Lee Perry's Blog - Posts Tagged "homeless"
So what's the deal with you?
“What’s the deal with you?” That’s what a friend said to me recently. I had just professed my love (strictly platonic, of course) for Bill Maher and his atheistic belief system when this friend knows I am… not religious, but a believer in things unseen. I have had the experience, more than once, of being helped by unseen hands, although it’s taken me many years to acknowledge what happened actually did happen.
On the one hand, I think I get where atheists are coming from; the world’s religions spend all their time reassuring people about what lies beyond the physical world, when the only way a person can really find out is to, you know… croak. And who wants to do that? Pondering the imponderable, wondering about what lies beyond when there just isn’t any way to know; the religious person would like some reassurance, even if it’s only lip service… I mean faith, and the atheist just considers the whole thing a colossal waste of his/her time and good for them. Where’s the beef? I mean, The Proof, they want to know. After all, those so-called near death experiences have been proven to be mere electrical flashes, hallucinations provided by a dying oxygen-deprived brain, noisy ghosts are just bad plumbing and psychics are just master manipulators, right?
This friend of mine, who would prefer I never use her name in this kind of setting, cannot understand how I can possibly be sympathetic to the atheists of the world, (especially funny smart ones like Bill Maher) and yet believe in life beyond the physical. It’s simple, really, all it really required on my part was stopping to check my mail one night when I was in my early 20’s. I was attending classes across the street from where I lived at San Jose State University during the day, and supported myself working the graveyard shift as a security guard at National Semiconductor.
I lived in the basement studio apartment of an old Victorian, called The Dorchester back then, (built in 1888) and one rainy night, as I was leaving for work in my cute little uniform, when I exited the front door I had to slip past a young-looking homeless man, taking shelter on the covered porch. I always avoided eye contact when homeless men tried to hang out at The Dorchester, back then, too many were seriously mentally ill, and because they never bathed or had simple hygienic amenities like toilet paper the smell was, honestly, enough to gag a person. But the mailbox was on the porch, and I stopped to check it. It was one of those set in the wall types, a single bank of mailboxes the mailman used a master key to open the single wide-top while us tenants used our keys to open the narrow little flap-doors. I loved that they were 1, locked, and 2, anonymous; our names were only listed inside the mailman’s’ access panel and I appreciated that little safety feature.
I checked the mail, grateful no bills lurked within and as I was shutting and locking the little mailbox door, the young homeless man, dressed in the archetypal worn and tattered clothing said, in a very quiet, clear voice,
“Lee, don’t go to the seaside. If you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
I know, not dramatic at all, right? I think my hand may have frozen for half a second, my experience had always been; I didn’t speak to homeless guys hanging out at The Dorchester and they didn’t speak to me. Ignoring him, my eyes flashed down at my jacket, thinking it was open and my name tag was showing, while at the same time, struggling to get my key out of the stupid lock. Just as I pulled the idiot key free, he said it again,
“Lee, don’t go to the seaside, if you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
Great, just great, I thought as I hurried down the steps to my little truck, whatever, man. I got in, cranked on the engine, and headed to work. By the time I got there the creepy experience on the front porch had faded substantially, other than being grateful the guy didn’t smell, I didn’t really think about it again until I went through my usual final preparation for the shift change and found my badge and name tag in my jacket pocket, where I always keep them. So while I still had no explanation for why a homeless man would know my name, let alone make some vague creepy threat, who cares? He was just a crazy homeless person.
I was the graveyard console operator and ERT, the Emergency Response Team, usually dropped by around two-thirty in the morning for a chat and to hang out. I loved the B Team, they were like three older brothers who fixed my old car every time it broke down until one of them, Jeff Lamb, sold me his sister’s little Ford Ranger pickup truck. He knew I had saved up for a camper shell; the truck’s cab was really small, and fitting me, my mother and groceries in there at the same time was a tight fit, even for petite persons like ourselves. So the boys came in the console room that night and Jeff says to me,
“Hey, remember when I told you the guy that sold the camper shells was in Salinas?”
Of course I did, I was ready to take the plunge, and back then six hundred bucks was serious tuition money for a humble college student.
“Well, I screwed up, it’s not in Salinas, it’s in Seaside.”
That’s when I thought the planet had stopped spinning for a second.
Excusemesaywhatnow?
Everything stopped and I waved dismissively, “Oh, uh, that’s okay… I think I changed my mind… uh, uh…”
Seaside is about twenty miles west of Salinas, and yeah, it’s on the seaside and while you could have knocked me over with a feather all I could do was deny it. Don’t get me wrong, in that one instant I completely abandoned all thoughts and plans for going to Seaside for a camper shell. In spite of my stunned amazement, I was perfectly happy to not test out a creepy message sent via a mentally ill homeless man, even if he didn’t smell.
“Don’t go to the seaside, if you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
That’s all it took, and as far as I know, that was the first time I had an experience I just could not explain. I never told anyone at work; in fact, it was years before I ever told anyone this story. It’s still there, that great three story house. It’s not called The Dorchester anymore but it’s still there, on the corner of North 7th and East San Fernando. I was looking at it on Google street view not too long ago and I thought how ordinary life is, even when something extraordinary happens. Because I think it’s perfectly fine to question everything; prove it, show me, don’t be gullible. But if some homeless person gives you some odd, cryptic advice, what’s the big deal if you decide to follow it? Didn’t prove anything one way or the other… and I saved six hundred bucks.
On the one hand, I think I get where atheists are coming from; the world’s religions spend all their time reassuring people about what lies beyond the physical world, when the only way a person can really find out is to, you know… croak. And who wants to do that? Pondering the imponderable, wondering about what lies beyond when there just isn’t any way to know; the religious person would like some reassurance, even if it’s only lip service… I mean faith, and the atheist just considers the whole thing a colossal waste of his/her time and good for them. Where’s the beef? I mean, The Proof, they want to know. After all, those so-called near death experiences have been proven to be mere electrical flashes, hallucinations provided by a dying oxygen-deprived brain, noisy ghosts are just bad plumbing and psychics are just master manipulators, right?
This friend of mine, who would prefer I never use her name in this kind of setting, cannot understand how I can possibly be sympathetic to the atheists of the world, (especially funny smart ones like Bill Maher) and yet believe in life beyond the physical. It’s simple, really, all it really required on my part was stopping to check my mail one night when I was in my early 20’s. I was attending classes across the street from where I lived at San Jose State University during the day, and supported myself working the graveyard shift as a security guard at National Semiconductor.
I lived in the basement studio apartment of an old Victorian, called The Dorchester back then, (built in 1888) and one rainy night, as I was leaving for work in my cute little uniform, when I exited the front door I had to slip past a young-looking homeless man, taking shelter on the covered porch. I always avoided eye contact when homeless men tried to hang out at The Dorchester, back then, too many were seriously mentally ill, and because they never bathed or had simple hygienic amenities like toilet paper the smell was, honestly, enough to gag a person. But the mailbox was on the porch, and I stopped to check it. It was one of those set in the wall types, a single bank of mailboxes the mailman used a master key to open the single wide-top while us tenants used our keys to open the narrow little flap-doors. I loved that they were 1, locked, and 2, anonymous; our names were only listed inside the mailman’s’ access panel and I appreciated that little safety feature.
I checked the mail, grateful no bills lurked within and as I was shutting and locking the little mailbox door, the young homeless man, dressed in the archetypal worn and tattered clothing said, in a very quiet, clear voice,
“Lee, don’t go to the seaside. If you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
I know, not dramatic at all, right? I think my hand may have frozen for half a second, my experience had always been; I didn’t speak to homeless guys hanging out at The Dorchester and they didn’t speak to me. Ignoring him, my eyes flashed down at my jacket, thinking it was open and my name tag was showing, while at the same time, struggling to get my key out of the stupid lock. Just as I pulled the idiot key free, he said it again,
“Lee, don’t go to the seaside, if you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
Great, just great, I thought as I hurried down the steps to my little truck, whatever, man. I got in, cranked on the engine, and headed to work. By the time I got there the creepy experience on the front porch had faded substantially, other than being grateful the guy didn’t smell, I didn’t really think about it again until I went through my usual final preparation for the shift change and found my badge and name tag in my jacket pocket, where I always keep them. So while I still had no explanation for why a homeless man would know my name, let alone make some vague creepy threat, who cares? He was just a crazy homeless person.
I was the graveyard console operator and ERT, the Emergency Response Team, usually dropped by around two-thirty in the morning for a chat and to hang out. I loved the B Team, they were like three older brothers who fixed my old car every time it broke down until one of them, Jeff Lamb, sold me his sister’s little Ford Ranger pickup truck. He knew I had saved up for a camper shell; the truck’s cab was really small, and fitting me, my mother and groceries in there at the same time was a tight fit, even for petite persons like ourselves. So the boys came in the console room that night and Jeff says to me,
“Hey, remember when I told you the guy that sold the camper shells was in Salinas?”
Of course I did, I was ready to take the plunge, and back then six hundred bucks was serious tuition money for a humble college student.
“Well, I screwed up, it’s not in Salinas, it’s in Seaside.”
That’s when I thought the planet had stopped spinning for a second.
Excusemesaywhatnow?
Everything stopped and I waved dismissively, “Oh, uh, that’s okay… I think I changed my mind… uh, uh…”
Seaside is about twenty miles west of Salinas, and yeah, it’s on the seaside and while you could have knocked me over with a feather all I could do was deny it. Don’t get me wrong, in that one instant I completely abandoned all thoughts and plans for going to Seaside for a camper shell. In spite of my stunned amazement, I was perfectly happy to not test out a creepy message sent via a mentally ill homeless man, even if he didn’t smell.
“Don’t go to the seaside, if you go to the seaside, you’ll die.”
That’s all it took, and as far as I know, that was the first time I had an experience I just could not explain. I never told anyone at work; in fact, it was years before I ever told anyone this story. It’s still there, that great three story house. It’s not called The Dorchester anymore but it’s still there, on the corner of North 7th and East San Fernando. I was looking at it on Google street view not too long ago and I thought how ordinary life is, even when something extraordinary happens. Because I think it’s perfectly fine to question everything; prove it, show me, don’t be gullible. But if some homeless person gives you some odd, cryptic advice, what’s the big deal if you decide to follow it? Didn’t prove anything one way or the other… and I saved six hundred bucks.
