WHISPERS THROUGH AMERICA

The kid remembers church. To him, church is the smell of cheap coffee, the stickiness of linoleum floors, and buzzing fluorescent lights set inside a tiled ceiling overhead. Church is the atmosphere of an Al-Anon meeting or an office party; only in this case, the inhabitants of the rented office space have come together not for a self-help conference, but to share in the worship of an ancient god. It is the height of anachronism, the depth of the absurd. 

He sits in a fold-out office chair and hears words of blood sacrifice and God’s wrath. He drinks a tiny sip of grape juice out of a disposable plastic shot-glass while a man tells the congregation the ancient words of the Christ: “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Drink it in remembrance of me.” 

When he was very young, he always felt guilty for looking forward to this, and to the tiny bite of a thin wafer that followed. It is not supposed to be food to be enjoyed; that is frivolous. He scolds himself. It is a sacrament. It is “my body, broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” 

His buttoned-up collar chafes at his neck. His tie is a strangling noose. The whole monkey suit is an unbearably stiff and pretentious facade over the rowdy energy of a young boy. Like everyone else his age, he always preferred the universality of jeans and a T-shirt. He doesn’t understand formality, and he sure as hell doesn’t enjoy it. Like lessons at school, church is a burden to be silently endured.  

He told himself he would go to church again, just to pay respects to his upbringing. He would try to soak in some moral lessons, and try to see if the spark of faith would catch again. He told Eli that he would. He never did. At first he had other things to worry about – always busy with survival, or with work. But then he forgot. And then he decided not to. 

—

None of my questions were answered last night, and neither were they this morning. But I was hungry and I'd decided I'm getting rid of my boots so I'll need new ones, and I figured I should get a sleeping bag or something that can keep me from freezing … Or else go sleep in the public bathroom like those guys were doing last night.

--

The kid had gone over the hump of another breaking point, and in the aftermath he was totally numb. Ocean Beach became an aimless limbo. He gave away everything else that he thought he could spare. Accepting the defeat of his artistic aspirations, he sent his new iPad away to his brother for safekeeping. He got rid of his heavy boots and his backpack, opting for cheap sneakers and a smaller gym bag instead. He wondered if he could go all the way and survive with only the clothes on his back, like Blake or Trevor did. How much could he leave behind him, and still get by?  

The kid was all questions and no answers. He figured he was close enough to rock bottom or at least he had finally had enough; it was not a definite achievement as he’d imagined, but more of a choice to turn things around. Despair was a bottomless pit, and he could sink as far as he damn well pleased. At some point he simply had to start climbing out. But where to go from here?

Maybe he was looking for truth in the wrong places. Jesus had said the truth would set him free. So what was the truth? What was the kid doing so terribly wrong? Could he be mistaking suffering for truth? After all, what makes poverty and hardship any more “real” than riches and luxury? What is truth, anyway? 

—

So Pilate entered his headquarters again and called Jesus and said to him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

Jesus answered, “Do you say this of your own accord, or did others say it to you about me?” 

Pilate answered, “Am I a Jew? Your own nation and the chief priests have delivered you over to me. What have you done?” 

Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews. But my kingdom is not from the world.” 

Then Pilate said to him, “So you are a king?” 

Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this purpose I was born and for this purpose I have come into the world—to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth listens to my voice.” 

Pilate said to him, “What is truth?”

After he had said this, he went back outside to the Jews and told them, “I find no guilt in him.” 

— Gospel of John, chapter 18, verses 33-38 (English Standard Version)

—

The carpenter from Nazareth stood bleeding onto the floor. He had already been tortured by flogging and clothed in a torn cloak and crown of thorns designed to mock him. He was on trial for vague accusations, rumored to be the King of the Jews. If the Bible was right, he was also the source of the universe. 

The kid’s father had preached about this moment many times. He shared the kid’s fascination, although his interpretation was different: he believed it was most likely that Pilate threw a snarky, spiteful quip at Jesus to end the conversation. The Roman governor was probably exasperated that he had to deal with this kind of thing in the first place. 

Still, the kid always wondered if Pilate had asked with genuine curiosity and an open mind. If you could stand before God and ask him the most important philosophical question of all time, how would you react to the silence that followed? Was Pilate disappointed? Was he furious? Had his question been a rhetorical slap in the face after all? Maybe the answer was simply never recorded. The author of this gospel couldn’t have been standing right next to them. Maybe he heard the story from Pilate; maybe Pilate didn’t say. Maybe the answer shook him. Maybe Jesus already knew that Pilate wouldn’t want an answer, so he never wasted his breath. 

It always struck the kid as a cruel joke. The Bible is a book about the beginning and end of the entire cosmos. The most vital question appears once in an anecdote just before the climax, and never receives an answer. It was a theme that would recur in the kid’s life over and over again – the question: “what is truth?”, followed by silence.

—

“Sir. Hey, sir. Good morning.”

I was still wrapped in blankets, blind to the world and lying sideways on the ground. They nudged my feet. I knew by the “sirs” that I was about to speak to cops. I wasn't looking forward to it. 

“Good morning.” 

“Good morning. Let me see your hands.” 

I tugged the blanket all the way off and knit my fingers over my waist. 

“There's no overnight sleeping on the beach.” 

I apologized and started rambling something about not being aware of that. 

I wasn't the only homeless guy sleeping on the beach, and I'd been sleeping in the same spot for the past four nights. Four nights, and nobody gave a single fuck. But today at seven AM I'm being evicted by cops who picked today to pretend they're just doing their job as usual. My guess is somebody called them. I hope it wasn't because I made myself too conspicuous here for too long. Either way, I'm stealth-camping from now on. Fuck this. 

“You'd have known if you paid attention to the signs.” One of them shot back, hooking a thumb at a sign with a list of rules. Sure enough, no sleeping. “There's no sleeping at the public parks in the area, either.” 

Translation: sleeping on public property is verboten. Being homeless is a criminal act, even if you do nothing else wrong. 

I wouldn't mind that so much, if it were just me. But there are men, women and children on the streets due to circumstances wildly outside their control. They're suffering. They're just trying to get by. And they're being persecuted for it. 

All it takes is a couple of junkies, or people who act crazy, violent, leave litter and graffiti everywhere they go, to ruin it for the rest of us. All homeless people are seen that way now. You know that people won't even look at you? I carry a large bag, and I haven't shaved for a while -- and when I pass people on the sidewalk, they don't just not say hi. They won't even look at me. They treat me like I don't exist. Some of them cross the street to avoid me. You're homeless, and you're anathema. You're an out-caste. You don't belong on the same level as good, civilized folks. You're as repulsive as the litter clogging the gutters. 

Money makes it easier and easier to get more money, but the lack of money sends you down a slippery slope towards the deepest recesses of poverty. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. It's like a law of nature. It's not even deliberate at this point, at least not for most people. It's just the way the world works. The entire system is built to raise up a few and grind down all others. And those who don't have the support they need? Or the mental clarity, or the physical strength? Well, tough shit. They just get killed. 

The cops were polite for the most part. They took my license into their car for a minute and told me I'm in the system now, for a warning. They said next time would be a citation, and after that, an arrest. 

"Have you ever been arrested before?" 

"No sir, I haven't." 

They gave me a number to a homeless shelter in the city. If anything I've heard about shelters is true, they're worse than prison. I'll take my chances on the street. 

I'd been planning to leave anyway because none of my job opportunities were panning out here. The cops were the kick in the ass I needed to get moving further inland. 

—

Going on these melodramatic rants gave him a sense of control, or at least something better than feeling utterly pathetic. He spit hot venom over his shoulder at the backs of authority figures and lonely beaches, and simply kept walking into unknown territory. 

Trevor. Trevor would know what to do. The kid gave him a call. Trevor knew exactly what to do. 

“Go to La Mesa. I know a security guard at Ralph’s.” 

It was a mission to keep him occupied for an afternoon. The kid latched on, hard. After he’d made his way a few towns over inland, he stopped at a library to charge his phone and rest for a while, then walked over to Ralph’s. They had closed two days ago. The kid had a good laugh about that. He felt at the end of his rope.

“Ok, then I know a good spot.” Trevor said over the phone. “Go to Collier Park.” 

The kid sat down at a bench there and ate a snack. Across the lawn, a group of suburbanites were looking over the place and discussing plans to renovate it. The kid did his best to blend in, but he didn’t like being seen hanging out there. He fidgeted with his protein bar, deliberately eating quite slowly, as his anxiety rose to a boil inside his gut. The sun was going down again.

His phone rang. “Hi my name’s Victor, with PeopleReady. I saw your application online wasn’t complete; do you want to come in to the office tomorrow and complete that? I’d love to get you signed up and working.” 

Manna from heaven. A miracle. 

“Sure, yes I’d love that.” 

At least the kid had the sense to grab on when opportunity thrust out an open hand. They agreed on noon tomorrow. The kid was on his way out of the valley. It was hope.