Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [13]
After taxes, a couple of minor fees, the $1 ATM fee, and the staggering $5 I had to pay for the trip to and from the job ($2.50 to the van and $2.50 to Cicely for the ride home), I netted $28.61 on the day. My share of lunch had cost me $3, so now, with the $20.27 left over from my initial fund, I had $48.88 to spend on the necessary items I intended to buy. On our way out, Angela remarked that she had plenty of jobs for the following day, but I remembered that I had to attend orientation at the shelter, so I was going to miss out. Before heading to her home on the north side of town, Cicely dropped me off up the street from EasyLabor at Family Dollar, where I made my money count. All of it. I bought six pairs of underwear, a six-pack of socks, six white undershirts, a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, an eight-pack of Ivory soap, shampoo and conditioner, a towel, a washcloth, a roll of toilet paper for emergencies, and a week-long supply of an assortment of potted meat and crackers that I would eat for lunch. Even though I had to skip working on Thursday in order to attend orientation at the shelter, and I was unaware of the weekend’s work schedule at EasyLabor, I now had the resources to survive for a while.
Walking the dilapidated backstreets of Eastside Charleston en route back to the shelter, I began to ponder a few things. After my initial meeting with Sarge, the only thing that I had disagreed with was his advice that I avoid befriending anyone. “You might think you know somebody, but you don’t,” I remembered him saying. Well, fair enough, but isn’t that true anywhere? I knew before I even hopped on the train for Charleston that I was going to need a companion on my journey. Could I accomplish my mission solo, dodging in and out of people’s lives virtually unnoticed? Sure. Did I want to? Nope. I knew that having somebody to hang with would not only make things easier, but it would also make my life more interesting outside of the confines of achieving my goals. Sharing the day’s endeavors and goals and dreams with a friend was more appealing to me than tallying my bankroll after dinner.
I had arrived back at the shelter an hour and a half early for check-in, which was not enough time for me to get down to the library to e-mail my parents, who were waiting to hear about my safe arrival. However, it left me plenty of time to try to get to know a few people.
Quite a crowd had already assembled in preparation for the 7:30 check-in. The spread was mixed. Loners sat by themselves off to the side, while established cliques stood around talking about news, the day’s happenings, and the other established cliques. I figured the loudest talkers were the ones that ran the shelter life on the inside, so I resolved that it would be valuable for me to meet a few of them. Unfortunately, the loudest talkers were also the least approachable, and they seemed to look at me—the new guy—as more of a nuisance than a prospective acquaintance. My problem was more than likely in my icebreaker, but I couldn’t be sure. I just didn’t know what to say. During high school, I had struggled when approaching cute girls, but I did not suspect that I would have the same problem in conversing with homeless men.
Enter Marco Walten.
Marco—who, as it turned out, had been in and out of the shelter for two months now—was experiencing the exact opposite of my dilemma. He knew darn near everybody.
“Hey, Marco, what up, homie?”
“Hey, Marco, my man, how was work?”
“Hey, Marco, I saw Alyssa today. She was asking about you.”
“Hey, Marco, your shoe’s untied. Oh, gotcha! Ha, ha.”
“Hey, Marco! Hey, Marco!”
He was the king of the shelter, a social chameleon who could talk to just about anybody from any background about pretty much anything. Although the camera flashes were absent, he walked