After several minutes of shifting and negotiating various levels of discomfort, I settled into fetal position. Laying there with my hands sandwiched between knees, I was determined to get some rest. It would not come easily under these circumstances. I would have to disregard the aching of my body against the asphalt and somehow find a way to ignore the occasional Texas-sized cockroach casually wandering by in my peripheral view. I sunk into my sleeping bag, zipped it over my head, and fantasized about the cozy pillow-top mattress I’d laid upon just one night before.
The day had begun like any other Saturday. Significantly better actually, like some poetic cliché of the perfect weekend. I woke up early with an inexplicable surge of energy that contributed an extra half mile to my sunrise jog around Lady Bird Lake. The shower that followed showcased my cheerful vocals over a shuffle of Channel ORANGE. I quickly got dressed, threw a journal, pen, and a book into my sling bag, and walked down the street to my favorite coffee shop where I had the rare fate of finding the coveted red hammock on the back patio unoccupied. SCORE! After a crazy week of 4 a.m. flights, employee roundtables and action plan implementation, this was my day to be unapologetically self-indulgent.
Just as I laid back and began to quiet my mind, a text made my bag vibrate. I cringed at the possibility of some urgent work issue requiring immediate attention. I reached for my phone, relieved to find a message from my cousin inviting me to join her for “Street Retreat.” She’s a social worker, and the agency she worked for provided periodic opportunities for city residents to camp out for a night and experience what life is like for the homeless population of Austin, TX. Without hesitation, I replied, ‘YES!’
That yes (all-caps, exclamation point), landed me in a parking lot fully zipped into a borrowed sleeping bag making life decisions — “Alright, Eb…What’s more important, breathing or avoiding these overly athletic mutant insects?” Insect avoidance was taking a strong lead when I heard heavy breathing and clumsy footsteps approaching. I unzipped to my nose to find an elderly man walking in my direction. He plopped his gear down in front of me and said with a raspy smoker’s drawl, “I usually have this spot to myself.” Before I could muster a response he continued, “Got me a spot on South Lamar today.” “Oh, Yeah?” I replied.“Yep, it was a good day,” he said, lightly patting his pocket.
I was struck, at that moment, by the realization that the busy intersection of South Lamar was prime real-estate for soliciting cash. The sense of gratitude he felt in landing that choice spot was equivalent to my red hammock experience at the opposite end of the city. I sat up and watched him loosen the drawstring of his duffel bag and, one-by-one, begin pulling out the cleverest array of items: a canteen, a pair of cargo pants with the tag still on them, a pillow… ‘He’s Mary Poppins,’ I thought as I watched with child-like wonder.
His name was Vern, and I learned that night that he suffered from PTSD and self-medicated himself with alcohol, a habit he was trying to kick. He had gotten his ‘survival bag’ from the V.A. Hospital. He left home on his own at 13 to escape an abusive father. Vern had a ‘good woman’ once. She loved him but he screwed it up. He told me how some jerk in a pickup truck had cursed at him earlier in the day. “Told me to get a job!” Vern said, his voice trailing off as if reliving the incident in his mind. “You see this?” he asked, shaking a large zip bag full of prescription meds, cataloging one by one every medication and what it treated. “This one here is a new prescription for a brand new diagnosis,” he said, squeezing a large pill bottle, “You ever seen a want ad for an old messed up Vet?” His conversation lingered there for a while. He was clearly upset by the words of this stranger in a truck.
Vern was a man with a lot of pride. He was proud of his military service, too proud to carry a sign for solicitations. He neatly spread his pallet with pride. He had his reasons for being out there, reasons that the ‘jerk in the pickup truck’ didn’t care to understand. He didn’t want to be dismissed or labeled or judged. I understood that. “I’m sorry, Vern. Some people are just cruel,” I said. He responded with silence for the first time since our introduction. After a moment, he walked to the dumpster at the corner of the parking lot and returned with a cardboard box. He ripped the box at the seams and stretched it flat in front of me. “Lay on this,” he said. I wiggled myself onto the cardboard, surprised to find that the thin barrier between my body and the concrete made a world of difference. “Oh, my gosh, Vern. Thank you!” He smirked, “Don’t worry about anything out here. I’ll protect you.” He was asleep within minutes of this pledge.
I woke up the next morning to find him gone. I kept an eye out for him over the next several months. I stashed a few dollars in my car in case I ran into him at some intersection on my drive home from work. I never saw him again, but I’m thankful for the timing and set of circumstances that united us in that church parking lot over a year ago. I needed to see Vern just as much as he needed to be seen.
