Date: Fri 08-Dec-1995

Publication: Bee

Author: ANDREA

Quick Words:

Reporter's-Journal-James

Full Text:

STD HD: Reporter's Journal

B Y A NDREA Z IMMERMANN

I stood at the back of the line and watched as two high school girls placed

their order for doughnuts and stepped aside to let the next person approach

the counter. It was Charles. And when the girls saw his unshaven face and

filthy jacket they backed away, wrinkled their noses and looked across at each

other, looked through him.

The store owner addressed Charles as "sir" and asked what he would like. No

patronizing tone, no hurry to get him out. And Charles quietly responded,

stepping forward with slight hesitation and a dollar ready in his hand.

It was a moment of contrasts - youth and age, tolerance and intolerance,

disrespect and respect, fear and compassion. It happened more than a year ago,

yet it remains vivid in my mind.

My one conversation with Charles had taken place a month earlier. Although it

seemed happenstance, it wasn't - I'd sought him out last fall after warmer

temperatures had drifted south, and I was thinking about doing a piece on the

homeless in Newtown. The only problem was, I couldn't find anybody living on

the streets. Two good leads had fallen through - a woman who had been homeless

for a week or so during the summer had since found a room in town, and there

was no trace of a fellow who was supposedly living in the woods. But someone

told me about this guy who had dry shelter, but no running water, near the

center of town.

So I changed the focus of the article and went in search of Charles. I found

him at the counter of a coffee shop sitting apart from the crowd. I wanted to

know if he had ever contacted anyone at Social Services about his living

situation; he wanted to warn me about them - the many and mighty evils filling

layers of worlds. He spoke in a low voice, looked directly into my eyes, and

warned me of giant annihilators masquerading as benign mortals; about

bloodied, crushed bones strewn about into patterns we mistook for roads; about

all sorts of things that could have resulted in a very scary impression of

Charles.

But that's not what happened. I'll admit the thought of Boogeymen waiting for

me out there somewhere has, at times, gotten the better of me. (If my dog

could talk, he'd ask, "How many times do you have to look under the bed/in the

closet/behind the refrigerator?") And a shudder or two did run down my spine

later that day when I allowed myself to mentally review the under- and

over-worlds which were so much a part of Charles' every day existence. But

those 20 minutes we shared had a different kind of resonance.

I realized that here was a man with more important considerations than

conveniences or physical comfort. Although our focus was different, we were

single-minded in our determination to increase the other's awareness; we were

both trying to help the other take better care of himself.

None of our exchange ever made it into the paper. As a matter of fact, an

entire year passed before I finally wrote a two-part series on people on the

verge of homelessness. But my encounter with Charles has altered my view of

the world.

Reality is a nebulous thing, after all. If you had been sitting there at the

coffee counter, would your experience have been the same as mine?