Publication Date: Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Guest Opinion: Food for the soul
Guest Opinion: Food for the soul
(December 24, 2003) by Ann O'Hara Gordon
I wondered if I would see him, huddled with others waiting for the doors to open, for life to begin again.
In line, men and women, some with shopping carts festooned with plastic bags, sails on their rusty schooners. Others have tall backpacks, and the same stooped-over look. One sneaks a smoke, another drinks from a paper bag.
Life on the street is charged with the aroma of loss and the stale air of forgotten dreams. They are restless; it is cold. A scuffle. I walk the line and they rearrange themselves. A regular named Yuri hums a Russian melody, moves his upper body, letting go his cane, swaying to and fro, about to topple. Big Boy steadies him and says to quit that s---.
When Chris, my son, was in high school he saw "Saturday Night Fever." John Travolta's moves became his. "Stayin' Alive" rippled through our tiny house as Chris strutted down the hall, vaulted to the kitchen table and struck a pose.
"Take it outside, Mr. Travolta," I implored. He'd drop his head, gaze through a thicket of blond hair and flash a smile that ripped my heart out for the beauty of it. Out back he rocked, sideswiping asters, etching symbols of rapture on the dark planks of the deck -- performance graffiti.
"Where is he now?" I wonder as I open the doors for the known and unknown to push into the of the Trinity Episcopal Church hall in Menlo Park -- part of the Urban Ministry's free-meal service that rotates between area churches.
Joe is here, wearing jeans two sizes too large, belted tightly to form thick gathers around his bare belly that overlaps the buckle. I ask if he's still reading "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." Joe pulls the ragged copy from his torn back pocket and holds it up. "It ain't really about maintenance. It's a head trip," says the aging hippie.
Jessie sashays in wearing a new tee shirt with "Grover Hot Springs" splashed across the front. "So how were those hot springs, Jessie?"
"Honey, you so dumb. You think I been to a hot springs?" she says with a laugh that reveals two missing teeth. "I ain't been near water, hot or cold, in days. They don't let us in the Shell station no more. What we 'sposed to do? We ain't even 'sposed to wash up here."
I tell her I'll guard her stuff while she uses the bathroom down the hall.
A group of Hispanic men come in, wearing heavy, dirt-caked boots. They smile through mustaches and say hola to us volunteers. As they reach for paper plates, I notice callouses and cuts on their hands.
Two young men carrying technical books and talking dot-com appear newly washed and shaven. One has the crisp look of Matt Damon. A panel truck is their home; they bathe at a friend's. Awkward and overly polite, they sit close together in a corner, canvassing the room.
Jessie returns, hair damp, face and hands clean. She checks her stuff and asks me if I ripped anything off. No. She chuckles and wraps an arm around my waist. I stiffen, try to cover my reaction with a gesture toward a vacant seat. But she knows.
A tall young man with blond hair has his back to me. He's dressed in white, all in white, like Chris. Could that be him? Electric jolt to my nerves. I think it is. He rotates slowly and I catch his eye. No -- not as handsome. Someone else's son. Disappointment? Relief?
But the boy needs to be fed. His gaze is locked, like a hungry spaniel. I hand him a plate and he sits with several Chinese women, speaking Mandarin, which he understands. He seems to be telling them they need more clothing. Their blouses are thin and they haven't jackets or sweaters. He takes some tattered shirts out of his pack -- they shake their heads and speak sharply.
Chris won't be coming today. Or next week. Except for one brief, chance encounter it's been more than a full year. Is he in some other food-for-homeless program? Is someone else's mother serving him dinner, far away?
Is he still John Travolta? Is he still dancing? "Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive ...."
Ann Gordon is a former clinician at the Children's Health Council who has been active in raising funds for the planned Opportunity Center for homeless persons in the Palo Alto area. The above column is an adaptation of a longer true story about her son, who is homeless and suffers from emotional problems. She can be e-mailed at gordon.a@sbcglobal.net.
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