life. That along with a lot of premature aging. People weren’t really as old as they look. But a hard life takes its toll.
Some guy comes out and asks shoe guy if he can buy some smokes. They haggle over whether he should get four or five for a buck. The squabbling goes on a while before shoe guy laughs and says he doesn’t really care and gives him five for a loon. Only a minute later another man appears and says he’ll pay him later if he will give him some cigarettes for the night. He gives them to him and then looks at me and says, “It’s always later.”
I say he must be the most popular guy here since he has the biggest bag of smokes. “No, just greedy,” he says. I say that doesn’t look true to me and point out that I’ve seen him give away more than he gets paid for. He just shrugs and changes the subject. That’s the other thing most of these people have in common: almost everyone smokes. It seems to be common amongst both the lower classes and the mentally ill. I don’t know why, since they can’t really afford the habit.
Another guy is complaining about the fact that they can’t change the channel on the TV and he doesn’t want to watch the news. Shoe guy tells me someone stole the remote and the TV has a lock on the control panel. Some guy bought another remote, but he takes it with him when he’s out and won’t leave it with anyone. He’s resented a great deal for this act of treachery. Someone tells him they just started a movie in the chapel and he should go check it out. I take this opportunity to go look around a bit downstairs.
While I’m riding the elevator to the first floor, a woman gets on in an electric wheelchair. She has only one leg and is wearing a leather cowboy hat. She is quite chirpy and says it’s a nice night to go out and get some fresh air. I’m thinking, why is she so happy? Her life sucks monkey balls. But it dawns on me: it’s not only her, everyone seems unreasonably happy for people living in a shelter. There is very little visible melancholy on display. It seems people are taking it all in stride.
In the lobby just in front of the elevators is a bronze statue of Jesus sitting on the ground covered with a blanket over his head and body. His hand is outstretched and has a hole in it. There are quotes from the bible about how important it is to be kind to the least of your brethren. There is a computer room that is closed for the day, and an old refrigerator full of free books. “Give a book, take a book” is written on the fridge door. And people clearly do. I have seen several people sitting around, deep into novels.
There are benches in the hall and there are a number of people just hanging out. A few of them are using walkers and at least a couple appear to have developmental disabilities. There’s another smoking area just outside and I head back to see who’s around. Only a few. An older woman is sitting on the far side smoking and having a very animated conversation with herself. She finds something pretty amusing because she’s laughing out loud a lot of the time.
There’s also a kid who looks like a teenager hanging out by the door. Then I spot a guy who’s just gotten off the elevator and is heading my way. He’s a bigger young guy with a very obvious chip on his shoulder and I’m betting some anger management issues. He’s coming out to smoke. I immediately look away. He comes out and I can feel him sizing me up. I don’t look. Any street person will tell you never to make eye contact with trouble like him; it’s an open invitation to engage.
I wander into the chapel to see what movie is playing. There are a handful of people sitting in the dark watching a large screen. I take a seat and get comfortable. It only takes a few minutes to realize what I’m in for. It’s a Steve Martin movie.
The guy is such a putz and the acting so bad. The movie is about how Martin, playing a tax lawyer, makes a date with a blonde haired beauty off the Internet who goes by the moniker “lawyer girl.” Bad story short, she is not what he signs up for. She turns out to be a fat black woman from the ghetto just released from prison. I can’t help but think, Jesus, aren’t these people down and out enough? Do you really have to torture them like this?
It’s getting late so I decide to go back up, get my sheets and pillow and finally check out my room. The attendant says security is busy, so he’ll go downstairs and get stuff for me himself. It’s really nice of him. He returns, hands me sheets and a towel and gives me a brown paper bag which contains a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap and shampoo as well as a little bag of laundry detergent.
I have no idea what to expect when I open the door to my room. It’s not that bad, really. It’s a square room with a small single bed in each corner and some lockers in the centre of the room. One bed is messy with some books and clothes lying about and a big pill bottle on the floor it. It looks like some underwear is sticking out from underneath the bed.
My bed is bare. Just a green plastic mattress. The other two beds are made and tidy. There is no one in the room and I have no idea who my roommates might be. I make my bed and lie down for a little rest. It’s getting late and I’m tired. No one comes in. It’s quiet. Finally, a guy walks in the room and says nothing. We just nod politely at each other. It’s clear he won’t be a problem. He gets something out of his locker and leaves again.
It’s close to midnight and there are still lots of people up and sitting around. But everyone is doing their own thing and no one is talking. It’s kind of peaceful in a desolate kind of way. I wander out for one last cig before bed. There’s a young muscular Hispanic man on one of the benches. It’s just the two of us. He takes one look at me and says, “Man, what are you doing here? Fallen on hard times?” Apparently I have no street cred because this is a common reaction.
He proceeds to give me some advice. He repeats a lot of what the other guys have told me about where to get free food, how to extend your stay at the shelter and where I can find an agency to lend me last month’s rent. It’s really obvious that everyone wants to help me out. They’re all trying to show me the ropes and teach me how to survive. It’s a kindness.
I return to an empty room, shut the lights out and lay down. It only takes a few minutes before the door opens and I see my other roomie. This guy has trouble written all over him and I’m not thrilled. He gets into bed and it only takes a few seconds before he gets angry and starts yelling. He blurts out that the fucking fat guy won’t stop snoring. Since I’m the only one here, I’m assuming he’s talking about me. Now sure, it’s apparent that I’ve missed some time at the gym lately, but it seems rather harsh to call me “the fucking fat guy.” I’m also pretty sure that I’m not snoring because I’m definitely awake. I say nothing.
A minute later he starts on an even angrier tirade. “I can’t stand all you cock sucking faggots being around me.” Once again, I appear to be his target. It’s the first time I’ve been really nervous my whole stay. I say nothing and he finally stops yelling and turns over to go to sleep. I had accepted before coming here that I wouldn’t sleep, and I don’t. I just lie in my bed all night.
The floor is quiet, but there is a brief period where the sirens outside the window won’t stop. I think to myself, “Can’t they fight fires quietly?” The first guy comes back and gets into bed. The fourth guy who was supposed to be in the room never shows up. As the hours go by, it occurs to me how little contact I’ve had with staff and how their presence seems minimal.
No one has checked in our room all night and we could be doing anything in here. I was told that on other floors where they put the young guys, things are more active. They party all night, do drugs and get into fights. We old timers really don’t have the energy for that.
At about 3 am a female staff person opens the door and does a head count and writes it down. This is the one and only time staff ever looked in. The night seems to go on forever as I lie here with nothing to do but think. It seems to me that the place really isn’t all that bad. But I also realize one night is not necessarily representative of anything and I’ve heard lots of horror stories from people who’ve stayed at shelters before. The thing with the absent staff does bother me a bit but, again, I signed in late and there are more people around during the day to help you with finding housing and spiritual care.
My long night finally ends when a woman knocks on the door, sticks her head in and says, “Wake up call for breakfast.” I’m quick to get dressed and get my stuff. I’m guessing cranky pants is no more pleasant in the morning, and I really don’t want to deal with him. Downstairs there are a lot of people waiting outside the cafeteria for breakfast. It’s going to be crowded and I figure I’ve seen enough and it’s time to go home to my nice bed.
If you want to know what I ultimately concluded from my brief visit to the bottom, it’s that even falling to the lowest point, most people still have a certain amount of dignity. Most people were good to me and, as much as they have lost, they’ve managed to hold on to their humanity. That’s more than I can say for the bankers I’ve known.