The art of homelessness: a number of articles have been written by a handful of decent writers on the subject of homelessness, but no one to my knowledge has covered this gross national tragedy by purposely walking in the shoes of the vagabond

Humanist, Jan-Feb, 2002 by Buffalo Latham

The art of homelessness: a number of articles have been written by a handful of decent writers on the subject of homelessness, but no one to my knowledge has covered this gross national tragedy by purposely walking in the shoes of the vagabond. So when the opportunity presented itself, I felt I should become my own subject and walk the streets and alleys and parks and parking lots of Miami-Dade, Florida, as one of the homeless. And let my notebooks tell the story.

The lyric "If I go crazy will you still call me Superman?" rings my drums. I turn it up till my headphones literally vibrate. When I asked this question of my love she'd emphatically said, "No!" And so, empty hand clutching a burst heart I departed with just two wrinkled five dollar bills in my fold and everything I owned stuffed into my World War II French army backpack and black canvas satchel. A man of the world I take to the stage, exchanging a fine woman, a comfortable home, and decent employ for a walk-on part as an actor in a quiet war where goals and dreams fall hard like rain. I kick myself to the curb, hitting the streets of Miami in the face of a potential downpour.

And with no direction and almost no money, I walk down past the glitter and glamour of South Beach, past fat cats and cute chicks dressed to the nines who stare disconcertedly at bums digging through trash cans for a morsel of discarded meat. I go down, down over the train tracks and back behind a series of tall empty buildings and find a shelter with a hand painted sign on an alley-side wall that reads, "Camilla House, dedicated to homeless everywhere." But the place--paid for by a mandatory tax imposed in 1993 on the city's restaurants and bars that raises $7 million annually--is closed. On the sidewalk under an awning in front, the "doomed and depraved" lay down and out on pieces of damp cardboard salvaged from industrial dumpsters. One guy, not much younger than me, lifts his head when he sees me and says, suggestively, "Pull up a piece of cardboard and get comfortable. This place don't open till Monday." Then he lays his head back down into dream.

Looking at him I remember an old Chinese proverb that went something like, "With only a bowl of rice to eat and my bended arm for a pillow, still I find comfort in these things." I think how less than twelve hours ago comfort for me was my dry apartment where my love would be waiting with open arms and a warm bed, food in the fridge, television to entertain, candlelight dinners, and the company of good friends. And now comfort is a dry piece of cardboard to sleep on, two burgers for two dollars from Burger King, and this belief that what I'm doing by living this reality will someday serve a higher purpose.

Then I think what horrible things could happen to me in this dirty and dangerous place and I start to pace. I see that, in comparison to others, I have too much. Too much weight in my heart staggering my movements and too much weight on my back. I look bent and broken--easy pickings for the five glossy-eyed, toothless men who just at that moment decide to relieve me of my heavy load.

They come at me like starved dogs on a lame animal. I almost laugh at the irony of being beaten and robbed in front of a shelter. However, seeing the seriousness of my situation and, after taking several shots to the head and body, I decide that fighting it out is futile and make a break for it. I put a death grip on my satchel and charge through the bunch knocking the smallest of them down on the rain soaked street and escape back out into a humid Miami night.

The beach, I find, is a fine place for sleeping. The moon beams gleam off the black waters of the Atlantic. As I lie down beside its quiet side, I feel my fears sink into its deepest depths; my mind finds peace, my body rest.

And then, of course, this being south Florida, it rains again. I wake up wet. All around me are dozens of others down and out in the sands. They too come awake, and we all go shuffling off into this surreal evening.

That reminds me how this whole thing began. Back when I lived in Richmond, Virginia, I would walk to work every morning past dozens of healthy looking men standing around outside this brick building. They would shake cups for change and mooch cigarettes. It was annoying.

If I was in their shoes, I'd thought, I'd go someplace warm, like Florida. I could reside on a beach or in the woods and live off the land, steal fish from the sea. Besides, what's the difference between being homeless and traveling? You keep clean by taking birdbaths in gas station and restaurant sinks. Fold your clothes to keep the crease, keep out the wrinkles. Have plastic bags to put wet and dirty clothes in and keep books and papers dry. You shower along a beach or under someone's backyard hose. You brush your teeth twice a day as the recommendation goes. And when you're as broke as a joke you steal shampoo and soap, even towels, early in the morning from a hotel cleaning lady's cart, which is always in the hallway and always unguarded. You wash your laundry in a sink, then lay it out on the grass in the sun and read a book or nap or fly a kite for fun. Because, like traveling, homelessness is a state of being, for most just a temporary thing ... I thought.