Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [29]
“Yeppers. I’m getting’ the hell outta here, bro,” he said.
“Cool, man.”
“Next week.”
“What?” I asked, puzzled, startled almost, at how he would be able to afford such an ambitious move.
He detailed his plan.
“See, the place I want to rent is $650 a month. I bring home $1,100 a month. With the $400 I have saved up, I just need one paycheck, and I can move in. I already worked everything out. I’m gettin’ the hell outta this place.”
To a certain extent, I liked his attitude. He wanted out, and he had a plan, whereas a great number of people didn’t and were freeloading at the shelter off of the generosity of donations and grants and government dollars. Larry wasn’t a freeloader, but I was still a bit disappointed.
I wasn’t disappointed that his math was off. He was somewhat savvy, but on his salary with a host of other expenses like electricity, food, transportation, and entertainment, it wasn’t going to be easy for him to live in a place that cost $650.
I was disappointed, however, that he obviously hadn’t paid attention during his orientation with Ms. Evelyn. She had explained quite clearly that many people land themselves in the shelter or end up returning to the shelter as a result of defective budgeting techniques. “Your rent should not exceed one-third of your monthly salary,” she had said. Several times. Weren’t poor financial decisions a major reason that a lot of people were ending up at the shelter in the first place?
Despite my reservations, Larry was set on moving out the next week. Politely, he dismissed my warnings, showing that he wasn’t interested in hearing what I had to say about finding a place that was cheaper and maybe even getting a roommate. He didn’t even want to listen when I told him that the second bedroom he required to house the drum set he was going to buy was just not a feasible option. He had his mind made up, so I had to let the issue lay to rest.
Outside the shelter before check-in was always the most entertaining time of the night. At about 7:15 every night, Sergeant Mendoza, known outside the shelter walls by his full name, “Hidethatshit Sargeiscoming,” would walk through the shelter yard searching for open containers of alcohol hidden behind benches and book bags. At least three times a week, he would catch a newcomer who had not been forewarned about the secret searches, and he would take him to jail, where he was processed and returned back to the shelter by nine, all the while cursing the wrath of Sarge. It was routine, but it kept the shelter residents honest. As much as we could say that we hated his ball-busting tactics, we all knew that Sarge was the lifeblood of the shelter. Some might try to say we were safe because the doors to the general population area of the shelter were locked on both sides, but the truth is that Sarge was our security. Few dared to step out of line, and he nailed them if they did.
The freedom to shower as long as I wanted on Saturday night gave me an opportunity to do laundry for the first time, a system that the ever-so prudent Easy E had introduced me to the night before. Instead of spending several dollars per load plus the cost of detergent, he showed me how I could use my regular bar of soap to clean my clothes in the shower and where I could hang them each night so that they would be dry by the time I woke up the next morning. Since I didn’t plan on having more than a few changes of clothes anyway, it was the most sensible option. I could wash my clothes in the shower at night and by the next day they would be ready to wear again. Even though a washer and dryer could have done a more thorough job on stains, I saved many dollars using Easy E’s system for a majority of my time in the shelter.
Peering at me with a grin and evident ulterior motive, Larry invited me to sleep next to him in a spot left vacant by one of the guys who was spending the weekend away from the shelter. I declined his offer. I was in a funk, dissatisfied with my day. My first