Empty Concrete

The night is cool. Crisp. The smell of saltwater is in the air. Hundreds of people mill around. Maybe thousands. Beautiful. Normal. Average. Some are rich, some achingly middle class. The pavement swells under them all. Hard. Cold. Unforgiving. Sometimes the concrete is as alive as the rest of the city. It has it’s own personality. Stretching out like a spider web. Sometimes it’s more alive. Dreaming. Living. Loving. Sometimes the cold concrete is all some have. Those who feel alone in the middle of a crowd.

_____


At night, downtown Seattle is like a dream. Maybe not for most people, but when you are a small town farm hick from Montana, the city feels like another realm. A different world, existing in a different time and place. Salt fills your lungs with every breathe. The myriad sounds monotonously hum, whirling around you. What constantly intrigued me were the people and the lights. I have never witnessed so much of each at one time. Under all this illumination, individuals are like ants. Milling about their business, going to dinner, attending a movie, hitting a club. Every skin tone. Every conceivable occupation. A swarm of people swimming in sea of lights. Everything is so overwhelming. A million miles away from a wheat field. From my home. From the life I have known since birth.


I have never known poverty. Sure, everybody gets stretched thin sometimes. Bills can add up. Kids. Lots of food. Intangibles. Most Americans think sacrifice is not being able to afford an extra tier on their cable subscription. As if STARZ held a special life and death significance to us all. I have always been provided a roof over my head and food on the table, if not by my parents than by my own accord. My closest concept of true poverty was seeing winos standing behind Ick’s in Browning, Montana, drinking liquor, Lysol or whatever they could out of cylindrical objects, hidden by brown bags in their hands. Somehow they all seemed anonymous to me. Humorous. At times laughable. I always imagined they found someplace to stay. A relative. A friend. The local church maybe? They usually seemed more pathetic than pitiful to me. Maybe a bit of both, I guess. A person of compassion will feel sorry for those less fortunate, however, the winos back home never had an intimate hold on my emotions. They existed, and I felt sorry for them, but that was it.


At some point during my first month or two living in Seattle, I ran into a young woman on the street outside of a Loews Cineplex movie theater. Not literally, but I just happened to be walking by her when she asked me for change. As I glanced over, I noticed she was not a typical homeless person, whatever typical means I guess. She was young, maybe twenty or so, pretty, with reddish hair and alabaster skin spattered with light freckles. I stopped and talked to her for a few seconds as I dug around in my pockets for spare change. Soon I was on my way, having given her some change, and yet, it was her who made an indelible mark.

My infinite curiosity had gotten the best of me. As I strolled the few blocks home, I pondered this young woman. How did she become homeless? She did not look like a homeless person. More like one of the many normal girls I have known and become friends with, or even dated, throughout my life. She was average. Just like anybody, I guess. The homeless people I had met, up to that point, almost exclusively looked homeless. When you walk down a street and see some ratty looking guy, in clothes that smell like garbage, with a friend passed out on the sidewalk next to them, well, that person looks like they are homeless. This person who I just met, did not.


And, over time, I ran into her quite often. At least for the next several months. Each time I would give her some change, chat for a moment or two and be on. She was friendly. Nice even. Just another decent person that I met in the course of life, except she happened to be homeless. Most of the time, we seemed happy to see each other. Like old friends, bumping into each other on the street. As if we had gone to school together or something. Or maybe she was a friend of a friend. Or had dated someone I knew. This familiarity was there. I used to wonder what she was doing on holidays. On Thanksgiving that year, I even wondered what it would be like if I invited her up and cooked dinner for her. Allowed her to stay in the front room on my ex-roommate’s abandoned bed. That would be nice, I thought. Generous. Because if there is one thing in life that I truly believe, is that good works should be important to all of us. Compassion and sacrifice. I am a person of faith, raised a Catholic, and I believe in God. Faith is important to me. However, faith does not matter if you do not fill your life with good works. That’s why I respect humanists, because even though they do not believe in God necessarily, they do believe in living a life filled with compassion and good works. But, in this instance, I went over to a friend’s for Thanksgiving and stayed the night. In truth, I doubt I would have invited her over. I knew her well enough to say hi, but I did not truly know her. Or anything about her, for that matter. But, I still wished she could have some sort of moment, to take her away from life on the street. Some kind of happiness, even for a short time. I do not wish for anyone to be homeless and alone on a holiday. Well, any day, but especially a holiday.


I came to find out one of my friends knew her as well. He worked at the movie theater she frequently stood outside of. We ran into her one day, each giving her some change and talking for a short time. He actually knew her better than I did. It turned out she had a boyfriend, another homeless person. Oddly, that made me happy, to think she had someone and was not totally alone. For some reason, I just hate the thought of someone being alone. What makes it even more interesting is I am someone who likes to be alone. Most people consider me humorous, fairly outgoing and a nice guy, easy to get along with. That is how I am in public. Most of the time, I enjoy doing activities which require a person to be by themselves. I read. I write. I watch lots of movies. My favorite game to play is solitaire. I will play it hours on end. A few times I have lost track of time and played solitaire for almost 24 hours. For me, being solitary is almost healing. I think I like it maybe a little too much. However, when I consider others being alone, I find it quite distressing. I mean distressing regarding anyone, let alone a homeless person on the street. In that instance, loneliness is absolutely heartbreaking.


It had been months since I had seen her. At first, I did not think much about it. Except, with time, I began to worry. Was she ok? Could she be dead? Maybe living in a crack house somewhere. Oh, maybe she went home. I used to think about giving her advice on how to get on certain programs. So she could get a cheap apartment, possibly get some student loans and grants and attend college. My heart held hope she was able to do something like that. Inside, though, I was thinking the worst. Moreover, this was not fairy tale land. Life is hard. And, for some people it is harder than others. Some people have demons, and she very well could be a person who has her share. For all I know, she was an alcoholic, a drug addict, maybe even a prostitute when she felt she had to be. There was no sign of her at all. And, in time, she faded into the back of my mind.


The day was gorgeous. I was walking back from the gym, I think. Maybe I had just been out for lunch or something. Here I was, carefree, in a good mood, ready to go back to my apartment. I was doing lots of fun and interesting things. I directed a music video. Worked on many other video projects. Written a short film. I had several talented friends who were all good people. Life was pretty good for me. Then I happened to look in the window of a shop. Taped onto the storefront was a piece of paper with a picture of the homeless girl I knew. I had not thought of her in months. It was from her parents. Posted on a storefront, pleading for her to come home. “Please Come Home…. We Miss You.” It wrenched my insides. Like a blow to the liver, something you cannot recover from. It hurt to see her parents pleading for her like that. It reminded me of a frightened child, posting up signs searching for a missing dog or cat. Hoping someone would come forward with Fluffy or Kitty and get some miniscule reward for their work. In this case it was a person who was lost. Somebody who was loved. Someone who was lost. She was gone.


I could only hope she was not alone.


What bothers me most is that I cannot even remember her name.


The night is beautiful. I bathe in the lights. There are people all around me. I am walking along Pike Street in Seattle. Someone asks me for change. For a moment, I cannot grasp this. I close my eyes and see red hair, freckles, I think about my home and everybody who cares for me. I hear the voice again. Familiar, lively and vibrant. A young woman, asking me for change. I dig in my pockets and turn around, already I have a smile on my face. I’m turning with an outstretched hand, only to find that nobody is there. I am standing on the sidewalk, staring at the empty space of concrete, thousands of footsteps and voices whirl around me. I am all alone in a crowd of people.

For once, I feel uneasy about this all.

has made me more empathetic than I ever had been before. I always felt compassion, but nothing like I do now. Something about seeing such selfishness and division has changed me. :)

outright contempt for human compassion. And I'm scared and shocked that more people haven't reached the same conclusion.

On a different note: I grew up in Safford, about 100 miles or so from Tucson. Tucson still is one of my favorite cities on the planet. It has a feel like no other.

I like Tucson. I am a Montanan originally. Lived in Seattle for a few years too.

I heard the Texas Republican party just held their election for the head of their party. They elected God to be their chairman. It makes sense, God has lots of compassion for the poor and distraught. God believes in helping those who hurt the most and all. And, who creates more suffering, poor and distraught than the Texas GOP? I think the new chair has His work cut out for Him. :)

:hug:

This is wonderful! Thanks for pointing it out to me....

Yeah, I've noticed that about the Writing Forum.....it's too bad, really...

You really hit home, my dear, with this short story....

It truly stands on its own, and it has quite a lot of power....

K&R!

:kick:

glad you enjoyed it.

I'm hoping the forum picks back up here pretty soon. I'm thinking summer is just beginning and not as many people are inside on the pc, posting, reading and writing, so maybe that could be it. There is lots of good stuff in there right now too.

barely edited, it's actually a blog entry. A few things I would like to clean up on it, but I like it. :)

First of all, an insightful story. You moved from "homeless person" to "person."

Secondly, that's some amazing writing. You have a gift of drawing the reader in, and keeping focus.

And, you have a wonderful heart. :hug:

to lose the idea that a homeless person is less empathetic than someone else. People are people, everybody is a son or a daughter, we all come from someplace.

I try to write something that compels me. Because if I'm not compelled by it, then how can I expect someone else to be? Writing can often be bloviating and elitist. I try not to be like that,so a reader can be drawn in and focused. :) Thanks a lot for reading this though.

:hug:

I felt haunted writing it. Sometimes things you believe you have forgotten.... they just come welling up, you know? I think it's best to capture that when it happens. :)

You, unlike me, have to courage to share those moments with everyone. That is admirable.



(A little kick for ya, too.) ;)

Thank you for sharing it.

And to the young woman: wherever you are, I hope you are okay.

I love writing and I love sharing. :)

God may have sent you to save this girl, but you didn't.

It's ok, God forgives, and you are young? You will get another chance. Not necessarily with that girl, but another person?

Or, I could be way off base, eh?

I'm not so sure what happened to her. For all I know, she saw one of those posted up and went home, that's why I never saw her again. It's so ambiguous I wouldn't ever know if I had a chance to save her or not. Or if she was saved.

Please let us know if you ever find out what happened to her. I hope she is safe, warm, and loved.

it's been 4 years since I lived in Seattle, so I'm far removed from all of these events. :)

:kick:

I think my personal record is somewhere around 20. :)

This is a great post.

I just returned a DVD to the library called "It WAS a Wonderful Life". It's a documentary made in 1992 about 6 different women in Los Angeles who were homeless and lived in their cars. It was gut wrenching because I lived in the L.A. area back then, and I was one of those who naively thought at the time that people were homeless from drugs, alcohol or mental illness, not from divorce, illness, or job loss. Any one of those women could have easily been ME.

A Must See-given the state of this country and the rich elites' nonstop class war on the middle class/working class. I believe that homelessness could easily be the future for many who never expected it could happen to them. And very very soon. :cry:

thanks for the heads up on the DVD. I'll look for it.

This isn't so much a class war as it is a feeding frenzy. The rich are sucking the middle class dry like vampires. The collective wealth of the middle class--the true wealth of this country--is being drained from us much like a parasite feeds off of its host. And to think, this illegal and immoral misadministration are willing participants. The vampires are sucking us dry. I think it's time to break out the garlic and the stakes.

:)

Seriously, that was fantastic; nicely done:)

wouldn't mind doing some editing though. glad you liked it. :)

This piece was outstanding...

:)

I appreciate you reading it.

How can we be so connected to each other, yet not know one another?

And I agree with you, I would have felt better knowing she wasn't alone too.

I hope she is somewhere safe... Peace.

We have both an interconnection and a disconnection all at the same time.

I sometimes find the most beautiful things are often the saddest. And, vice versa. :)

:kick:

:)

:thumbsup:

Nice peice, Bill.

They've been around so long I think the homeless have become invisible to many of us. The federal government's latest cuts in social programs will create more crowds in the streets. Every day I read about another community program closing (shelters, mental and physical health clinics, job training, etc.) and expect to see a corresponding rise in homeless in the streets this summer. And then there are the returning soldiers who will not receive the help they need to heal....

he comes over all the time. He's a good guy, an alcoholic and has fallen on some tough times. It's sad. You know, when those soldiers get back from Iraq, how many people with flag decals on their cars will even care about what happens to them? Will they embrace a limbless Iraq war vet when he is on the street begging for change? I doubt it. They'll probably cross the street before they even get to him. That's a sad fact. Some people care more about an unborn fetus than they do about a living soldier. Go figure. So what is that John Prine song? "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore"? :)

in Fremont yesterday.

I'm sure there are all too many who fit the bill. :)

glad this got a bunch of recommendations, or I might have missed it.

Thanks, Bill... and thanks y'all for recommending it.

you reading it.

So don't I know you from myspace or something? :)

I've only met this girl through your journal, and now I'm worried about her too. I'm hoping she either saw the flyers or else contacted her family on her own, and is safe and well. There are too many lost souls out there.

Most of the time, I enjoy doing activities which require a person to be by themselves. I read. I write. I watch lots of movies. My favorite game to play is solitaire. I will play it hours on end. A few times I have lost track of time and played solitaire for almost 24 hours. For me, being solitary is almost healing. I think I like it maybe a little too much. However, when I consider others being alone, I find it quite distressing. I mean distressing regarding anyone, let alone a homeless person on the street. In that instance, loneliness is absolutely heartbreaking.

I really identified with this passage as well. I like to be alone as well, I need my "alone time," to restore my inner equilibrium. But like you, the thought of others being alone, possibly lonely, is very upsetting.

that and, I believe that we, as individuals, feel like we can deal with a certain situation. Maybe that we are capable of being alone and not minding it. But, when seeing others in that situation, we tend to think of them as more vulnerable than we would be in that position. Something along those lines anyway. :)

I'm glad that you are able to convey your experience.
I suspect your family consists of many storytellers.
I look forward to more.

:thumbsup: :thumbsup:

I used to be enthralled by my grandfather, or how friends, neighbors and family would come to visit and everyone would sit around, have coffee and tell stories. It's one reason why I started to write seriously. I always wanted to be a writer, I guess, as far back as I can remember. :)

Glad you liked it. :)

If it's still there maybe you should call it. You might find she's gone home and that's why you haven't seen her around. If she hasn't gone home yet, it would be a relief for them to know someone had helped her along the way. You could let them know where she'd be seen regularly and who else they might want to talk to. Just the thought that someone had done something nice for her is the crumb that they can survive on. I can say with certainty from experience, you would once again be helping her.

If something unfortunate has happened to her, it would give them a fragment of what happened to her since they had seen her last.
They may not even be desperate to have her home, just to know she is O.K. You could talk to them and they could tell you she needs medications. Maybe there's a message they would like you to give her if you saw her again. It could be the difference to her whole life if she understood it was O.K. to go home.

So many runaways who left home after an argument, felt their parents were too strick, etc. Threats made on either side never to return or never come back are often made in the heat of the moment. Sometimes metiators can help. But it just might be a complete stranger saying that your parents love you, can change their world. You don't have to feel uneasy. What you did was care. You'll be able to tell in a few moments how grateful they are.

You did a wonderful writing about this. I love Seattle. I go there almost every month. They had an awsome music festival Memorial weekend by the Space Needle.

and I didn't have anything to write it down with and didn't want to take one of the posters. At the time I was shocked to even see it so I probably wasn't thinking straight. It was probably about 5 years ago, and I live in Tucson now, so there is no way for me to get the number even if by some chance they were still around.