Jennifer Lauck's Blog, page 13

Day 16: 4:28 p.m.

My kid has gerbils.

Chocolate Chip and S'mores.  Or is it Oreo and Chocolate Chip?  I have no idea.

They are not my rats.  They are her rats and they live in a glass terrarium with a jar full of ash where they take odd little dust baths.  There are wooden houses they eat.  There are two wheels for running, which they eat.  There is a water bottle, which they try to eat.  Their teeth are so sharp, they will obliterate an empty toilet paper roll in 32 seconds.  We know, we've timed them.  An empty paper towel roll will last for about a minute.   To hold them, my girl has to wear gloves.  Without the gloves, they'll gnaw her finger right to the bone.  S'mores did that once, or was that Chocolate Chip?

The point is, these rats have sharp teeth and they live in our house, in the kitchen to be exact.

Gerbils, my girl would correct.  They are gerbils in her world of cuteness but to me, in the world I occupy, they are vermin.  They are rats. 

And they are nocturnal.  This means they gear up at about four p.m. and it's run, run, run on the wheels like they are being chased by a man with a gun.  Run, run, run.

As I compose this post, I listen to the damn rats spin in their cage and I note that I haven't seen one homeless person since Monday.  It's Wednesday.  

So I want to write about all this but what to say and I let my mind go blank for a moment.  I just listen to the rats rattle around the wheel and it's all so futile.  That's what I think.  "You stupid creatures, what are you doing anyway?" 

And here come the questions: 

Q:  What do I want?
A:  Happiness.

Q:  What is my greatest fear?
A:  Not being happy (and being homeless).

Q:  What is happiness?
A:  I really don't know.

Being happy is a relative thing, to me.  What makes me happy as I sit here, all domesticated in my house, with the rats behind glass?   Justin's organic dark chocolate peanut butter cups, vegan cinnamon donuts from Whole Foods, my daughter when she laughs, my son when he dances and my beloved's voice with his deep southern twang.  Happiness arrives when I make enough money to pay the bills, when I can bank money for the proverbial "rainy day," having a car that works and water that is clean and enough toilet paper and a boy who remembers to put the seat down and a clean refrigerator (I need to get on that).  Health insurance doesn't make me happy but it's a relief to have it considering the impossible cost.

But all these things are outside my control.  Once I have them, happiness may arrive but then, when the stimulation is gone, what happens to the happiness?

Where is the happiness that lasts?

Is happiness a home? Money? Food? A child? A lover? 

The happiest I have ever been is when I had nothing.  I had left my husband of eleven years, left the house that cost us half a million, left the money that was in my bank account (and there was a lot), left my car, left even my kids (no, no, I was coming back) and I even shrugged off my career as a writer which I considered to be a major fluke.

I took up residence in the mountains of Colorado.  I lived in a tent.  I had a backpack, an air-mattress, a pump for the air-mattress, a flashlight, bug repellant, a cup, a plate, a fork, a pretty crummy sleeping bag, a black moleskin notebook and half a dozen mechanical pencils.

Damn I was happy.

Each night I fell asleep under a wide dark sky, the sound of wolves all around and sometimes, there was also the roll of far away thunder that was so big it shook the ground I slept on.  A million plus stars rained down and I was in my place.  Small.  Tiny.  Puny.  For once I didn't think about a damn thing and I had a lot to think about too.  What would I do without my husband?  What was my life without that man?  What kind of mother would I be?  Where would we live?  What would I do for money?

In the morning, even before the sun, I was out of my tent and into a pair of hiking boots.  With only the sound of my own breath, the puff of cloud that came from my hot lungs against the mountain cold, I hiked up a hill, took off my boots and padded into a canvas covered yurt.  I wore a pair of wool socks, a fleece jacket, a pair of kahki pants and I looked like hell, smelled even worse, but I was so fricken alive, it felt like energy shot through my whole body, this electric wire of aliveness.

I won't talk about spirituality, that's my deal from an earlier post, but that's what I was doing up there, in the mountains.  I was sitting down and breathing in and out and not thinking.  Which isn't really spiritual at all when you think about it.  We call it meditation because we need a label but that's not really anything.  What is meditation?  It's just butt on cushion and breathing until it's time to eat.

Big deal.

What's so spiritual about that?

Nothing, that's what.

And I was happy.  It was enough.

I had nothing.  I was homeless.  I was pretty much without a dime to my name while I was up there and what I had, damn, I gave it all to my teacher.  I couldn't get rid of my paper money fast enough.

I think about that time now.  I think about my fear, here in the city, where I live like everyone else.  Mortgage, work, bills that blow my mind and the surprising cost of food.  The day in, day out grind.  I'm no different than Oreo and Chocolate Chip.  I am a rat going around the wheel and it's all so futile.  That's what I think.  "You stupid creature, Jennifer, what are you doing anyway?"  I'm going in circles chasing what?

What do I want?   Happiness.

What is happiness anyway? 

Day 14: 5:00 p.m.

(FIRST DRAFT)

I am late for class.  I've mentioned this before, the personality of flaw of lateness.  It's not intentional.  Being on time, that would be intentional.  If only I would set the intention to be on time.  But I don't because why?  I don't have time.

My class at The Attic starts at five p.m., and with the extra two minutes I have before class (that I could have used being on time for a change), I decide to pop into New Seasons for an apple.  I have time, I tell myself.

But here's the deal.  There is always someone in front of New Seasons.  ALWAYS.

Phone?  Check.
Dollar?  Check.
Willingness to be even later than I already am.  Weeeeelllll.

No.  I'm willing. 

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Ron," he says.

"I'm Jennifer."

"Hey, nice to meet you," he says. "You're here a lot."

"Yep, I'm here a lot and today I decided to talk for a second.  Is that good?"

"You bet."

Ron sells papers for Street Roots and I like this paper a lot.  This week, it's Natalie Merchant on the cover.  Natalie Merchant is still around and still looks that adorable?  Who knew.

It's another blazing Portland fall day and I'm getting tired of the heat.  It's a tease of freezing cold nights and blazing hot days and I'm ready.  Bring on the fall.  I peel off my sweater, toss it over my bag and stand there with Ron in a pool of awkward silence.  What to say?  What to say?

"So, how long you been selling papers?" I ask.

"A few years," he says.

"How's it going?"

"Good, not great, but good."

"Do you notice a difference, year to year?" I ask.

"I do," he says and we talk about paper sales for a while.  He's down in sales by about a third and doesn't know way.  Maybe the economy.  Maybe not.  He just shrugs.

Ron is a really nice guy.  He's got a sweet smile and a calm way that tells me he's seen life and knows things.  His calm feels wise.  I'm pretty sure he does not run late, like I do. He is a real person.  A human being with a name, he sells papers, he's making a life.  We are here, two people, chatting it up.  Okay.  It's good.

I ask, like I always do, if I can take a photo.  He's a little hesitant.  At last someone who is hesitant.  I admire his reserve.

I explain about the weblog and my project.  When I tell him I walked the streets as as a kid and have a fear of being homeless, well, that is all it takes.  He says, "you bet, take your photo." Which I do and as I say goodbye to go into the store for that apple, you know what he says?  He says, "Hey, good luck with that writing thing."

Can you imagine?  He wishes me luck.  I am not the one selling newspapers.  I'm not on the streets.  This guy, what a guy, offers me good will and good luck.

I am more touched than I can even begin to say.  I dash into the airconditioned cool store, grab a fat braeburn off the pile, rush to the check out and it's $1.69.  For an apple? Since when?

I cough up the cash and check my watch.  I'm ten minutes late but it will be fine.  The class is just a block away and my pal Cloie is there.  She opens the door and get everyone settled in.  Cloie is never late. God love her.

I come out of the New Seasons door and Ron talks to someone else.  He hands over a paper for a buck. 

"Take it easy, Ron," I say. 

"You too, Jennifer," he says.

Ron remembered my name.  He wished me luck and he remembered my name.  Not a bad trade for a buck.  Humanity. 

Day 10: 12:30 p.m.

His name is Anthony but he doesn't want me to call him that.

"It's Tony, Ma'am," he says.

I want to say "ma'am?  Ma'am is for old ladies but then I realize to Anthony, I am fricken old.  He's a kid.  I'm almost fifty. 

"What's going on, Anthony?" I ask.

"Tony," he says.

I hand him a buck, which I had ready and just a few feet away, a guy (who also got a dollar) slams a big drum with his foot and plays an accordion. He's got two dogs (you only see one in the photo) and he sings what sounds like a German song.

"Can you understand that language?" Tony asks.

"No," I say. "I can't."

Tony sits on his pack and in front of him is a sign that reads how he was in the Navy, some kind of ship clerk, and he wants to go home.  The thing about Tony is that he is tall and great looking.  Spin him around, put him somewhere else and women would be filing up to flirt with this guy.  What the hell is going on?

"I lost my job and my wallet, so I can't get another job," he says.  "I want a ticket to get home and it's like a couple hundred bucks so I'm doing my best out here on the streets but this guy with the dogs just came out and I think I am probably going to go because what's the use, right?"

"How are you doing? I mean, are you close to reaching your goal?"

"I am," he says, "I need like thirty bucks more."

He looks up at me from where he squats and he's got the sorrowful, difficult, man-I-need-a-little-help expression down pat.  I feel bad for him but then again, I also see that there is something under what he's telling me about himself.  If I give him money, I can almost guarantee it's going to booze or drugs and not to a ticket back to Chicago. 

This is something I think every single time I give money to someone who is on the street.  I think, "this is not compassion.  This is enabling.  This is idiot compassion."

And then that begs out the question, "what the hell is compassion?"

According to Ken McLeod, who wrote Wake Up to Your Life:  if you feel an impulse to help from your own discomfort in the situation, you are reacting, not responding, to the pain of the person.  If you are unable to do anything, you collapse into helplessness, withdraw from the situation physically or emotionally, and see yourself as a victim of the others misfortune and pain.  

Neither is compassion. 

McLeod goes on to say compassion is being there with someone in pain, without concern for yourself.  You are just with the person, even though it is intense.

Okay, I've heard this before and it still pisses me off.  It just bothers me.  "Just being present to pain and suffering," feels so odd.  Just be with it?  Just sit there and relax?  Doesn't that seem futile?  And there I go, collapsing into helplessness.  A victim.

Compassion is a mother f!

"Can I take your picture, Anthony?"

"Tony," he says.

"Tony, I'm sorry.  I'm writing this weblog about being on the streets.  I would like to include your picture with what I write.  Is that okay?"

"Hey, that's totally cool," he says.  "I write."

Tony flips out a notebook and sure enough, that boy does write.  "I've been putting down my experience, you know, just a little bit here and there but I like it.  Writing is cool, it helps."

"Yes, it does," I say.

"Cool," he says.  "That's really great."
 
"Tony, I gotta go but good luck, okay.  Take it easy."

He says he will take it easy and that's it.  I've got to get my kid from school and I cross the street.  It's SW Portland, that crazy Pearl district traffic near Powell's City of Boos and if you don't watch out you will be flattened by a car.  I cross the intersection and go a few steps and I know it in my gut, I just know Tony has a habit he's supporting.   But he's a writer.  He's got words on the page and even though I really don't have money enough to do it, being a writer myself and a single mother too, I fish a twenty out of my wallet and turn around.

I do not write this to say I'm a good person.  It's not about being a good person.  I don't think giving this kid is good or helpful or even compassionate now.  I don't know enough about compassion to understand what's going on yet.  I'm just trying to be present and feel my way through this.  Turning around and passing over twenty large is about being a writer.   Writing is how I make the teeny tiny amount of money I make, which supports my family and my home and my ability to be in Powell's buying books.

I cross the crazy intersection again, jog up to Tony and hand him the twenty which gets him to stand up.  He hugs me and says, "oh my God, thank you, thank you.  I mean it.  I can't thank you enough."  The drum banging, German singing accordion guy is still going strong but I manage to say it.

"Write, Tony," I say.  "If I can do it, anyone can do it.  Write and get yourself out of this mess."

Tony nods like sure, he'll write, maybe, maybe not.  And that's it.  I'm gone.  I don't look back to see what he's going to do.  I cross the intersection, check to make sure my wallet is still there becasue in that hug, it could have been lifted.  That's how stupid vulnerable I just made myself.  The wallet is there.  Whew. 

TIME TAKEN:          10 minutes 
DOLLARS GIVEN:  $22.00

Day 9: 4:47 p.m.

I will not talk about being a Buddhist.  The moment that trash comes out of someone's mouth, it's done.  People are done.  Eyes glaze over.  Religion mentality clicks in.  Red flags rise and it's time to move on.

So I won't talk about it.  Being a spiritual person, even eluding to the idea of it, is a big pile of garbage on the street and no one needs that.  

I once had an agent dump me because I suggested I might consider writing something "spiritual."

"All the problems in this world are because of spirituality," she spat. 

Of course, she's wrong.  All the problems in the world are not because of spirituality but who is going to argue with a woman who is known for getting million dollar advances?  You just nod, smile and say, "well, I will not write about spirituality then.  I will stay right down the center path of the mainstream."

I did say those words but she was still suspect of me and we were done.

So no, I am not going say "Buddhism" or spirituality or anything like that. 

Instead I'm going to write about fear and what I'm scared of, which is homelessness, being homeless, not having enough in my wallet to help the homeless, not having anything to say to a homeless person, not even being present in the face of the issue that is men and women and kids on the street.   I am afraid I am one of those people who looks the other way but it's not true.  I don't look the other way.

It hurts to see a homeless person.  It aches me in the gut and I think about ways to be helpful as I walk up to a homeless person with a hand out.  I think about it while I pass money over or buy a newspaper or whatever and later, as I walk away, I think about what more I could have done. 

Should I give vouchers for food? 
Should I give food?
Should I give water? 
Is cash the best idea? 
Should I do nothing and have faith in the services the city offers? 
What the heck helps?

I really don't know.

I once had a teacher, (yes, a spiritual teacher), and she said, "Don't do anything.  Just be with what is."

Be with what is?  What does that even mean?  Just be there, with a homeless person like what?  Like I'm a tree he stands under?  A mushroom in the grass near her feet?   The sun that shines down on his shoulders? 

How can I just "be" with it?

I didn't have answer and frankly, neither did she and after several teachings with this woman, I moved on because what she said made zero sense to me.  Be with it?  Whatever.

What's the use of being spiritual and imparting advice if what you say means nothing to those who listen? 

What's the use of bobbling our heads like we understand when we don't get it and don't have the courage to lift up a hand and say, "I do not get what you mean."

What I know is this.  I'm scared of being homeless.  It's a true fear.  And I'm scared for not doing enough in the face of the crisis of homelessness that is around me everyday.  Thus this weblog for one year.  But the thing is this.  Now that I'm writing on the site and looking at the fear, no homeless people are in my path.  Not one.

As I drove the streets today, went to stores, lived my life like I always do, I came across no one.  Usually Trader Joe's is good for a family camped on the corner.  Whole Paycheck is perfect for a guy with an issue of Common Ground (the homeless newspaper).  Heck, anywhere up and down Broadway or Weidler is a good as well but I'm telling you, something is going on.  Facing my fear and being ready is just making the whole situation disappear out of my life.

And now I'm bugged.  It's really odd. 

Is that the way it works when we turn to face our fear? Does fear just up and leave?  Is that what "being with" it means, in the active sense?  Because I am with it.  I'm ready.  I want to look at this fear and I am looking at it but now the fear has turned tail and run the other way. 

I'm not giving up.  No way.  I'm in hot pursuit.

Tomorrow I will be out all day.  Errands, meetings, lots of chances to give some cash away.  Wish me luck. 

Day 6: 3:30 p.m.

I drove right past the store.

They call it "whole paycheck" sometimes but it's not.  It's Wholefoods. Home to organic fruit, humane eggs, bulk in bins.  Flour, dates, rice, nuts.  

The traffic both ways?  Light.

Parking?  Available.

The sun?  Out.

The sky? Clear.  

I was simply unprepared.

I just left the gym and my bag was stuffed with student papers I had read while I clocked time on the StairMaster.  Here, that would be a great idea.  "Mr. Homeless man, would you like some corrected student papers?  Want to add your two cents?"

Heck, I didn't have my phone.

And, I had no money (it was in the pocket of my jeans, at home).

Three homeless people sat in front of the door.  Hands out.  Signs too.  These people in need were camped out with chairs and sleeping bags and their carts parked behind them, overflowing with the things they needed throughout the day.

WF customers went in the door, came out, walked past.  As I made my right turn, about to stop for an apple, I couldn't-park-my-car.

I drove right past.

I told myself, "you're a coward."

And it is true.  I'm a coward who just went back on her deal after what?  Five days?  

Truth?

I was also deep inside myself.  I was so caught in a story inside my own head--a mess with my former spouse--a revelation that finally made all the years of our unhappy marriage make more sense.

I was just caught in the riptide of thoughts, processing so deep, I didn't think to bring my wallet and my phone and my new deal to face my fear.

In a really strange way, one of my biggest fears (the marriage's end was all my fault) had been put to rest by the "former," or as I like to call him, "the father of my kids."

He just up and called, after eight years of being divorced, and said he was sorry and, "it wasn't your fault, Jen.  I let you down."

Okay, no this isn't verbatium but it is damn close.  Accountability.  The man took his share of the burden off my back.  For twenty five years I've been carrying our load and thinking, in my darkest most secret place, my marriage failed because of me.  Because I'm so fricken screwed up.  Because my parents died and I hear voices in the night and I'm scared of so many thing.  LIke being homeless.

Note to self:  BE READY ALL THE TIME!

Day 5: 1:05 p.m.

Is it the adoption thing?

My lifelong fear of homelessness?  

I've read that adopted people, once they become adults, share this common terror.

Pg. 123 of Betty Jean Lifton's Journey of the Adopted Self (Hardcover/BasicBooks):  

"Homelessness is abandonment with a different spelling," Lifton writes.  "Even as they appear to be tucked safely into their adoptive homes, adoptees fear that homelessness lies in wait like a grave at the end of the road."

Betty Jean was a friend to me at the end of her life.  She died just a few days after she helped mend a broken bridge with my birth mom and sister.  She was a pioneer on adoption and healing.  She is beloved by thousands. 

Same page in Journey, she writes, "If it is true that homelessness is an "archetypal state of transiency," (as worked by Carl Jung) adoptees have always been transients.  They have a sense of being on the road even when they have a place to return to at night." 

But the thing is, I will hear people say adopted people don't feel this way.  "Oh, that's not how it is, I know a guy who is adopted and he's so happy, lucky and well adjusted."

Wings on heels, fly in opposite direction.

When it comes to this kind of person, what is the use in standing my ground, presenting evidence, arguing the point?  It's taken me about 48 years to figure it out but I believe the argument is the point for the person who tells me I don't know how I feel.  It's a control game.  This person is someone who wants to control the only reality I have.  My emotions are my truth.

It's Human Existence 101. 

That's how it works.  Emotions are complex, like human beings are complex.  Emotions need to be acknowledged, studied, reflected on, experimented with and tested.  Emotions are like music, hell, they are like a symphony.  To attain mastery, we need a lifetime of practice.  We need a great composer for control and balance.  We need tuned instruments that allow our feelings to lilt or blast or cry their way out.  Most of all, we need time to let symphony practice and finally perform.  And, I think, we need an audience to hear.

It's a great big metaphor.

Emotions are allowed.  Fear of homelessness is mine and I believe, in part, my fear is part of the adoption thing. 

I've not gone out today but I will.  I'm ready.  We'll see. 

Day 4: 9:37 p.m.

An entire day went by and I did not see one homeless person with a hand extended. 

No one banged a rickety  cart up my street. 

There were no torn cardboard signs penned in Sharpie. 

And I was out.  I had to be out.  Paper store, grocery, post office, kids, go, go, always on the go.  

I had cash in my back pocket too.  I was trigger ready for the moment.  I had my camera.  I was ready to say hi.  Heck, I even had questions.  And most of all, I re-adjusted my attitude. 

Yes, I still carried my fear of homelessness and I also continued to fear the Godzilla-sized need I see in the homeless--the need for food, medical care, clothing, shelter, mental health support and human recognition--but I'm not as spooked as I felt when I started this weblog.  Which was what?  Five minutes ago? 

It's strange to be ready and then nothing happens.  It's like being all dressed up for a party only your date never shows up.  But not quite like that.  It's more like having a target and you've got your arrow aimed only you don't let it fly.  You just wait, eye trained on the bulls eye, that twitchy readiness, that hold of the breath. 

So what is it?  What's going on?  Face fear = watch fear go away?

I don't think it's that easy.  I'm pretty sure I've missed something.

I've got a year to figure it out though, so it's all good.  I'll wait.  Time is on my side.  

TIME TAKEN:          0 minutes  (unless you count this update--which I don't)
DOLLARS GIVEN:  $0.00

  

Day 3: 1:30 p.m.

I'm a bit in love.

I say "a bit" because it's new.  Really new.  In fact, it's too new to even say, "I'm in love."  But there you have it.  I'm a quandary to myself.

The one I'm "a bit" in love with is a beautiful man.  Funny.  Deep.  Calm.  Honorable. Decent.  He's a genuine mensch and most amazing to me, the guy is a former Green Beret.

How does a Buddhist end up with a guy who served in the military?

Another quandary.

But here's the deal.  I finally feel safe in the company of a man who knows how to behave like a gentleman.  He has discipline.  He makes sure I'm okay.  He looks out for me and is protective of me and that feels very odd.  I'm all out of sorts most of the time. 

I've never had a guy like this guy.  Not since my own father, who died when I was nine.  And that father didn't really look out for me very well--now that I look back.   He was a good guy but like a lot of men of that generation, he had other things on his mind--money, debt, responsibility. 

My mom died when I was seven so on the day my dad died, I knew my future was up to one person.  Me.  I was on my own.  Alone.  It was the world against Jennifer and in a lot of ways, it's been true.  Or I've made it true.  39 years is a long time to be in a dangerous world, never feeling safe--even in my own home.  I have paired myself with guys who have been less than decent to me, who argue, who are insecure, who are controlling and competitive and manipulative.  All of them had their good sides, it's true but I never felt safe.  I picked those guys because they were familiar to me.  They were the way I was raised--always on edge--surrounded by people I couldn't trust. 

Being Jennifer has been like being homeless all the time.  Even though I'm not on the streets.  I am on the streets inside myself.  I live "on alert."

The difference between the homeless people I'm meeting and myself?  I don't hold out my hand or ask for help or even accept help when it's offered.  Until now. Until this guy who I let myself be "a bit" in love with and who takes my hand and looks out for me.  I trust him, which is weird because I don't trust anyone.  Heck, most of the time, I don't even trust myself.

And all of this is what I think about--the being "a bit" in love and the way I've lived inside--when I cross the street down by Whole Foods in the Pearl.  I've just come from a therapy session, where I try to figure myself out and there they are.  Damian and his dog. 

Talk about tattoos.  Damian has taken it beyond tear drops.  He's all tattoos everywhere I can see and I dig into my purse.

Without a moment of hesitancy, he takes my money and we talk.

I get his name and his dog's name (which I forgot right away).  I get his story too.  Damian is with his brother, they are on their way to South Dakota for the beet harvest, they need some form of ID for travel.  Once they have their ID's, they are gone.  He nods while he talks and I can tell he's worried.  He's in his head making his plans and he says his dog has been with them all along.  The dog is a good friend.  Damian and his brother, yes, they plan to leave town soon and they will take the dog with the name I forgot.

That dog is not remotely interested in me.  That dog is on his back, all spread eagle, tummy up for what looks like a long tummy rub. In fact, the closer I look at the photo, the more I realize--that dog isn't a he.  Damian's dog is a she.  Two guys and their sweet, vulnerable, trusting girl dog.

"Can I take your photo?" I ask.

Damian doesn't hesitate.  He doesn't even flinch.  He's like, "Sure, no problem," and while I snap off two, he talks more about the trip he needs to make to South Dakota. 

I'd be like, "what the fu#$?  Why do you want my photo?"  I'd be full of attitude but he's not.  He's chill-calm-relaxed.  He waits on his brother.  He pets the dog.

The surrender of this kid.

Where does his courage come from?

I wish I asked him that question because I feel like I could use some of his guts for being vulnerable and depending on the kindness of others.  He relies on me.  And on so many others.  All the time.  All day long.

I want to feel what Damian feels--safe enough to ask for help and then to take what's offered without a bit of apology.


TIME TAKEN:          5 minutes
DOLLARS GIVEN:  $1.00

Day 3: Sept. 20, 1:30 p.m.

I'm a bit in love these days.  I say "a bit" because it's new.  Really new.  In fact, it's too new to say, "I'm in love."  But there you have it.  I'm a quandary to myself. 

He's a beautiful man.  Quiet.  Calm.  Honorable. Decent.  He's a genuine mensch and most amazing to me, the guy is a former Green Beret. 

How does a Buddhist end up with a guy who served for the U.S. military? 

Another quandry. 

But here's the deal.  I finally feel safe in the company of a man who knows how to behave like a gentleman.  He has discipline.  He makes sure I'm okay.  He looks out for me and is protective of me and that feels very odd.  I'm all out of sorts around this kind of care.  I'm suspicious.  

In all of my life, I've never had a guy like this guy.  Not since my own father, who died when I was nine.  And that father didn't really look out for me.  Not really.  He was in his head, he was busy, he had other things on his mind--money, debt, responsibility.  He was a good guy.  He was just a busy guy. 

On the day my dad died, I knew it was up to one person.  Me.  I was on my own.  Alone.  It was the world against Jennifer and in a lot of ways, it's been true.  Or I've made it true.  39 years is a long time to be at war with a dangerous world, never feeling safe--even in my own home.  I have paired myself up with guys who have been less than decent to me, who have felt unsafe, who argue, who are insecure and competitive and manipulative.  I was with these people because they felt familiar to me.  I was better with an enemy close by--that way I could always move on.

Being Jennifer is like being homelss all the time.  Even though I'm not on the streets.  I am on the streets inside. 

The difference between a homeless person and me?  I don't hold out my hand or ask for help or even accept help when it's offered.  Until now. 

Until this guy who I let myself be "a bit" in love with and who am I kidding?  I am far beyond "a bit."  I've over the top.

And all of this is what I think about--the being in love and the guy and the way I've lived inside, at war with myself and the world--when I spot Damian at the corner with his dog.

Talk about tattoos.  Damian has taken it beyond tear drops.  He's all tattoos everywhere I can see and I stop with my internal drama when I see him.  I dig into my purse and I cross the street.  I'm ready and he takes my money and we talk.  We really talk. 

I get his name, his dog's name (which I have forgotten) and I get his story too.  He's with his brother, they are on their way to South Dakota for the beet harvest, they need some form of ID for travel and that's it.  They are gone.  He talks and nods while he talks and I can tell he's worried.  He's in his head making his plans and he says his dog has been with them all along.  The dog is a good friend.  Damian and his brother, yes, they are leaving town soon and they are taking the dog with the name I forgot.

That dog was not remotely interested in me.  That dog was on its back, all spread eagle, tummy up for what looked like a long tummy rub of his happy life. 

"Can I take your photo?" I ask.

Damian doesn't even hesitate.  He doesn't even flinch.  He's like, "sure, man, no problem."

I'd be like, "what the fu#$?  Why do you want my photo?"  I'd be full of attitude but he's not.  He's so chill relaxed, I'm amazed. 

The surrender of this kid. 
The presence. 
The humanity. 

He's just here asking for a little help. 

Where does his courage come from? 

I wish I asked him because I feel like I could use some of his guts for being vulnerable and depending on the kindness of others.  I want to feel what he feels--safe enough to ask for a little help and to take it when it's offered. 

Day 2: 4:30 p.m.

He's just a kid.  Eighteen, nineteen?  I didn't ask.  We barely saw each other.

Traffic moved too fast.

I was on Weidler.  Northeast Portland.
 
Yes, I was late to get my girl who waited on the other side of town.

This kid on the corner with his hand out had three tattoos under his left eye.  They were black tear drops.  Permanent on his young skin.  His gaunt, slim, fine face was slick and shiny from sweat.

I wish I had a photograph but there wasn't time.  It was rush hour.  Cars everywhere, four lanes of traffic, plus a train and four more lanes going the other way.  Pandemonium.

Jeans, blue shirt, a black vest.  This kid darted out of nowhere.  He had a cardboard sign but it wasn't up. He squatted low on the sidewalk.  Maybe he was having a smoke?  But then he popped up and I was almost where he stood.

I thought, "Oh shit, it's my deal. Money?  Where's some money?"

I scrambled my fingers into the little change dispenser under the steering wheel.  I bailed out all the quarters, dimes and nickles and quick, down with the window and reach.

"Here you go."

He was fast to grab.

The whole thing felt like we passed a baton in a relay race.

He had black spiky hair.  And those tattoos.

His eyes were wide open and he was there.  Present.

Our hands touched.  His fingers had tattoos, I think.  I can't really say for sure but when I close my eyes now and go inside--search deep into memory of that flash of time--I see marks on his slim hands.  He looked at me--a woman giving him money.  I kept my eyes on his face, his tattoos and his eyes. Were they blue?  Or brown?  Hell, I do not know.  They were bright.  That's what I remember.

In the looking that deep, this kid became crazy beautiful.  I'm not making it up or pulling some new age who-ha.  I mean it.  He was heartbreaking wide open, unbelievable beautiful.

It wasn't the looking at him as a homeless kid.
It wasn't looking at him like, "oh man, that could be my kid."
It wasn't looking at him like I thought he would have the face of love.
He just had it.  Love was all around and he was beautiful to me.

What's going on here?

TIME TAKEN:          One minute
DOLLARS GIVEN:  ?? Maybe $2.00