I never intended to live on the streets for a decade, but then again I don’t think anyone ever does. As a child, I doubt someone dreamed of being homeless, being food insecure, or not knowing if they would freeze to death at night. I, like many people, fell on hard times and found it hard to get out. This story is not about how I got there or how I got out, this story is about how I survived.
From the years 2005 to 2015 I lived on the streets of a large city. I am not going to tell you what city nor am I going to tell you my real name. If you need a name to help you connect you can call me Bob. I am not withholding my real name out of sense of security, privacy, or pride but because I don’t think any of you deserve it. I lived on the streets for 10 years, and during that time I experienced daily hell. When I reached out for help from a passerby no one gave a flying shit. I have been spit on, arrested, assaulted, and pissed on when I slept. Honestly, the only reason I am writing this is to help myself, not any of you.
My therapist is the one that suggested I write all this down. She thinks I am making all of this up or maybe I had some very traumatic experiences on the streets and these fantastical stories are my coping mechanisms. For the sake of everyone I left behind on the streets, I really hope so.
Day to day on the streets you meet a lot of interesting characters, sleep in a number of unsafe buildings, and do some unsavory things to survive. I met thugs that wanted to shake me down, slept in a few condemned buildings on the verge of collapse, and might of sucked a dick or two for a meal. Am I particularly proud of any of it? Hell no, but I survived and that, from what my therapist tells me, counts for something.
The day to day dangers I could handle and honestly anyone with a good sense of self preservation could as well. What I want to tell you about are some of the unspoken dangers that roam the streets. Again, I am not telling you what city I lived in during all of this, so when I tell you something just know it is out there and use your best judgement. You never quite know what lurks in the corners.
You ever wonder why so many homeless people have fucked up teeth? Many people think it is because of bad hygiene or meth use. These two things are definitely contributing factors, but in my city there is another reason. Like many large metropolitan areas, there is a river that bisects the center of the city. The river has old retaining walls that line it for its entirety downtown. Along these walls that you may run into who I dub, the Artist.
The Artist looks differently every time you run into them. They maybe male or female, black or white, fat or thin, or everything in between. What helps you distinguish when you are running into them is their wardrobe. No matter what physical appearance they take on or the weather outside they always have on the same clothes: black skintight pants, an oversized dark green turtleneck sweater, yellow high top sneakers, and rose colored sunglasses. If there is one nice thing I can say about the Artist, it is that their outfit at least always gives you enough of a warning to turn tail and run in the opposite direction if you see them on the horizon of where you are walking.
If you are ever unfortunate enough to come upon the Artist just know they are always rather unassuming, but don’t be fooled. Their subdued appearance hides a terrible truth.
The most important thing to know is always compliment their work before anything else. Whether you see anything around them that resembles art it is very important that you compliment their craft. Failing to do so may not get you to the next step.
After complimenting them, the Artist has two potential scripts they may use. They both start with
“Why thank you friend.” But then can deviate to either,
“Would you be interested in posing for me?”
Or
“Would you spare an artist, such as myself, some change?”
To the first scripted question, I hope you aren’t dumb enough to say yes. However, you should never answer no flatly either. Instead come up with a polite and reasonable excuse as to why you cannot and offer them a tip. This response doesn’t have as a strict scripted response. Try something like:
“Oh I wish I could friend, but I must be going. For my wife is sick at home; but, let me offer you a tip for such beautiful piece.”
As for the second scripted question from the Artist, there is only one response that is acceptable, so commit it to memory.
“Pocket change? Friend an artist such as yourself deserves a proper tip.”
The tip he desires is not a financial burden you should be worrying yourself about; instead, it is a blood and pain sacrifice of sorts. Art is beauty and beauty is pain after all right? For this tip you will need to remove a tooth and place it in their palm. They don’t care how this is done, but it must be fresh and it must come from you. As a homeless man, I didn’t have a vehicle to avoid the walking paths they frequent so I unfortunately had to pass the Artist a few times. In all, I lost only 4 teeth over 10 years but it could have been a lot worse. The tears that would run down my cheek when I finally passed them was not from pain but from relief of being out of their presence.
A friend of mine Patrick, again not his real name, told me about a time he was with a new person on the streets that didn’t want to leave a tip. Patrick knew the rules as they were told to him and slammed a rock he found to his own face to provide a fresh tooth to the Artist. The young man accompanying him refused to use the script or provide a proper tip, which proved to be a grave error.
As it was told to me, after being dismissed by the man, the Artist smiled widely and slowly approached them. The Artist grabbed the young man by his throat and rotated him with his back against the wall. With a slow and steady pace, the Artist walked the struggling man to the stones behind him with ease. Once his back was against the stone they pressed him into the wall. Patrick watched with horror as the man’s extremities slowly melded with the wall. Following the man’s final gasp, the Artist turned back to Patrick; and behind them stood a haunting graffiti stylized painting of the man screaming from the wall.
I visited the wall with Patrick when I first moved to the streets. When he told me this story originally, I didn’t believe him. I mean who would? But when I walked up to the painting of the man, with trembling hands I ran my finger along the wall and felt the heat from what should be his skin. With horror, I knew then that the story was real.
There were many horrors I saw on the streets and honestly, now that I am writing them down I realize this will be harder to get through than I thought. I think my therapist was right when she said take this one day at a time.