I Can't Just Leave Him
Eduardo comes down the food line speaking Spanish, translating for the servers, helping a small, silent man who nods when offered turkey, bread, cookies. One tiny nod per item. The small man bears the look of a frightened child, backs up when someone gets close, nervous, wary. He clutches a plastic grocery bag close to his body, holds his tray with long fingers, frail almost.
I touch Eduardo’s elbow as he passes me, and raise my eyebrows to ask without words if everything is all right. Eduardo smiles like he always does, but worry etches his face. The small man scurries to the closest unoccupied chair on the end of the first table. Eduardo gets him situated, urges the man to eat, but the chairs around his shy friend are all taken, so he takes a seat a few places down.
I park myself across from Eduardo as soon as he sits. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”
“I have many talents you aren’t aware of.” He bursts out laughing.
Before I knew his name, I called Eduardo “Swashbuckler’ in in my mind, because he has that hearty, manly personality. “So, how are you, Eduardo?”
“I’m glad to see you, Jonnie, that’s how I am.” He turns to a man beside him and says, “Do you know Jonnie? She’s one of the nicest people around here.”
“Hello,” the man says around a mouthful of food. “Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t seem interested.
Eduardo wears his hair pulled back in a long pony tail with three rubber bands. Tonight he’s sporting a deep purple cable knit sweater.
“That’s a nice sweater.” I tell him.
“Thanks. I got lucky. When I got this at the House of Peace, it was-” he rounds his arms out to mime how it hung- “way too big. But I washed it and put it in the dryer, and now it fits perfectly.”
“Well, you look nice.”
“Thank you.” He strokes the sweater, smooths it over his chest. “I’ve got good news.” A dramatic pause, eyes twinkling. “I’m alive!” He laughs. “No, for real. Something good happened.” Still the big mystery face.
“What? Tell me, Eduardo!”
He stretches out the answer. “I …got… my…birth certificate!”
“Wow, that’s terrific,” I say. And it is. Eduardo had to fill out forms and mail them to Chicago to get a copy of his birth certificate, and that took six weeks. After that, he had to get a new copy of his social security card. He can’t apply for any services or SSI without an I.D., and he couldn’t apply for I.D. without that birth certificate. He’s been in a holding pattern, living at the Rescue Mission, volunteering to hand out towels in the showers. He wants to get a job, and an apartment. He’s been stuck in the limbo of the slow chugging system. You have to go all the way back to Point A before you can even start working on the next thing.
Over and over I hear this story. Your needs are here now, you need to get over there for help, but you can’t get there from here. Not until you go through the proper steps. And you can’t go through the proper steps unless you know what they are. And it takes a while to figure out what they are. Meanwhile, you are tired, cold, hungry, disheartened.
“Now I can get my voter ID, and my Milwaukee County ID. After that, the sky’s the limit.” His eyes shine. He ticks off the offices he needs to visit at the courthouse, even knows the room numbers. “When I have all that, you won’t be seeing me around here anymore.”
“I’m so happy for you. Things will get better now,” I say, but inside I’ll admit, I’m a little sad. I will miss Eduardo. Even though I keep my face bright, he seems to pick up on this.
“But I’ll still come back and visit.”
“I hope you do. I’d like to know how you are.” I take a bite of turkey, which is my favorite St. Ben’s meal. “Have you thought about applying for an apartment at St. Anthony’s? There’s a waiting list, but you should get your name on it.” To me, he seems like the perfect candidate.
Eduardo looks around, lowers his voice. “I heard four people are getting evicted.”
I know this is true – I didn’t know how many, but I knew a few people were about to be asked to leave. The residents have three months to find jobs. Then they pay 30% of their wages for rent. Some people didn’t take that stipulation seriously, and soon will not be allowed to stay. Others couldn’t seem to leave the parties outside, and that cost them their space.
“How do I apply?” Eduardo asks.
“I helped one fellow fill out a pre-application a few weeks ago. Brother Rob can get you the forms. Or you could stop in the office tomorrow and ask. I know you’ve been wanting to get out of the Mission.”
Eduardo once told me that when he first started staying at the Rescue Mission, he kept to himself, because he figured he’d only be there for a few days, maybe a month. He’s been there over a year. He knows how to follow their rules. He was depressed when he realized he was stuck for a while, he says, but he makes the best of it. Now he has friends, people he knows on the street.
“Who’s that guy you brought in?” I ask, nodding toward the small, quiet man.
“Jorge.” Eduardo glances down the table to where the newcomer is silently listening to another Spanish speaking man. “He showed up three nights ago, and he doesn’t know anything. I think he’s a little slow, or something.”
I watch Jorge. He’s more beautiful than handsome, clear skin and a down of facial hair just beside his ears. Soft brown hair frames his face. Angelic. His motions are dreamlike, slowly picking up his fork and bringing it to his mouth, chewing longer than necessary. His head doesn’t move, but his eyes dart around the room furtively. He is watching everything. “He seems traumatized to me,” I say. “What happened to him?”
Eduardo nods. “That’s what I think. Something bad happened to him, I feel pretty sure, and now he’s come unglued.” He taps his temple. “Something’s not right up here.”
I have seen people after a trauma. That’s how Jorge looks, like a deer that just missed getting shot.
“I can’t get him to talk to me,” Eduardo says. “He moves so slow. Tonight I found him up by 12th and McKinley –you know, where you pass under the freeway. He was lost, I think. I walked him here. It took us an hour. Last night he didn’t make it to the Mission. I don’t know where he slept.”
“It was cold last night, too,” I say. It’s May 1st, but a chilly rain has settled over the city, and isn’t supposed to let up all week. The temperature has been below 40 degrees at night.
“I know,” Eduardo says. “I think he needs special help. At the Mission, everybody’s already tired of him.” He winces, probably knowing that sounds harsh. “See, things have to run on a tight schedule there, and he moves so slow. People get impatient.”
I don’t ask if it’s the homeless people or the staff that get impatient. Both, most likely. I can imagine that things need to get done efficiently, and having a person whose speed matches a slow loris would be frustrating for everyone. “I’ll talk to Brother Rob, or Kenny before you go. One of them will know what to do.” Now I’m getting worried. “I wonder if the Salvation Army can take him. I know they take in some people with special needs.”
Eduardo is watching the clock because he wants to allow enough time to walk Jorge back to the Mission, about six blocks away, before they both end up sleeping on the street. “That’s what Jorge has,” Eduardo agrees. “Special needs.”
“It’s kind of you to help him,” I tell him.
“Well, I can’t just leave him.” Eduardo drops his smile, a rare thing. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“I’ll make sure he talks to someone before you go.”
“Hold on.” Eduardo goes to Jorge, asks him something in Spanish. Jorge pulls out his wallet, removes a photo I.D., and hands it to Eduardo, who then gives it to me. I used to be shocked by this- by the willingness of people to hand over documents to me. Because I show up, because I am a volunteer among them, they assume I can take care of things, that it’s okay for me to see very personal things. Eduardo wants me to know the man’s name in case they have to take off before I can find Brother Rob or Kenny. “Do you want to write that down?” Eduardo asks when I pass the card back.
I shake my head. “No, I’ve got it.” First and last name. The birth date was there, but I didn’t read that. It was an Arizona ID.
When Eduardo goes back to Jorge, I find Kenny and give him the low down. He radios Armando, one of the security guards who is fluent in Spanish. I stay at the table while Kenny and Armando talk to Eduardo and Jorge. Armando isn’t particularly tall, but he towers over the small stranger. Jorge takes a terrified step back and refuses to talk, shakes his head, no, no, no. Kenny walks away, giving them space. Armando speaks in a gentle tone, in Spanish, to Jorge, but it’s clear from where I sit that he doesn’t get far. Then Eduardo gets anxious about the time. It’s ten to six, and they need to be at the Mission by 6:30. Jorge drifts away with Eduardo, the only person he seems to trust. I watch them leave the dining hall, Eduardo coaxing Jorge along. He waves goodbye to me, then focuses on his friend.
I hope they make it to the Mission on time, because I know Eduardo won’t leave him.
July 2019 addendum: Several months pass and I don’t see Eduardo at St. Ben’s. I hope everything worked out for him. No one seems to know what happened to Jorge.
I touch Eduardo’s elbow as he passes me, and raise my eyebrows to ask without words if everything is all right. Eduardo smiles like he always does, but worry etches his face. The small man scurries to the closest unoccupied chair on the end of the first table. Eduardo gets him situated, urges the man to eat, but the chairs around his shy friend are all taken, so he takes a seat a few places down.
I park myself across from Eduardo as soon as he sits. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”
“I have many talents you aren’t aware of.” He bursts out laughing.
Before I knew his name, I called Eduardo “Swashbuckler’ in in my mind, because he has that hearty, manly personality. “So, how are you, Eduardo?”
“I’m glad to see you, Jonnie, that’s how I am.” He turns to a man beside him and says, “Do you know Jonnie? She’s one of the nicest people around here.”
“Hello,” the man says around a mouthful of food. “Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t seem interested.
Eduardo wears his hair pulled back in a long pony tail with three rubber bands. Tonight he’s sporting a deep purple cable knit sweater.
“That’s a nice sweater.” I tell him.
“Thanks. I got lucky. When I got this at the House of Peace, it was-” he rounds his arms out to mime how it hung- “way too big. But I washed it and put it in the dryer, and now it fits perfectly.”
“Well, you look nice.”
“Thank you.” He strokes the sweater, smooths it over his chest. “I’ve got good news.” A dramatic pause, eyes twinkling. “I’m alive!” He laughs. “No, for real. Something good happened.” Still the big mystery face.
“What? Tell me, Eduardo!”
He stretches out the answer. “I …got… my…birth certificate!”
“Wow, that’s terrific,” I say. And it is. Eduardo had to fill out forms and mail them to Chicago to get a copy of his birth certificate, and that took six weeks. After that, he had to get a new copy of his social security card. He can’t apply for any services or SSI without an I.D., and he couldn’t apply for I.D. without that birth certificate. He’s been in a holding pattern, living at the Rescue Mission, volunteering to hand out towels in the showers. He wants to get a job, and an apartment. He’s been stuck in the limbo of the slow chugging system. You have to go all the way back to Point A before you can even start working on the next thing.
Over and over I hear this story. Your needs are here now, you need to get over there for help, but you can’t get there from here. Not until you go through the proper steps. And you can’t go through the proper steps unless you know what they are. And it takes a while to figure out what they are. Meanwhile, you are tired, cold, hungry, disheartened.
“Now I can get my voter ID, and my Milwaukee County ID. After that, the sky’s the limit.” His eyes shine. He ticks off the offices he needs to visit at the courthouse, even knows the room numbers. “When I have all that, you won’t be seeing me around here anymore.”
“I’m so happy for you. Things will get better now,” I say, but inside I’ll admit, I’m a little sad. I will miss Eduardo. Even though I keep my face bright, he seems to pick up on this.
“But I’ll still come back and visit.”
“I hope you do. I’d like to know how you are.” I take a bite of turkey, which is my favorite St. Ben’s meal. “Have you thought about applying for an apartment at St. Anthony’s? There’s a waiting list, but you should get your name on it.” To me, he seems like the perfect candidate.
Eduardo looks around, lowers his voice. “I heard four people are getting evicted.”
I know this is true – I didn’t know how many, but I knew a few people were about to be asked to leave. The residents have three months to find jobs. Then they pay 30% of their wages for rent. Some people didn’t take that stipulation seriously, and soon will not be allowed to stay. Others couldn’t seem to leave the parties outside, and that cost them their space.
“How do I apply?” Eduardo asks.
“I helped one fellow fill out a pre-application a few weeks ago. Brother Rob can get you the forms. Or you could stop in the office tomorrow and ask. I know you’ve been wanting to get out of the Mission.”
Eduardo once told me that when he first started staying at the Rescue Mission, he kept to himself, because he figured he’d only be there for a few days, maybe a month. He’s been there over a year. He knows how to follow their rules. He was depressed when he realized he was stuck for a while, he says, but he makes the best of it. Now he has friends, people he knows on the street.
“Who’s that guy you brought in?” I ask, nodding toward the small, quiet man.
“Jorge.” Eduardo glances down the table to where the newcomer is silently listening to another Spanish speaking man. “He showed up three nights ago, and he doesn’t know anything. I think he’s a little slow, or something.”
I watch Jorge. He’s more beautiful than handsome, clear skin and a down of facial hair just beside his ears. Soft brown hair frames his face. Angelic. His motions are dreamlike, slowly picking up his fork and bringing it to his mouth, chewing longer than necessary. His head doesn’t move, but his eyes dart around the room furtively. He is watching everything. “He seems traumatized to me,” I say. “What happened to him?”
Eduardo nods. “That’s what I think. Something bad happened to him, I feel pretty sure, and now he’s come unglued.” He taps his temple. “Something’s not right up here.”
I have seen people after a trauma. That’s how Jorge looks, like a deer that just missed getting shot.
“I can’t get him to talk to me,” Eduardo says. “He moves so slow. Tonight I found him up by 12th and McKinley –you know, where you pass under the freeway. He was lost, I think. I walked him here. It took us an hour. Last night he didn’t make it to the Mission. I don’t know where he slept.”
“It was cold last night, too,” I say. It’s May 1st, but a chilly rain has settled over the city, and isn’t supposed to let up all week. The temperature has been below 40 degrees at night.
“I know,” Eduardo says. “I think he needs special help. At the Mission, everybody’s already tired of him.” He winces, probably knowing that sounds harsh. “See, things have to run on a tight schedule there, and he moves so slow. People get impatient.”
I don’t ask if it’s the homeless people or the staff that get impatient. Both, most likely. I can imagine that things need to get done efficiently, and having a person whose speed matches a slow loris would be frustrating for everyone. “I’ll talk to Brother Rob, or Kenny before you go. One of them will know what to do.” Now I’m getting worried. “I wonder if the Salvation Army can take him. I know they take in some people with special needs.”
Eduardo is watching the clock because he wants to allow enough time to walk Jorge back to the Mission, about six blocks away, before they both end up sleeping on the street. “That’s what Jorge has,” Eduardo agrees. “Special needs.”
“It’s kind of you to help him,” I tell him.
“Well, I can’t just leave him.” Eduardo drops his smile, a rare thing. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“I’ll make sure he talks to someone before you go.”
“Hold on.” Eduardo goes to Jorge, asks him something in Spanish. Jorge pulls out his wallet, removes a photo I.D., and hands it to Eduardo, who then gives it to me. I used to be shocked by this- by the willingness of people to hand over documents to me. Because I show up, because I am a volunteer among them, they assume I can take care of things, that it’s okay for me to see very personal things. Eduardo wants me to know the man’s name in case they have to take off before I can find Brother Rob or Kenny. “Do you want to write that down?” Eduardo asks when I pass the card back.
I shake my head. “No, I’ve got it.” First and last name. The birth date was there, but I didn’t read that. It was an Arizona ID.
When Eduardo goes back to Jorge, I find Kenny and give him the low down. He radios Armando, one of the security guards who is fluent in Spanish. I stay at the table while Kenny and Armando talk to Eduardo and Jorge. Armando isn’t particularly tall, but he towers over the small stranger. Jorge takes a terrified step back and refuses to talk, shakes his head, no, no, no. Kenny walks away, giving them space. Armando speaks in a gentle tone, in Spanish, to Jorge, but it’s clear from where I sit that he doesn’t get far. Then Eduardo gets anxious about the time. It’s ten to six, and they need to be at the Mission by 6:30. Jorge drifts away with Eduardo, the only person he seems to trust. I watch them leave the dining hall, Eduardo coaxing Jorge along. He waves goodbye to me, then focuses on his friend.
I hope they make it to the Mission on time, because I know Eduardo won’t leave him.
July 2019 addendum: Several months pass and I don’t see Eduardo at St. Ben’s. I hope everything worked out for him. No one seems to know what happened to Jorge.
