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But, if nothing else, observing the lifestyles on Marion Square gave us hope and aspiration and something to look forward to. For some reason, there was something magical about sitting there by the fountain with a mere $50 between me and broke. As we watched everybody else running and giggling and seemingly prospering, Marco and I knew that we wanted that lifestyle, too. And we knew what we had to do.

“Roommates,” Marco said. “We need to be roommates. That’s how we’re gonna get out of this lifestyle. We gotta do it together.”

And I couldn’t have agreed more. Together. We sketched a plan that would have us out of the shelter and into the projects in two months. “I know where we can get a place to stay for four hundred dollars a month,” he said. “It ain’t a pretty neighborhood, but it’s better than the shelter.”

I was a bit skeptical about residing in the ghettos of Charleston, but that was a mere technicality that we could work out later. Right now, we had a master plan on getting out.

We walked back up Meeting Street en route to the shelter. We picked up our pace as we walked through “Chicken Row,” the assortment of Piggly Wiggly, KFC, and Church’s Chicken where the delicious aroma of fried chicken wafting out of the buildings’ front doors made it difficult not to dip into our pockets for a three-piece dinner with mashed potatoes, a buttermilk biscuit, and sweet tea for just $4.19. Whew, that was tough walking through there. But we couldn’t spend our money. As much of a fiend as I was for fried chicken, a few dollars here and a few dollars there would hurt me. We had to save. Besides, dinner at the shelter was right around the corner.

Really, saving wasn’t that difficult for me since there wasn’t much I needed to spend my money on. I would have to keep myself clothed, and I would need to spring for bus fare when it came time for me to get around town to places that weren’t within walking distance. Until I got a real job, I would survive on my staple lunch of crackers and sausage, but even when I was employed full-time, I would be careful with how I spent my money. While I absolutely believed in rewarding myself from time to time for the hard work that I was putting in, I had to remain within reason. I had to delay gratification.

And that was the name of the game. Delaying gratification. In my mind, I had to be prepared to put my wants aside indefinitely as I fought to attain basic needs. I didn’t yet have the means to provide my own food, shelter, clothing, or an automobile. Nothing. So the more money I spent on booze or cigarettes or snacks or the latest pair of shoes that nobody else on the block had yet, the farther I would be from accomplishing my initial goals. To me, money that wasn’t saved or going toward other worthy means was money wasted.

Which didn’t mean I was setting myself up to be a robot that worked hard all day and penny-pinched my entire paycheck. No, no. An occasional stop at KFC or trip to the movies wasn’t going to break the bank as long as I understood that I was on a mission. I knew where I wanted to be, and I wanted to get there as soon as possible.

I loved the dawn-til-dusk hours at the shelter. In and out early meant that I would stay focused on what I needed to be doing and that I would have a better shot at staying out of trouble and out of harm’s way.

On the weekends, attendance was down at the shelter as a lot of the guys hit the social circuit, renting hotel rooms or staying with friends. But not me. Weekends meant I would have my choice of where to sleep, all the shower time I needed, and enough food to fill me up until Monday.

Before check-in, Larry searched me out to relay his excitement that he had just scored a permanent job through Charleston.net. He wasn’t terribly excited about being a garbage man, but he was excited about the guaranteed forty hours a week that came with having a job with the city.

“It doesn’t matter what time we get done every day,” he said. “We get forty hours per week no matter what.”

He also outlined a laundry list of benefits that included