“I got a story ain’t got no moral.”

-Billy Preston

I was homeless for six weeks in 2003.

My new roommate Eric was homeless for about the same period earlier this year. [See Eric’s Backpack below].

I have stepped over dozens of freezing homeless men, primarily in the late 1990s.

I have written ‘The Case for The Panhandler Genocide.’

My column, ‘Panhandler Nation’ is largely a rant against the acquisitively homeless.

On the other hand I am a big fan of 17th Century pirates, Germanic nomad tribes, and Magyars, who were all essentially virulently covetous homeless folk.

So, what I am about to write may surprise you.

As a food market clerk, working for Good Guys R’ Us out in the county, I pulled three shifts in a row leading up to Thanksgiving. I normally do not work even two nights in a row. This afforded me the opportunity to see a rare and melancholy drama unfold.

This slice of the suburbs, ten miles beyond the Harm City line, is no longer pristine; has become a ghetto annex, a target of slothful imminent domain. The postmodern ghetto is an ever-expanding phenomenon, hollowing out at its core to make way for urban homesteaders of the nearly wealthy class, even as the parasitic hood-rats scatter in pursuit of the receding civilization that is their reluctant host.

Our store has been open for 24 hours since January. Doing this in the ghetto is suicidal on many levels, but is workable, here, far beyond the criminal epicenter of our society. The night captain discussed the eventual homeless encroachment of winter earlier this year, dreading the consequences and his inequitable role in the store policies that would surely ensue.

On Monday night 11/25/13 I noticed a black man in late middle-age, wearing slightly dirty sweats and old sneakers, limping through the store to the coffee pot. He is suffering from the onset of a nervous system disorder of some kind. He is very dark and has a droopy swollen lower lip. His appearance alone was enough to evoke pity. I have worked predominantly on majority black night crews throughout my life.

I have noticed that dark-skinned men with large lips are often ridiculed by their peers. Even the big dangerous ones get picked on behind their back, so you know it had to be bad for this guy in childhood. I once worked with a multiple murderer with the street name of Mumblejack. This dude was super scary. Even so, the other black clerks would make fun of him constantly with sayings such as, “Dat nigga straight from Africa!” and “Sheee, dat nigga got lips bigga den Mick Jagga!”

I found much to pity about this man, particularly the fact that he was on the street during a blast of cruel winter weather. I also found some things to admire.

He kept his purchases spread out to about one an hour and then took his time consuming them on the bench up front. When he no longer had a legitimate purpose to be in the store he would pace out front on the sidewalk, staying out of the way of customers, and even cleaning up trash.

He never panhandled.

When Charlene bought him coffee, he thanked her, and did not come back to her again expecting a handout. He even wiped the counter around the coffee pot. When other customers were nearby, he made himself scarce, not wanting to be a nuisance.

I took to calling him ‘Mo Coffee’ as he hit the pot every hour for the 13 hours I was on the job. He noticed when we would come up front on our breaks to sit, and would go outside during these times. This dude was the perfect homeless guy. On Tuesday night, as I took my seat on the bench to finish reading V.J. Waks novel Hammerspace on my break, Bubba, our cashier, nodded to Mo Coffee, and said, “You took his seat. He’s going to stay outside in the cold until you’re done.”

Bubba came over and leaned on the back of the idle register lane, “He’s a nice guy. It’s kind of nice having him around. But you can see Reggie [the night captain] keeping an eye on him. How long do you think he’ll be okay here?”

“He hit the jackpot. He is a low-impact specialist, the rare self-sufficient homeless guy. He has money. He spreads it out to make sure he’s welcome or at least tolerated. He doesn’t beg. He’s a strong dignified man. Most of us would be crying in the gutter in his shoes, knocking on mom’s door, begging for a space on the couch. He has survival protocols and sticks to them.”

Bubba seemed surprised that I was not calling for his homeless head, knowing that I had once been among the cruelest and least tolerant store managers in the area. He nodded again, “So you think management will let him stay?”

“I would have bounced him out on Monday. I was a heat-seeking missile where loiterers were concerned. He’s Daniel Boone—the polite pathfinder. We are the Indians. Management is the chiefs. The panhandlers, muggers and thieves that have chased him out of the ghetto, they are the white soldiers coming to rape and pillage. You have to kill the pathfinder or drive him off, or you get overwhelmed. Zero tolerance is the only defense. You can’t solve the problem. You can just move it down the street. When I took that management job there was always a panhandler on duty, about a half-dozen a day. When I resigned there were none, but the Aldis down the street had a picket line out front. When the store was open for business every gap in the bars was covered by a dude I had bounced off my lot.”

Bubba seemed sad, “Happy days.”

“That’s what Reggie is dealing with. He’s already upset about telling this dude to get lost next week, when it’s even colder out.”

Bubba seemed to be weighing the social scheme of things, and whispered, with a long look at Mo Coffee, “I like having him around. He’s a nice guy.”

On Wednesday night, I asked Bubba, “Where’s our man?”

“John [the store manager] put him out.”

Bubba was noticeably depressed by the encroaching darkness of the world. I said what I could to assuage the 19-year-old, “At least he saved Reggie from the guilt.”

Bubba nodded and said wistfully as we looked out into the icy night, “I hope he found a place, at least to eat Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Amen brother.”