It will soon be a full week since Randy Riggs was kicked out of the Refuge. I can’t say how long he’d been staying here but I know that he’d been drinking heavily for at least the last week and a half that he held residence.
The Refuge is a shelter primarily for those recovering from substance abuse problems. As such it is a major no-no to be walking around the joint clearly and regularly intoxicated. Having never suffered a chemical dependency greater that that of nicotine and soda pop I do not know, but must imagine, the strain put upon those in recovery by those flagrantly abusing.
The Refuge gave Randy more than a fair shake (at least by man’s standards) before kicking him to the curb. I stood by one night for a blow-test or PBT - an alcohol breath-test that the Refuge has begun administering once a week – wherein Randy blew a number high enough to make one of the shelter’s primary caregivers turn to the person standing next to her, raise eyebrows and let out one of those “damn!” sort-of exhalations. Then she half-whispered to the person keeping record, “Write down ‘mouthwash’ next to it.”
It was no more than four days later that Randy was asked to pack his bags and go.
I wasn’t around for any sort of coming-to-a-head that led to his ousting. I suspect that there wasn’t really a confrontation moment with Randy. Randy is a California beach bum in full scale, perfect replica, and unopened box; Bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, shoeless, and bouncy. Mostly he’s a ‘peacenik,’ a non-confrontationalist, and a happy, happy drunk. Therefore I’d guess it was simply his steady disrespect for the rules and inability to get his alcohol dependency under control which led to a considered decision to remove him from the premises.
I was however around for the exile and it seemed relatively amicable. The Refuge peoples had their noses turned up quite a bit that day, and a few of them made plain their contempt for Randy telling him to essentially, ‘get his shit and go.’ But the folks in charge, at least, had enough compassion left for Randy to invite him to dinner.
Now, as any of my friends in Michigan could tell you, I’m not a man who is very comfortable with physical expressions of friendship; hugs and the like are not my forte. In fact, when I was rounding the circuit in Michigan before my departure, making my goodbyes, I’m sure I appeared quite cold at some of those last meetings; due my awkward attempts to either satisfy or avoid the need for a grand physical outro to the many long and fruitful relationships that I would now place on-hold.
But I tell you this: when I saw Randy Riggs that day, plodding aimlessly behind the TV area, seemingly without a friend in the world, I walked right up to the man with a great big grin saying, “Hey buddy. You headin’ out? Well give us a hug!” And I wrapped my arms around him with a comfort and sincerity that I’ve rarely known whilst holding another man to my chest.
What’s especially curious is that at this point I didn’t know Randy Riggs from God; to turn a phrase. I may have had one or two brief conversations with him on the patio while smoking a cigarette, but I hadn’t developed any report or relationship with this guy. Nonetheless, here I am embracing him happily in a way that made me mostly uncomfortable even among my closest friends.
It was a moment for me. There was something especially pure, so pure it felt almost foreign, that poured out from deep within me in that instant, and I looked upon this mere acquaintance as a true brother.
When I let go of him he took a long pause and began to say in a slow, broken, and overwhelmed tongue, “You don’t know how much that means to me, man. Everyone here is just treating me so… They all just … Could you… Could you give me another one of those?”
I hugged him again and we chatted about how unwelcome and generally hated he now felt. I tried to tell him that even as they were kicking him to the curb now, they would be down on their knees praying for him that night. But he disagreed fervently reiterating how openly spiteful some of the residents had spoken to him throughout the day.
Now, as much as I love the Refuge House and respect the people running the show here, I must say that Randy is not entirely unfounded in his opinion. Each day, it seems, I am witness to another double-standard and a new hypocrisy coming from those same who sat next to me in church just hours earlier shouting ‘Amen’ to the ideals of the Gospel in charity and forgiveness.
Just one of the many instances I could cite, wherein the people here fell unashamedly short of the godliness they espouse, came a little less than a week ago. There is a couple that has been dropping by the Refuge irregularly, shaking-down the residents for food, cigarettes, and what have you: A boy who is around eighteen years old and a woman who I’ve been told is thirty-six. Considering the age difference they make something of an ‘odd couple,’ though in appearance the woman could pass for mid-to-late twenties. It seems clear to me that they are ‘users’ of some kind, and apparently they are not welcome on the property; even to visit.
Now, just days before the incident I’m about to describe, we all sat in the church with pastor Dan Anderson studying one of the many passages of the Bible where we, as Christians, are beseeched of God to “bless and not curse” our enemies; to pile kindness and charity upon those we find to be our adversaries, that in so doing we are lumping “heaps of coal” upon their heads.
I remember pastor Dan taking a moment to talk about that phrase in and of itself, which might seem to suggest that in our kindness we are damning our enemies to even worse fates than they might have coming. So interpreted it would imply that a person should do good even as they sit ringing their hands, cackling evilly, imagining the man before them burning in the fires of hell.
The pastor favors (as do I) an interpretation that focuses on the discomfort of having coals on your head. As we do unrelenting good upon those who despise us they find themselves more and more uncomfortable in the judgments they’ve rendered upon us. They are made uneasy. Lacking a solid explanation for why an enemy should do them favor after favor, it is perhaps through this love and charity that we will earn, eventually, their respect and friendship. God willing, they may even some day seek to know how it is that we have come to have such inner peace and outward giving even unto aliens and rivals; therein granting us the opportunity to share what truth of the Almighty we have ourselves gleamed.
These are the teachings of the Bible, part of the overall message of Christ, and the words heard just days earlier in the chapel at the Refuge; these and more, all on the idea of blessing your enemies; being good and kindhearted, generous and long-suffering.
Apparently these teachings did not bubble to the surface of the Refuge staff’s consciousness when the ‘odd couple’ came moseying up the loading dock ramp last week. As soon as one of the staff became aware of the pair’s presence, the charity and compassion hit the floor and the verbal throw-down began. And for a full two minutes, all that could be heard was a cacophony of overlapping curse words. There were shouts, threats of violence, and all manner of angry, human posturing. Thankfully the incident was ended without physical altercation.
As one of the female staff members walked by me, returning from the festival of name-calling, I interjected to remind her, “bless and not curse.” But she just turned away from me leveling a hateful stare at these two, her enemy’s backs, as they walked away lobbing profanities over their shoulders as they went.
The teachings of God are not easy, especially to beings whose nature is in sin and petulance, but an effort must be made; and in failure there is regret and atonement. But I have not seen much in the way of ‘walking the path’ around here. Yes, the fervor of this flock is brimming over with zeal toward God, and indeed moreso Jesus Christ, come Sunday afternoon, but throughout the week confrontations are met with hostility; charities run dry when certain people come around; and the daily conversations are more oft set to the tune of ex-wives, money, and sex than any godly notion.
So when Randy says “Bull-shit!” to my suggestion that many prayers will go up on the eve of his departure, I cannot say with any certainty that he is wrong. Herein I face the truths of the scriptures teachings: To live and act in a way that leaves you blameless; without evidenced or meaningful challenge to your baptism in the ways and means of the Lord. If only my brothers in the Refuge were doers of these teachings, and not merely hearers of them, neither I nor Randy would then find room to question the sincerity of their conviction.
The afternoon of Randy’s departure I found myself split between heart and mind. He had been out on a quick walk-about looking for somewhere else to stay, and he had returned empty-handed. He wasn’t asking for another night’s stay at the Refuge, but simply wandering about the building morosely, gathering his personal items and, no doubt, fretting for where he would sleep.
The winds were strong that evening and the sky was overcast. It was, in fact, the coldest eve I’ve yet experienced here in Joplin. I had begun to worry for Randy. I had also begun to ask myself whether it was good for me, by Godly mete, to intervene.
I could, after all, send him down to Tony’s house. Surely, he would accept Randy, if only for this night. Since I’ve been here I know Tony to have already put up another vagrant in my stead; a man who slept on his couch for two nights, at the last ‘borrowing’ his bicycle – never to return with it.
But should I send this mere acquaintance, who even now finds himself kicked out of a homeless shelter; this alcoholic beach bum, upon my good friend Tony who has done so much to cover and spiritually uplift me? Should I risk the friendship and mutual trust we have built by asking him to accept Randy, a man in whom I have shared no more than a conversation and a hug? And what of Randy’s alcoholism? How might it feed Tony’s? Or what if Randy just starts sucking through all the beer, leaving Tony to foot the bill for both their addictions? Might Tony eventually, and rightly, level the finger at me as the harbinger of a mooching houseguest?
All these questions, and more, assailed me. Further there was my concern of doing right and good and well by the Lord. What are my obligations here as a man of God? This person Randy Riggs, nomatter the cause, is in need of something; Something I have the means to provide him. Is my uncertainty as to his character enough to exempt me from the call to charity which Paul writes of so often throughout the New Testament? Is it morally ‘okay’ to let a man sleep under a bridge when a sofa lies empty? And the biggest whopper of them all: Might it be God’s will that Randy should meet the gutter this night, physically ‘hitting bottom;’ that on the morrow he should choose a new ascent?
I struggled greatly with these thoughts, at last finding the right hand path. I know now that there is no bottom to charity. Save for man, there is nothing in the world of any true value and therefore nothing to withhold from one another’s purpose. We must all give and give and give without restraint and even unto our own destitute. And should any come to us seeking when we are then without, there will be found no blame in what we lack; for all was offered and given in the Lord’s good charity.
That night I escorted Randy to Tony’s house, where he was received wholeheartedly. There I left him happily, knowing that Randy Riggs would sleep with a pillow beneath his head and a blanket o’er his body, at least this one night more.
From Tony’s I walked to the YMCA, taking a shower and returning to the Refuge. Having at long last made the right decision and completing the Lord’s work for the evening, the winds died down and the night warmed up. So much so that I am convicted of the Almighty’s hand in holding low the temperatures; forcing my personal confrontation with this lesson of bottomless charity, without which Mr. Riggs may never have graced the sofa at Saint Anthony’s ‘A street’ flophouse; without which I may not have soon learned the purity of grace.
-
Around 5pm the next day I am speaking to the senior resident / director of the Refuge, informing him that there may soon be something in the shelter’s mail for me, when out of the south comes walking a man drenched in blood.
His t-shirt runs red from collar to belt, and down each leg of his pants a spike of crimson discoloration is pooling, painting the denim darkly. Someone runs inside, returning with a few pair of the thin plastic, disposable gloves used to serve dinner, a bundle of towels, and the telephone.
In the interim, our walk-up bleeder is bounding back and forth in a hand and thigh slapping rage as a man on a bike persistently berates him for the knowledge of, ‘who done it.’
“A nigger!” he shouts as the blood continues to sop through his clothing. Upon closer inspection it becomes obvious that the blood is coming from his neck, just a bit under his right ear.
Someone grabs a chair and sits him down. 9-1-1 is on the line. The Refuge director takes one of the towels and holds it firmly against his neck. The bleeder reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up; smoking, talking, and shouting as his neck spurts ever more plasma into the shelter director’s hand with each heartbeat. Someone slaps the cigarette away and tells him not to speak.
The questioner on the bike finally liberates the proper name of Mr. BP=90/60’s assailant and pedals off on a mission of vengeance. Within sixty seconds the first cop arrives on scene, followed immediately by the second. As soon as the sirens cease, this highly trained police force springs into action: Not by taking over the emergency care our shelter director is providing, but by bumbling about asking anyone and everyone, ‘who done it?’
Our director is left to manage whether or not this bleeder loses his last quart of blood for about another full minute before the paramedics arrive to take over.
Right behind the paramedics? The media approaches. A videographer for the local channel 7 news whips into a parking lot just across the street and has his camera tripod-ed and rolling in an instant. For what would we do if we weren’t busy watching the spectacle of humanities tragedies?
The paramedics bandage the man and put him in a neck brace, speeding away. The cops eventually track down the guy who sliced him open; throwing him in jail. And the Refuge Ministries shelter is mentioned on the TV that night in association with a stabbing assault that originated at the Soul’s Harbor shelter, five blocks from here. The fight purportedly started over a case of Dr. Pepper.
I didn’t even flinch.
-
For much of this week I had started to feel as though I was digging myself into a rut. Ever since becoming a ‘permanent’ resident at the Refuge I’ve been spending much of my time around the Refuge, at Tony’s house, or somewhere in between. Aside from removing myself of the greater unknown by locking into this to-and-from path, the great big synchronicities and guiding inspirations of God had seemed to dry up.
This isn’t to say that I’d been completely without aim or usefulness to the Lord; each day there are at least a few moments wherein I feel the presence of God putting me to His purpose in some small interpersonal way. But the magic of large experiential witness had gone mostly from me and I pained in its absence; even questioning whether or not I had missed some greater cue and had left the path the Lord would have me on. So much did I long for those earlier moments of spiritual grandeur that I began, even, to consider changing cities; thinking perhaps this relative uneventful-ness to be an indicator that it was time to leave.
On Thursday night, I recall sitting on my bed watching the end of the Fullmetal Alchemist movie on my laptop. (an anime series I adore which concludes in a made-for-theaters film) When the movie finished I rolled over and cried out from deep within my soul for the kind of big, showy miracles and displays of power that I’d just seen in the flicker of frames across this LCD. I put a strong and passionate plea out into the universe for wonders and sights and spiritual battles that I could be justified in fighting. Then I slept, imagining on the morrow to bring a new outward zeal to my doings in God.
I awoke Friday and much of my soulful ache and sorrow had passed in the night. I got cleaned up and jumped back into the trench I’d dug between the Refuge and Tony’s house. I headed there to check in on Randy Riggs; to see if he was still perched on Tony’s sofa where I had found him the morning after I introduced the two; and the day after that; and the day after that.
By then I had developed a real relationship with Randy. I’d been coming around regularly to visit and when I did we would always find yet another similarity in our stories, tastes, or opinions. By Friday we had formed something of a meaningful bond with one another, finding ourselves the only two true pacifists in all of Joplin.
But when I spoke to Tony about Randy’s continued stay he had told me that Randy was just lying there, withering away. He didn’t shower, didn’t change his clothes; he didn’t look for work or another place to stay… He would just wake up, suck down another four or five beers over the course of a half-hour, roll over and go back to sleep. It seemed my prophecy of the unwanted houseguest was slowly but surely coming true; and Tony’s finger was beginning to bend in my direction.
Nonetheless, Randy’s presence on the couch had been good for Tony. Since Randy had started staying there I had heard Tony speak of giving up his alcohol addiction for the first time. He even told me that he was considering locking the doors on his apartment and checking into a ‘detox’ program for a week. I think Randy acted as a mirror held up to Tony’s own dependency; showing him a more extreme version of some of his own behaviors. Perhaps what Tony saw in Randy he didn’t like and didn’t want to be seen as himself.
When I arrived at Tony’s that Friday Randy was, of course, asleep. Tony and I sat outside to chat so we wouldn’t disturb him. Honestly, having a vagrant, alcoholic houseguest who refuses to shower doesn’t do anything good for the aroma of a studio apartment and I had want to remove myself from the plume.
As Tony and I stared at each other, asking “What are we going to do about him?” Randy fell out the front door onto his palms, lowering himself to his knees. He looked up at me with tears running down his cheeks; the whites of his eyes were so red he looked to be crying blood.
“Would you be willing to do me a favor,” he asked in a pitiful, high-pitched, cracking voice. “Will you get me to the hospital? I think I’m going insane.”
As I sat there holding Randy’s hand and rubbing his shoulder I felt the return of magnificence. The Lord had conspired to this moment. He softened my heart when I looked on Randy and He drew me to that spontaneous hug. He pushed me past my hesitance to lead Randy to a place of shelter. He drew me to Tony’s house all throughout the week in visitation, wherein I built a trusting relationship with this man. And even through Randy, He had done a good work upon Tony; showing him the true depth of his own addiction.
At the last, through each of us who touched him, the Lord brought Randy Riggs to his knees in desperation for something more; something better than the life he had made himself. And there he sat, begging me to take him to the Hawthorne center at St. John’s hospital; to the psych-ward and detox program.
I ran across the street to find a painter at work. Borrowing his cell phone I called a taxi, spending eight of my last ten dollars to put Randy where he now sought to be.
Now, before we left Randy had told me that he’d been to Hawthorne before and that it was very important to him which doctor was on duty. Apparently some of the doctors there had done well by him, in his estimation, and some had taken a general disliking to his demeanor and / or his repetitive appearance in the ward.
When we got to the hospital it became clear just how often Randy had visited Hawthorne. He was greeted by near half of the nurses and interns we passed as we shuffled through the various corridors entering the hospital; and this was only in the ER section. Who knows how well he is acquainted with those in the Hawthorne Center.
A man could take this as evidence of the unlikely chance for Randy’s recovery. One could say that this is simply the cycle of Randy Riggs. He goes into Hawthorne; gets stabilized; gets sober; comes out and starts working. He gets a few dollars in his wallet and, soon enough, turns those earnings over to the bottle. He bleeds it to his last penny and when he has no means of acquiring more booze he checks back into the hospital; and the cycle repeats.
In fact, there is every chance that this is exactly how it will proceed when Randy is released. Yet I do not think this way. I err, instead, with hope that Randy will find freedom from whatever demons ride his shoulders today. And if all is truly for naught; if Randy Riggs embraces his afflictions once more upon release from Hawthorne, I am still the happier to have been part of God’s work in giving him another chance to know peace. Whether it is his twenty-seventh chance at peace or not; whether it is his twenty-seventh failure or not.
And as I walked back toward Ast, from thirty blocks away, I was joyful in my burden. For as I had asked the Lord to deliver me great explosions of spirit and faith; symbols and sights confirming His presence with me… As I had asked to be removed from my rut of travels between 1st and 7th street: My prayers had been answered.
Joplin, Missouri - written 10.19,21,22.2007
Randy Riggs
Walmart and Laundering
I did almost nothing at all last Thursday. It was my first day of “rest” since I landed in Joplin. I spent the whole day just wandering back and forth throughout the Refuge aimlessly. Though at 6:30p I attended the weekly Bible study.
The study was on the book of Daniel; specifically the prophecy of the anti-christ / second coming in the latter portion thereof. I hadn’t thought about the end-times prophecies in a long time, and at first thought mostly to scoff at it. But when the pastor pointed out the same prophesy reiterated through Jesus in the book of Matthew I began to warm to its consideration.
By the end of the meeting my head had begun to swim. With this passage from Daniel, a whole world of my father’s Seventh Day Adventist teachings had come crashing into my mind; and I was left a little overwhelmed. Adventists are big-into the ‘end times’ prophecies and apt to draw many different conclusions as to who the anti-christ will be; what symbols of the text represent what nations; and when the last days will be upon us. This childhood brimming over with interpretations of the book of Revelations assailed my senses rather suddenly. I had to step outside for a cigarette, reminding myself that while prophesy is a good thing and a worthwhile study, first and foremost is our personal daily doings in pursuit of the mysteries of God, and we mustn’t let anything ever threaten to overshadow that.
Aside from the Bible group I did nothing worthy of note. Though by the end of this fruitless day I had resolved to sweat, burn, and bleed at the dawn of the next rising sun. And boy: Did I.
-
I awoke early Friday morning and set myself to the task of earning a little laundry money. I’ve been hesitant to accept any real, paid, earthly work. I didn’t leave a good job, a reliable car, and a nice house in Michigan to take on some mediocre day-job in southern Missouri. I came here to better know God, peace, and my own happiness; eventually to minister to others who find themselves lacking and seeking this same. Perhaps even to minister to the various churches who are oft found wayward and beset with hypocrisy. While I have the ability to provide for myself, I desire, rather, the embrace of the Lord’s provisions. Let Him provide me my needs and I shall do His work on Earth. For I have found the past provisions made of myself as well as those made of other men on my behalf to be lacking; without equality of exchange or spiritual fulfillment; and an all-around bum deal.
On this topic: a few days earlier I had been torn from a peaceful slumber by one of my fellow residents at the shelter – staring down at me, wide eyed and hurried – saying that there was someone out front who needed two men to help lay some carpet for a day. Excitedly, he told me of the $50.00 promised for the day’s labor. I came out of my bed slowly, still quite unsure whether I wanted to spend a whole day working under the charge of man rather than the charge of God.
But it was far too early for me to stir all neurons to fire and make a firm decision one way or the other. So I hurried off to the bathroom, drained my bladder, and headed outside to meet my day’s employer. Thankfully, in my stead he had already gone. All praise be to God.
Though I am still wrestling with my apprehension toward earthly works, I decided on Friday to head to the other side of town and play some good ole’ street corner guitar; throwing the empty guitar case in front of me and waxing-lyrical for otherwise unsolicited donations.
I hadn’t been to the other side of town at that point. I’ve been staying on the west side of Joplin, in what’s known as the historic downtown district. On this side of town all things are referred to by their position relative to Main Street. The buildings and blocks all look as a city should: Mostly brick buildings with storefronts at ground level and apartments overtop; A bank here, a park there, a church every thirteen feet…
To the East side of town, all stated locations are derived of Rangeline Road; and all destinations exist for the purpose of consumery: Fast-food, gas stations, video rental, and grocers; Dentists, doctors, lawyers, and psychics. And in their midst, the obligatory mother of all outlets - the undisputed god of retail: Ladies and gentleman… I give you, Walmart.
Now, I’m not sure the physical distance between Main St and Rangeline but I can tell you that it’s a mile, a metaphor, and one hell of a walk lying betwixt these twain. I made the unfortunate decision to weather this journey with not only guitar over shoulder, but also my backpack.
Within this backpack are three books, including my Bible; my laptop and it’s charger; mini MP3 player, earphones, and some cables; all my bathroom gear; and a small bag of snacks. I would imagine altogether it is a 15lb load; not much of a burden… Until you match it with a guitar, walking staff, and a 2+ mile hike under a harsh, striking, sunlight.
By the time I reached Rangeline I had stopped three times to rest and sweat enough to bathe a small child in. I had been told by some of the residents at the Refuge that there was a good place to sit and play guitar in the plaza containing ToysRUs. But when I arrived I saw no significant foot traffic to suggest any great potential for entertaining the masses or making my laundry change.
So I kept walking. I turned south and headed toward the string of fast food dives and audio / video outlets. Soon enough I found the entrance to that great demon of the profit margin: Walmart. I headed toward its parking lot.
The road leading to the Walmart is ridiculous. Empty stretches of broken parking lots occupy three times the land that the building itself sits on. At the crest of this concrete mound is the perfect view of man’s folly. To the right you find yourself overlooking Rangeline Rd; with the faces of two hundred storefronts all clamoring to push closer and tighter to the main drag than the one before it; all choking beneath an overhead veil of gently wafting carbon monoxide. To the left: a sea of this vacant pavement. Pay the boatman his fare and be shepherded across a blacktop purgatory to the final destination: Your friendly, local Walmart – where bargains are King.
Having not the fare I swam the moat myself, setting up my little would-be stage at the edge of the building; sat upon a bench just behind the bus stop. When I first began playing I didn’t have the nerve to just bust out and start singing. It’s been a long time since I played any street corner guitar and I’m much more comfortable, these days, sitting before a captive audience in the spotlight than I am breaking the quiet bustle of commerce with the cry of song.
I imagine it took me one or two cigarette breaks and a good 45 minutes to truly warm up to playing street side again. But once I broke myself open I really started having fun. There were two songs, specifically, that I wanted to play but that I usually sing in too low an octave to adequately project without amplification; so I moved my vocals up an octave; laughing all the way at both my, yet untested, abilities and inabilities to hit the proper notes. By the end of the day I was jolly and full of mirth.
It was a beautiful sight: seeing all these people pull into a Walmart parking lot – deep within a malaise of daily rigmarole – easing out of their cars, expecting nothing but the abrasive sound of shopping cart wheels smacking and creaking against the textures of the pavement beneath them; Each of them, spinning their faces toward me with a snap as they heard my guitar and voice… A brief pause, and then a smile breaking across their faces. Each walking away with a spring in their step that surely would not have been, save for this: my unexpected gift of song.
After three or four hours of playing the cuticle on my right thumb was bloodied, as were my guitar strings, from playing without a pick; my guitar bag had been added to with some $12.00; and my voice was beginning to break on the high notes. I would’ve remained there strumming for another hour or so but it was then that I was finally approached by the, much expected and compulsory, Walmart employee.
A man, followed closely by another whom I presume was intended as his body-shield in the event of my psychopathy, approached while I rounded the first chorus of this day’s third performance of Pearl Jam’s, ‘Black.’ (A song I grew to hate many years ago after playing it innumerable times at too many venues, but that many recognize and seem to gather enjoyment from hearing.) He stood in front of me for a few seconds before I stopped singing mid-song to hear him speak the words I already knew were in his mind.
“I’ve got to ask you to move on. I can’t have you out here playing music and asking for money.”
My first thought was to respond: “Well, despite this being a spot right in front of a Walmart, you’ll notice that we’re standing at a bus stop, sir. As such this is public property and if you’d like me to leave you need to call the police and prove that I am either disturbing the peace or somehow loitering; which is a bit of a hard sell in this situation. That aside, those charges are civil infractions, which means while I can be fined I cannot be arrested nor dragged away.”
My second thought was to respond: “Hey buddy, I’m just trying to make enough money to do my laundry, okay?! Sorry, but I’ve rejected your bullshit ideals of property gain and monetary enrichment as the end-all of existence. Who the hell am I hurting by bringing a little spontaneity and joy to your customer’s lives? I’m not asking for any payment and neither am I pan-handling here. I’m providing a service of great spiritual value absolutely free of charge. I play whether anyone pays me or not. I’m simply accepting whatever donations a person might wish to make of their own volition. So buzz off, jerk.”
My third thought was to respond: “And in the day of judgment it shall be said that when I was an hungered you did not feed me; when I thirsted you gave me no drink; and when I was naked you did not clothe me. And before that greatest judge, the Lord Himself, He shall look upon you saying: I do not know you.”
Thankfully, I went with my fourth instinctual response: Nothing. I stared vacantly at him and nodded; remembering afterwards this teaching of Jesus: “Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary delivery thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.”(Matt. 5:25)
As I gathered up my things, a woman came over handing me another $2.00 and sharing in my disappointment of forced departure. Unscathed I crossed, once more, the ocean of asphalt to Rangeline Road and headed back toward the ToysRUs; reasoning to play a little more guitar before making the hellish trek returning to west Joplin. Along the way I stopped at a music shop and bought a thirty-seven cent, celluloid guitar pick, saving my thumbnail and cuticle from any further unneeded abuse. And in the ToysRUs parking lot I added another five dollars or so to my collected bounty.
-
Later that night I washed my dirty laundry for a total cost of $4.25; leaving a relatively hefty sum to put toward off-brand sodas, cigarette tobacco, and all manner of those things which might someday corrupt my lungs and entrails to the point of dysfunction. (High fructose corn syrup: It’ll kill ya’. Look it up!)
Joplin, Missouri - written 10.13.2007
Week 1
I rolled into Joplin, Missouri, carried by a Greyhound bus about five days ago. When I hit the streets it was made all too clear to me that I had brought far, far more luggage than I would be able to shoulder through the city streets. So I brunted the load across the street from the bus station to a parking lot sheltered in the shade of a large red brick building. There I sat for at least an hour and a half tearing my bags apart time and again trying to decide what I could keep and what had to go. In the end I packed a good portion of what I had brought with me into the large, green canvas, military backpack I had planned to wear throughout my wanderings and tucked it behind an air conditioning unit; essentially abandoning it.
Instead of the backpack I decided I would carry my goods within the soft canvas duffle-pack gifted me by a Mr. Ron Wilkins – part owner of the business I worked at until I took on this little journey. I slid my guitar onto my back, muscled the duffle over my shoulder, and set out to explore this city I had come to; chosen by all but the throw of a dart.
Just two blocks away I landed in a small park with a water fountain. I stopped to settle my nerves and bring my wits back about me. It is a disturbing thing to land in a city you don’t know with no support structure, no more than $10.00 in your wallet, and no plans except to follow wheresoever the divine shall lead.
I pulled out my guitar and sat there soothing my spirit beneath the shade of the park trees; the sound of water at the fountain; the constant gentle breeze of the Joplin winds on my face; and a few notes of music wafting over head from under shoulder.
When my worries had settled I put the guitar away and asked the Lord to guide me. What direction should I go? Looking to the south I saw the tightly packed buildings of historic downtown Joplin. To the north the commercial and residential development began to disperse as the city came to an end. And to the west I could see the crucifix-adorned steeples of many different churches lining the streets.
My first inclination was to head west, toward those churches, hoping to find someone within who might point me to the local shelters, soup kitchens, and the other means of the average vagrant’s works. But if not west I’d prefer to head south, into the downtown area where I’d be more likely to stumble upon these things myself.
But as I sat there asking the Great Magnet where I should go, a strong wind came up and with it a strong urge to head north, toward the end of the city and the beginnings of scattering gas stations and car dealerships. By my own logic and wisdoms I did not want to start walking north. My bags were still quite heavy and cumbersome, and I couldn’t walk very far shouldering them without needing to stop and rest. With this in mind, north would seem to deliver me into the nothingness of an ever more suburban and ever more rural area; unfriendly to the Christian hobo.
So I turned my head skyward, questioning the wisdom of the Lord’s guidance, and seeking a different path. And in the instant that I questioned His guidance I caught a wind-spray of water in the face. Now, I’d been sitting at this fountain for over a half hour without a touch of water finding its way to my body. I took it as a sign: Looked once more to the heavens saying, “Alright you bastard. Let’s go.” I picked up my bags and headed north.
-
For brevities sake I’ll simply say that I walked some distance struggling all the while with the sixty or so pounds of awkwardly fitted luggage dangling from my arms, hands, and back. I suppose I reached a point about as far north as I was willing to walk. Though take care, brothers, to understand that it was not a failure of faith that turned me back but a general mindlessness that fell over me as I panted and sweat beneath the load of my cargo.
I turned once more to the south and entered a shaded alley where I might, once more, rearrange the weight on my back. After several minutes of negotiating primarily fruitless measures to consolidate my load into a more balanced burden, a man’s head emerged from around the corner of the alley saying, “Is that you making all the noise back here?”
I began to speak but he interrupted me saying, “Well? Get in here!” as he disappeared again around the corner. I grabbed up my things and followed him to the other side of the structure. I must admit that from the alley I would have thought this small, one story, concrete building to be condemned or likewise abandoned. Most of the windows had been boarded up long ago and the top coat of paint appeared to be about the twentieth white-washing this tiny structure had received since its construction.
On the other side of the building I found this man – this stranger – standing; waiting and holding the door open as if to beckon me inside. I walked in to find a sort-of studio apartment: Old, weathered, and somewhat ugly. The kitchen floor was layered with dark orange, cracked and peeling chunks of stick-on tile. And in their midst a large crack cut its way through the floor from fridge to sofa; filled and mudded over with some dark red filler compound which was left un-sanded.
The bedroom was uncarpeted concealing no more than a bed, an unpopulated desk and an undetermined chunk of furniture being used as a raised, flat surface. As this man, my new friend, would come to tell me over and over again, “It’s primitive.” Nonetheless I found myself saying “This is pretty nice.”
I tucked my bags into a corner and began to acquaint myself with this stranger. I would soon discover that he was a Vietnam war veteran and an alcoholic. And wow, what an alcoholic! It seemed no matter what I said to him, he simply repeated the same few woeful comments over and over again; and always in the partial slur of alcohol’s depressive effects on the tongue.
Later I would discover the true depth of this otherwise simple man. He is never truly as drunk as you think I are. Much of the slur in his words comes from a lack of teeth – most of the bottom front are gone leaving only the lower canines visible. And his inability to follow a conversation has nothing to do with his incessant drinking and everything to do with his ears.
By whatever cause (though likely a result of his military days) he has about a seventy percent hearing loss. When I discovered this it was like meeting a whole different person. Our conversations until then had been fairly one way: He would ramble about something I’d already heard him say ten times before and I would make whatever facial expression best conveyed my response. But when I finally started shouting my words a whole new book opened up before me. His name is Anthony, or rather Tony. He’s from Michigan. He’s a Christian – almost took up being a preacher. And has he got some stories to tell!
I discovered him to be a good, solid man, of great charity and mindfulness to the troubles of others. That night he agreed to hold my bags for me while I was in town so that I could come and go with as little or as much as I needed. And I was able to run back to where I had hidden the abandoned backpack, regaining it and it’s contents to my cause.
His hearing loss is a great shame. I have seen him try to communicate with others and they, without knowing his disability, simply take him for a sloppy drunk. Knowing what I know now, I doubt the alcohol affects him cognitively at all. It makes him a bit more jocular, and a bit more willing to say things he might not otherwise, but his mind seems to be in full faculty - always. Because of this I am now in search of a hearing aid that I might deliver it to him as a gift: That he should not be perceived as a drunkard and a fool; for in my book he is written as neither.
-
Anthony put me up that first night and let me wash the muck of the Greyhound off me in his shower. The next day I arose and went walking, mapping the town in my mind as I went. There are a number of shelters on this side of Joplin, many within a ten block radius of one another. The most spoken of is a place called “Soul’s Harbor.”
I went looking for Soul’s Harbor the day after I arrived. First, because I didn’t want to take advantage of Anthony’s charity and generosity. Second, because I met and spoke with his landlady, Phyllis. The utilities at Anthony’s house are included in the rent, meaning Phyllis is the one paying the actual bills. Reasonably, therefore, she’s uneasy toward having a second occupant in the house on any regular basis who might end up costing her more in gas, electricity, and water.
Now, it seemed that every time I walked up to Soul’s Harbor the doors were locked. I just couldn’t figure out the schedule for this place. For two days I hoofed the ten blocks down at various times hoping to speak to someone about the shelter and never found a ‘soul’ to speak to. But what I did eventually find was a flyer on their door telling me of a community block-party going on at 5p that afternoon a few blocks away. The words “FREE FOOD” were especially enticing at this point as I hadn’t partaken of a hot meal in three or four days. I resolved to attend this shin-dig and see what might be born of it.
The block-party was being hosted by another shelter, colloquially termed the “Refuge House.” I believe the sponsoring entity is called Refuge Ministries. I showed up several hours early while the Refuge people were just starting to assemble things. So, thinking to kill some time, I walked down the alley running next to the shelter and under the 7th street bridge. There I ran into a group of ten or twelve teenagers and young twenty-somethings. It turned out they were walking from one end of town to the other, handing out free sack-lunches to the homeless and the needy. After a good conversation with two members of the group they continued on, leaving me with a lunch bag full of yet untold treasures.
You have never truly tasted a ham and cheese sandwich until you’ve eaten one after three days living on bulk packaged peanut butter crackers and granola bars. I savored every bite of it, lamenting only my failure to discover the packet of mayonnaise at the bottom of the bag until the last two bites.
Therein also was one of those foil wrapped kool-aid type juice drinks, a mini bag of Cheetoh’s, and – ugh – more crackers. A word to the wise: Kool-aid drinks seem to do more toward dehydration than quenching thirst. I was soon looking for something else to wet my throat after downing that little silver bag’o’fluid.
After munching on my “free lunch” I killed a little time, walking around aimlessly, and returned to the Refuge. I was still two hours early but the preparations were really starting to get underway now. I shook a few hands, met a few people, rolled up my sleeves and got to work; helping setup for the coming block party.
It’s a glorious thing to sweat and work without expectation; To do manual labor with no thought of reward but merely for the sake of doing what needs be done: To each man as he is able.
Since the block party I’ve gotten to know a lot of the people here at the Refuge. I’ve also done a lot more, spiritually fulfilling, dirt-and-muscle-type work for the place. Even now I’m writing this article from a dinner table in the pantry / kitchen area within. In my opinion the Refuge House is the perfect shelter.
Many of the shelters around here have strict rules about when you can come and go, how often you must check in, mandatory involvement in work programs and church groups; and I imagine these sort of places would tend to take your hand and lead you where you will be for the night, keeping you out of certain areas in the buildings.
The Refuge House is nothing like that. In fact, I was quite uncomfortable when I first started visiting here because of how much liberty they granted me. Without knowing me for more than a few hours I was being encouraged to walk around the place like I owned it. Through the church section, pantry, storage, and sleeping areas. And though it’s a shelter there is quite a bit here worth stealing if a man were so inclined. I was amazed at the trust and faith the people here placed in me having known me for such a short period of time; It speaks well of them.
The Refuge keeps its doors open until about 10p for the residents to come and go as they please, and in the morning no man is shoving you out of bed or hurrying you out of the building. If you can get up by noon no one is going to bother you. And honestly I don’t think anyone bothers the few who haven’t awoke by then either. Everyone just ends up congregating on the loading dock, smoking and chatting and generally being neighborly. That is when they aren’t working or keeping the place clean and presentable.
The folks who technically run the joint are indistinguishable from any of the other residents. They sleep here, eat here, and dress in the same dirty, hand-me-down clothes as everyone else. It’s a real family atmosphere that pierces me right through to the heart. The love, charity, and compassion of everyone here can really overwhelm a man.
So I give them whatever I can. Having little in the way of money and possessions I do whatever work they might need done; sweeping and mopping the floors; cleaning up the exterior; loading and unloading donated goods. Just today I rode to the Frito Lay distribution center in the back of a pick-up truck and helped load a twelve foot trailer full with donated chips and corn-goods. Again, the satisfaction in doing these things without want or need of reciprocation is more satisfying that any other work I’ve ever done.
I’ve been hesitant to take full advantage of The Refuge’s generosities, though. They have an open bed here that, by tonight, I will have slept in twice since arriving. But I’m timid toward the notion of accepting the full-time residency that they have offered me.
I chose to become a vagrant in pursuit of happiness and godliness; much of which I have even now begun to find. But there are surely others who did not choose this lot in life who have nonetheless found themselves cast down beside me. Should I fill that empty bed, I will have removed it from another – almost certainly less fortunate than I and less knowing of God’s gifts.
I remain unsure of my future at the Refuge House except insomuch as I shall do whatsoever I can to be an asset to its continued work, delivering hope and good charity upon those who have none.
-
There is a man here at the Refuge named Duke. He was the foremost man I met here who I took an immediate liking to. I believe Duke was the first to put me to work when I arrived at the block party. He’s a skinny biker-looking guy with a long, scraggly, handlebar mustache and tattoos coming out the sleeves of his shirt. Most often you’ll find him cracking wise on one of the residents or ogling some woman’s… well, pick your body part and he’ll ogle it.
Now, before I go on I should say that everyone around here – by my encounters it would seem the whole city of Joplin even – is Christian. (Or at the least: “Christian.”) Duke is certainly a god-fearing man, as it were, and you’d be hard pressed to distinguish his godliness from any of the other godliness bandying about in these parts. But look closely; gain his confidence; earn his trust; and you will discover that Duke is a Muslim.
The day after the block party the biggest church in the area, the Central Christian Church, held its own block party, calling it a “Round Up,” in a parking lot just two roads down from the Refuge. Again the lure of free food and the potential for religious and/or philosophical conversation drew me to attendance.
It was an overcast day. As I walked to the event I was drenched by a steady rain; Still, I was happy for it. I hadn’t had a shower in a few days and between the heat, my love of walking, the daily applications of sunscreen, and my newfound interest in unpaid manual labor, I had built up a layer of “sticky” that a good rain could only help.
The Round Up was serving chili and lemonade. You have never truly enjoyed chili until you’ve eaten it in the middle of a parking lot even as rain water fills your bowl.
But the rain passed and the Round Up resumed in its intended fashion. It was when I walked into the Karaoke tent (no comment) that I saw Duke waving to me from the back row. We made pleasantries, talked a bit, and bumped into each other off and on the rest of the day. But it was just before we started to leave that he revealed his true religion to me.
It turns out Duke is a self-described “converted Muslim.” Some years ago he became disenchanted with the Christian ethos and started asking the kind of questions some pastors don’t like to hear. He started to challenge the validity of the Bible and began demanding answers from the church on the nature and manner of the various translations and interpretations of the text. Shortly thereafter he was asked to leave.
Undeterred from discovering the truth, Duke set himself to learning Hebrew and then Aramaic. Eventually he would read the Quran in it’s native language; a book I’m told that has never been augmented or changed by any of the Muslim faiths.
It was here that he found the answers he was looking for: A faith fully centered on God and our connections with Him. That did not lift up any prophet or disciple before God or place any human born man on God’s level. To Duke it is a faith wherein when you pray you do not hide your face and bow your head in shame, asking favors and gifts of God, as do the Christians; but instead you kneel before the great creator lifting your eyes to the heavens – facing God – and thanking Him for all that he has provided, begging merely that your fellow should know and receive the same gifts already granted you.
Duke is a good man. And he has furthered my interest in the Quran and the Muslim faith by his example. When I know the New Testament of the original King James Bible to my complete satisfaction I will not turn my attentions to the Old Testament, but first to the Quran.
Friends, I will do what I can to keep in touch throughout my travels and I will hope to see you all again soon. May you each and all find the peace you seek and the love you deserve. God be with you.
Joplin, Missouri - written 10.10.2007