Jerry doesn’t have a home. Feels lucky he has a place to stay. “Spoke with HUD; certificates cut back.” I don’t really understand the system, but the so-called cutbacks scheduled for a few days from now cannot mean more housing or social welfare for those unable to care for themselves.
Confined to wheelchair, he parked himself outside a State store. No way to tell what he got from passer bys on their way to buy happy juice. He seemed resigned to doing all he could do to make it.
Bitterly cold out there. He just sat. “You still takin pictures?” I brought my book over to him. Just some recents. “I know him,” he said of Larry’s image, “old-timer.” Knew Karl, the poet, also. Does that mean something I don’t really appreciate? He’s saying that they are making it and so can I.
I see these guys so irregularly. When I do, it makes my day to know they live. Living hand to mouth. I have never done that.
He stays at the shelter on North Street. Looking for a more permanent place which may only give him shelter from the storm. Not ready to ask why he needs it or why no one else has come forward to help. No family. No friends. No social service worker. Wait until it is my turn.
Great eyes, eh!
