Concrete People and the Ring of Empathy

Copyright © 2011 by Eric Schatz

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9492-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9491-1 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9493-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011901689

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/11/2011

To the shelter-less, the survivors,

the men and women who struggle to make their voices heard.

May this book unlock your muted cries

and open the hearts and minds of the world

to the seeds of homelessness.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks goes out to the individuals who invited me into their world and shared their experiences with me. You will never be forgotten. Dad and Pam, thank you for your love and support, you’ve been amazing. To Illuminata, who’s heart has helped to guided me through all of the ups and downs, our times is far from up. To my brother Steve, where do I begin? You’ve come to my rescue time and time again, words cannot express my gratitude for your kindness. To my family in Silver City NM, our circle will never be broken, and the warmth from your love will never be snuffed out. Journey well my friends! And to the amazing team at iUniverse, you know who you are, thank you for your guidance, treasured knowledge and calmness during the hazy times. And to the spirit that moves through all things, much gratitude for the blessings of this life and the potent gift of empathy.

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 2: Rocky

Chapter 3: Jerry

Chapter 4: Greg C.

Chapter 5: Carl

Chapter 6: Geraldee

Chapter 7: Dennis

Chapter 8: Charles

Chapter 9: Eddie

Chapter 10: K. W. P.

Chapter 11: Shercy

Chapter 12: Keith

Chapter 13: Anonymous

Chapter 14: Linda

Chapter 15: Helen

Chapter 16: Anita

Chapter 17: Passing the Torch

Chapter 18: Completion

Conclusion

Introduction

In the winter of 1992, I set out on a journey to understand how a person can fall to great misfortune and wind up on the streets, begging for his livelihood. What I found changed my life.

Within these pages are the stories of individuals I interviewed from 1992 to 1994. Although some of the narrative is fictional, the stories of the people are unaltered, staying true to the raw essence of their accounts.

To know the perils of the less fortunate is to walk in the same ragged shoes they travel in: lacking a haven, with no bed to rest their heads on after a long day of wandering the streets; looking for the support of strangers, begging for enough cash for a sandwich and drink, dimes and quarters clanging in a used Styrofoam cup.

Can you imagine being—or have you ever been—one of the destitute and unwanted; another casualty in a society that looks away, hoping the problem will vanish like a bad dream?

Have you ever slept on a park bench or behind a dumpster, hiding from the cruel winter winds? Have you ever wondered how someone could live in a makeshift cardboard shelter alongside rats and vermin?

I believe to truly understand the experience of the less fortunate, one needs to stand side by side with them and listen to their stories. Imagine leaping into the past lives of others, getting a glimpse of what made them the people they have become.

What a gift to be able to journey through time and space to a stranger’s doorstep, viewing the trauma he or she has gone through, and in the process understanding him or her better. Through the power of empathy, our main character is able to view key moments in the lives of a group of homeless people, thus helping him to understand their position in life.

Rick has a curious disposition, always questioning the ways of society, seeking answers in the dark alleyways of life. It isn’t until the morning after one of the worst dreams of his life that he feels the push to seek the answer to one of his deepest questions: Where are the seeds of homelessness sown?

His journey leads him to the unlikeliest of places, and with the help of a magical ring, he is able to glimpse into the lives of the people he interviews.

In writing this book, I hope to bring forth another viewpoint on the subject of homelessness: to transport the reader back in time, to the origins of individual trauma, where the seeds of addiction and neglect were first planted; and, in the end, to give a more empathetic view of this disturbing problem.

Chapter 1:

Down the Rabbit Hole

To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old bark or rick, or in the hollow of a tree—are dismal things—but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a homeless rejected creature.

—Charles Dickens

The wind whipped hard against my cold, numb ear, while splintery wooden slats pressed against my stiff, rigid back. I could hear the flapping of wings swiping against soppy pavement. The light of morning stung my eyes as I scanned the surroundings.

I sat on a park bench in some obscure city park, clothes tattered, skin leathery and coarse. Lightning-shock ripped through my body as my mind awoke to this surreal reality.

Where am I? I thought, gripping the cold metal armrest. An empty wine bottle half covered with a ripped paper bag lay in my lap where I had cradled it all night like a lone infant.

How did this happen? I wrangled. I’m not homeless! I’m an art student! I have an apartment on the South Side! This can’t be happening …

Before my mind had a chance to implode, I heard a faint and distant beeping. Turning to my left, floating two feet away, were a pair of my own eyes looking back at me.

A clone of myself slowly materialized around the eyes, dressed in clean clothes and holding a tape recorder up to my ragged, homeless double. I tried to speak, but the clean-clothed me interrupted by making that same beeping noise, now growing louder.

Beep … beep! he said, moving closer, staring blankly into my eyes.

My double held out his hand and spoke in a metallic tone, See for yourself and you will become wise.

A shiny silver ring appeared in his palm. It had an opened eye on the front, a red gemstone resting in the place of the pupil. Before I knew it, the ring was gone and had reappeared on my right pointer finger. My finger tingled as I tried to pry it loose.

Get it off! I implored, sweat dripping from my cheek. The ring seemed to be glued on, and the more I pulled on it, the tighter it squeezed my finger. I could feel the blood collecting, building up pressure, but before it could explode my clone-self distracted me by waving his hands wildly.

Beep … wake up … beep … wake up to reality! he said as he waved his hand over my eyes. Beep … you will now see them … beep … see them!

His eyes became more intense as I began to shake, sweat collecting in my earlobes.

"Wha-what do you mean wake up? See them … Who’re them? I …"

The world turned gray and swirled to black, transporting me to another place.

Beep, beep, beep!

The fiery red lights on the alarm clock glared at me, jolting me out of bed. I shook my hand manically, trying to get the demon ring off, but my finger was bare.

The room was quiet, but in my mind, that alarming scene played over and over again. Over the coming days, I became obsessed with this dream. I needed to explore it, to find its deeper meaning.

December was a blur. Sleep came infrequently as I wrestled with my dreams, fearing a return to that dismal park bench.

This is where my journey began: chasing a dream down the rabbit hole, like Alice, racing to catch the greater meaning of life.

On any other Monday at 3:00 p.m., I would be hauling my fifteen-pound book bag across a quarter-mile bridge past two or three destitute people, pondering the severity of the homeless situation in this city and others in the wealthiest country of the world. But with my own homeless nightmare crowding my waking world, I became preoccupied with the intense feelings it was generating. I needed to find real answers to real questions. Like, where does it originate, and how can I really understand it?

Have you ever had a fever that clung tightly to your head, refusing to let go, like being swallowed by a hungry boa constrictor? Well, a similar fever overcame me, holding me down, squeezing my lungs tight. The only way to confront this fearfulness and break the spell it had cast on me was to face its source. So a few days and many more nightmares later, I set out with a mini voice recorder and questions swirling in my mind. What I found would change my life forever.

Chapter 2:

Rocky

One of the greatest casualties of the war in Viet Nam is the Great Society … shot down on the battlefield.

—Martin Luther King Jr.

My hand cramped up as I slid the rendering marker across the clear tracing paper. I never did like drawing cars, let alone rendering them for a grade. The windshield looked messy and the tires were lopsided. It looked more like a Salvador Dali circus-mobile than a sports car. Scanning the room, I could see all the other more-detailed drawings of sportsters, and I felt utterly embarrassed about mine.

The hands on the classroom clock seemed to move slower and slower. My attention turned to the large window facing the city skyline. I moved my chair toward the window to get a better view of the street twenty stories below. My eyes fixed upon a man sitting on the curb, yelling at passersby. His head jerked and his arms mimed some battle scene from a war movie.

Who was this man? Where did he come from? Just then, I remembered I