Oscar the prophet

“I got a brother out here with no shoes.  He needs shoes, size 13.” Twenty men looking for shelter last night, a cold rain drives them in.  We got room for ten.  Let’s take ‘em, we got blankets, put ‘em wherever there’s space, in the shower, next to the washing machine.  Behind the counter, on the counter, no one too big up there, ok?

“I just got out,” The middle aged black man with plump cheeks shows me his wrist bracelet.  Three months in Henrietta. “Can I get a bus pass?” We’re supposed to give passes out to people who have appointments and can prove it.  God bless wherever you need to be, brother. 

“I had eight men in the shelter last night who are sanctioned.”  A homeless man who hasn’t completed his paperwork with the Department of Social Services (DSS), or has failed to keep in touch with his parole officer, or hasn’t fulfilled his community service commitment, and so on, the DSS puts them on a sanction list and shelters are not supposed to take them in. We do here.  “It was 40 last night and that rain, Mother Jesus, how could I say no?”  How can we say no?

“See this restaurant?  Marks Tex-All?  Right behind it I found this fella, turned out to be a doctor who’d been on the streets for a year.  Every Monday afternoon for three years I bought him a hamburger, fries and a coke.  He refused money, he refused to go to a shelter, but he took that burger and fries and a coke. This past March they found him froze to death behind the restaurant,” Don and I headed to Charlotte to price refrigerators and ovens for the 407 Dorothy Day House.  The 60 year old drives a beat up 1984 Chevy yellow pick-up that gets six miles to the gallon, and the cab is filled with a lifetime of tools and history and I’ve characterized him with envy as  the archetype citizen of upstate New York, standing at 6” 3’, with a full beard, no teeth, no hair, weighing 240lbs.  Along the way he points out the properties he’s owned, the businesses that failed when Kodak, at one time employing 65,000, couldn’t keep up with the lightning fast times.  How did the doctor die?  He didn’t tell me this, I guess because he expected me to ask.  “He lost his children in a fire.  He was living, but he wasn’t really living, ya know what I mean?”

Two days before the autumn equinox, the air is clean and crisp.  A woman from Ministry Foretold calls.  Lunch has been served, only 75 came today for Turkey Casserole, Collard Greens and dessert.  Chandra speaks: “A woman in our parish had a premature birth and we want to give a shower for her this Saturday.  Would you be able to provide us a meal, for about fifty.”  I called her back after thirty minutes to confer with the chefs.  Imagine that, there was enough of today’s lunch leftover, we could spruce it up, turn it into a goulash, use the collard greens and mix it with black eye peas, and throw in loaves of bread from the bakery.  I called her back and told her we could deliver the meal this Saturday and I asked what time could we come over: “Turkey goulash?  You got no meatballs or Lasagna?”

Tomorrow the shelter will be closed and staff will take up their positions at the Blue Cross-War Memorial Arena for the annual ‘Project Connect Homeless’ a day of services for those in the streets who need housing assistance, clothing, health screening, legal services, dental exams, and need to obtain identification. A free meal is provided. I could use a teeth cleaning.  I could use a health screening but I don’t want to hear about any disease in dormancy.  I’ll drive the house van back and forth for the lame and infirm.  Steve gave me his number and wants a ride.  Sixty two years old, he got out of the hospital yesterday after a three week layover.  “They was pumping all kinds of bad shit out of my lungs.”  The frail man entered the hospitality room using a walker, his air tank hung on it.  “Give me a ride, I need to talk to someone about my burial.” 

We open the doors at 8:30 and once everybody enters for their routine with coffee, a newspaper, some use the shower and the washing machine, I go outside with a broom and dust bin and sweep last night’s cigarettes and trash.  On such a glorious morning I am happy to be outside.  Oscar sees me from a distance, sweeping the parking lot, his expanded vision enables him to see a fly sink an eight ball in a corner pocket from fifty yards away, and shouts “Hey John, you missed a few butts.”  I can only reply I am happy to be outside which he replies, “That’s right, you got your ticket, you’re outta here.”  He said outta here, not out here, and I had to laugh.  You speak prophecies you don’t know.  I got my ticket and I am out here, or outta here. 

Should I go?  The brain cancer survivor laughs and anywhere else you get goosebumps and you roll up your car windows.  Should I go?  This is the most  dysfunctional community I've ever been a part of and I wonder if I am giving up too early, and wonder if leaving is the most prudent move right now.  If I don’t go I will be nailing the coffin down on a career I’ve enjoyed for 12 years.  I look at Oscar and his maniacal grin. 

Lord, I pray like a Russian Orthodox every morning. I’d like to turn in a few karma chips now for clarification and an answer in the next few days would be appreciated.