Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [16]
“I hate it here,” he said. “I mean, it’s nice and all, good people, all this history and shit. Maybe it’s my dad. I dunno. I just can’t get in the right groove.”
He didn’t have the resources to get out, but even if he were to acquire the resources, he wasn’t sure what would be waiting for him if he went back home to Michigan. He was struggling to ignite that fire in his belly that could potentially catapult him out of his present situation. He talked about school and getting an apartment and other ambitious pursuits, but the fact was that he had worked six different jobs since his arrival in Charleston, and he wasn’t happy with his latest at a pizza parlor.
And I think that’s why we hit it off from the beginning. We were both at the bottom, and we had come from similar backgrounds. Sure, mine was fabricated, but I played the part well, and besides, if we were going to work our way up together and enjoy each other’s company in the process, our friendship would evolve into much more than our storied past. Forget where we came from; we were more concerned with where we were going.
The morning clean-up crew at the shelter was permitted to enter a half-hour early—a benefit that only three people had played to their advantage. By 7:30 P.M., the line stretched out the front gates. Marco and I were close to the front of the line, which was more important than one might think: although everybody who arrived before 9:00 was admitted, first in got mattresses; last in got to sleep with the roaches on the cold tile floor.
The check-in process was rather uneventful. We told the desk clerk our name, he or she gave us a meal ticket, and then we went inside to pick out a mattress and a plot of the room to occupy for the evening. Then it was on to the dinner line.
On paper, there were no assigned mattresses or even assigned spots to sleep, for that matter. But it turned out that it was going to be more difficult than I thought to find a post for my mattress since the choice locations were controlled by the shelter’s regulars. Three times I was told to move, and three times I dragged my mattress away amid a cloud of laughter.
Finally, I found a place to sleep in the front corner of the shelter nearest the fire exit. Nobody liked to sleep there because of its close proximity to the hustle and bustle of Meeting Street on the other side of the windows, so I was left to fend for myself in my own little nook. Even Marco avoided the opportunity to sleep near his new friend when he chose to set up camp in the dining room. I reasoned that dinner scraps fallen short of the mouths of my shelter brethren would be ideal bait for the unruly army of insects that I preferred not to accommodate. But Marco didn’t really seem to mind.
Dinner for my first night was spaghetti with meat sauce, bread sticks, and salad with Italian dressing. I learned to appreciate these simple dinners more than ham or meatloaf or chicken, since there was always an abundant supply. Meatloaf could run out quick, but more often than not I could keep going back for spaghetti until I was so full I had to roll to bed. We were human garbage disposals. The shelter rarely stored leftovers, but they didn’t throw food away either. They served until the dishes were scraped empty.
I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well the night before and coupled with the demanding construction work, I knew it wouldn’t take long for me to pass out.
I rolled out my sleeping bag and placed my gym bag filled with my personal belongings next to my mattress. I remembered what Sarge had said about keeping our valuables with us at all times, so as I was going to bed, I tucked my prized possessions—my journal and my currently empty wallet—deep into my sleeping bag. I had less money than when I started, but as the lights went out, a