Dec. 19 Confrontations in the Ghetto

                From Dunkin’ Donuts I put directions into my GPS for Royal Palm Beach. It from Google earth it looks like an upscale neighborhood with several large golf courses, but it also borders on a bunch of rural land that looks pretty barren, so that’s the mixture I’m looking for. It’s a good sixty miles though, I won’t be there tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but here I go, one foot in front of the other.

                I’m just started off when a bike and a familiar figure pulls up beside me.

                “Baywatch! I’m really glad to see you man! I just heading out of the area right now.” He’s got his bucket of random things hanging from the handlebars of the bike, a tall beer can in the basket with a straw sticking up out of it, and a half-smoked joint of marijuana hanging from his lips.

                “Where y’ goin’ man?”

                “Just north I guess, it’s too ghetto for me here and I’ve been running into trouble at Haulover. I gotta bounce.”

                “Really? Trouble at Haulover?

                “Yea, a few park employees have been on my case about stayin’ there, and the job situation isn’t looking too promising. I’m just ready to move on.” He tells me about some other good parks I might be more comfortable in and also tells me about several soup kitchens that operate on different days of the week and what homeless shelters offer the best services. I have to say I’m impressed. My boy is seriously street-smart! Still, I’ve already committed and on my way out, so I’m not going to change my mind now.

                “Do you know where t’old Monastery is?” He asks me.

                “The thousand-year Spanish Monastery up by Biscayne?”

                “Yea man! That’s t’one. Every Wednesday t’ey give out a free meal t’ere. I’m headed over right now. You should come!”

                “Maybe I will; that sounds good.”

                “I’ll see you t’ere then.” He gives me an imperative index finger with a twinkle in his eye and a wide smile on his large, chiseled jaw. He relights his pot and rolls slowly out ahead of me on his old-fashioned blue bike. This guy is a special case. I wish I had more time to get to know him better.

                I’m contemplating whether I really want to go to the soup kitchen. It will set me back an hour or more, and I was really hoping to make some good progress today. The free lunch would be kind of nice though, and it might give me a chance to hang out with Baywatch a little more. I’d been wanting to see that Spanish monastery too. I’m not in a rush, and this is what the adventure is all about, so I decide to go.

                Twenty minutes later I’m pulling up to the main entrance of the Monestery. There’s a sign for some denomination that still holds weekly services there. I’m guessing they’re the ones running the soup kitchen. As I roll up I can see several other people standing around. I recognize several of them as other homeless people that I’ve seen hanging around the parks and beaches. It’s a motley crowd that’s for sure. Most of them fit the homeless stereotype to a ‘T’. There’s a Caucasian man standing by the doorway looking out over the crowd with an air of authority.

                “Wait ten more minutes.” He tells me. “They are not ready yet.” He speaks with a Spanish accent and I mean from Spain, not Latino. “You can put your things in the garage over there.” He points to a corner behind a couple small palm bushes. I don’t see a garage, but there’s small foot gate so maybe it’s through there. I walk up to the gate and give it a tug, but it doesn’t even wiggle. It’s jammed shut like it’s a permanent fixture. I turn around looking for the Spaniard in confusion.

                “Who can I…” another man standing by helps me out.

                “Just anywhere in this corner here is fine.”

                “He calls this a ‘garage’?” I motion to the open corner behind the balm bushes.

                “Yea.” The man and I laugh at the Spaniard’s version of English. Actually I remember that from Senegal and a little in India as well. In European English a “garage” can be any kind of storage area, even if there isn’t a building or structure of any kind. I park my gear and look around to see if I can find Baywatch. I stop a young black man walking past me. He’s got dreadlocks coming from under his skull-cap and shorts and t-shirt easily double his size.

                “Hey man, do you know Baywatch?” The hoodlum turns his head sideways and leers at me suspiciously. Clearly he knows Baywatch, but I’ve apparently asked a loaded question.

                “Naw, man. Ah don’ know, no Baywatch.” Can you call it lying when it’s this obvious?

                “Yea, he’s a friend of mine, I was just…” Suddenly the hoodlum takes a step straight towards me and stops with his nose two inches from mine.

                “What do you NEEEEEED man??” I fight the impulse to cower back. He’s got a strong odor of beer coming from his yellowed teeth, but I stand my ground and hold position toe-to toe with him. I motion toward the soup kitchen.

                “I was just…” He cuts me off and his shifty eyes get even shiftyer

                “No, what do you NEEEED!” I narrow my eyes and close the two inches down to one.

                “Are you going to let me finish this time?” He shifts his weight backward and almost breaks eye contact. He’s apparently reached the end of his sales pitch, and falls silent. I continue “I was saying, I’m just here because I heard about the free meal.”

                “You sure you don’t want no pot, heroine, koke… anything like that?” He seems a little disappointed.

                “Naw man, I’m not on that scene.”

                “I got whateva’ ya need in ma pockets right here, man! I can hook ya up a deal too!”

                “Fraid not, dude. That’s not my style.”

                “That’s good man! Way to be.” He swings his hand back and comes at me with a ghetto-style handshake. “That’s real good. You clean; I respect that.” That’s not exactly what I pride myself in most of all, but hey, I’ll take compliments where I can get them.

                “Hey,” Suddenly, his shifty eyes narrow again and he leans in close again with his alcoholic breath. “You wanna make some MONEY??” I laugh incredulously.

                “Not THAT kind of money.” I try to be assertive, but he’s trying too.

                “DO YOU WANT TO MAKE SOME MONEY??” He’s not backing down easy, but his temptation is proving inadequate on me.

                “Not that kind of money!” I’m keeping the chummy, light tone with him, but I’m pretty sure my mind is made up about the option of a career as a dope pusher. That’s not exactly how I want to invest in the youth of America. Then again, it might be a quick remedy to the homeless situation.

                “Do you want a job?” He’s not the quickest rodent in the maze.

                “Not that kind of job?”

                “You don’t even have to do nothin’. No money down. No risk. You get me people; I put money in yo pocket!” I just laugh and shake my head.

                “You talkin’ to th’ wrong brutha homie. I’m jus’ not down.” It helps to speak fluently in the native tongue.

                “Aight, man!” He swings his hand out for another exaggerated ghetto handshake, and finishes it with a gansta’ thumb-hook and a fist bump. “You’re cool, man. I like you!” I shrug with an apologetic smile. What can I say. “But hey, if you change yo mind, le’ me know, kay?”

                “Sure man,” I give him another incredulous laugh. “I’ll let you know.”

                By now I’ve seen Baywatch across the parking lot, but they’re calling for us to line up by the soup tables, so everyone migrates over to form a line. Two grown adults are arguing like three-year olds about which one was ahead of the other in line. Both are less than five down from first. I don’t think anyone’s going to starve. The Spaniard shorts it out and steps in front of the mangy assembly gathered at the entrance. With his authoritative, booming voice he calls everyone to order and goes through a few rules for orderly conduct. He mentions some other resources for job placement, shelters, and food pantries and then reads an entry from the “My Daily Bread” devotional. It’s about making our prayers specific rather than vague. I’m not sure it’s the most relevant topic for the gentry at hand, but it beats an episode of the Simpsons, I guess. We finish up by reciting a two-line rhyme that approximates a thanksgiving prayer and a blessing on the food.

                A line of ladies stand behind a folding table and dish out soup and plates with cole-slaw, a McDonalds hamburger, and a boxed slice of pudding pie. At the end of the line they give us a plastic bag with a dozen or so rolls. As I step away from the line the Spaniard approaches me.

                “Are you from up north?” I have no idea how he knew that, but I tell him I am from Maine and that I’m just passing through the area but heard about the soup-kitchen earlier this morning. We chat cordially for a few minutes until he suggests that I take an available seat where I can keep a close eye on my belongings. He’s keenly aware of the kind of crowd we have today. I sit on the stump and polish of the food in short order. It’s all better than I might have expected for a free meal. After a few stragglers come through they offer seconds to finish up the last of the soup, so I get another bowl. When that’s gone, I decide I’d like to tour the thousand-year old monastery, but the entrance fee is 8 bucks. Naw, that would completely cancel out the free meal. I can almost eat for a week on 8 dollars, so I’ll pass on the monastery. I head over to where Baywatch is hanging with some of our fellow bums. He tells me he doesn’t use computers or go online, but when I tell him about my blog he’s still interested in getting the address, so I give him one of the business cards that I had made up. The card impresses him and he asks me to make a personalized and dated autograph out to him on the back of it.

                “You’re like the real-life Forest Gump man! This is going to be worth money some day!” I love this guy!

                With a final good-bye I get back on the road. I’m headed to Wal-Mart to pick up some things there. It’s boiling hot out and I’ve got sweat streaming down my face. I should pick up a small hand-towel to hang from the cart handlebar so that I can wipe sweat from my face. It’s actually burning my eyes right now and making it hard to see. A little more food for the trip wouldn’t hurt either. After locking my cart to a bike rack outside I head in, and twenty minutes of browsing finds me with a cheap bath-towel, and hand towel, a gallon jug of Gatorade, a bag of tangerines, and a pint of ice-cream. Back outside I stow the supplies in my cart. I tuck the bath towel in the back of my jeans to absorb sweat and the hand towel gets lashed to the handlebar. I take a few swigs of the Gatorade and polish off the ice cream. All that’s left now is a long day of trudging through the Florida heat.

                I pass through a couple up-scale neighborhoods. One place has a pink van parked out front labeled as a mobile pet-grooming service. Someone has too much money! The up-scale doesn’t last for long though. When I come out of the neighborhood onto route 441 I’m obviously on the other side of the tracks. I’ll be following this road for the next fifty miles and it looks like it’s going to be ghetto the rest of the way.

                After several hours of walking everything I’ve seen is run-down, falling apart, and old. This area is marked as “Hollywood” on the map. Within a few blocks I pass four adult video stores, more smoke shops and liquor stores than I can count and the biggest casino I’ve ever seen in my life! The place is exploding with brilliant laser lights and lit up fountains and it’s got a humongous megatron TV screen that wraps around three exterior walls of the massive parking garage! I’d like to play a couple rounds of Modern Warfare on that display! Wow! In a town that otherwise looks like East Berlin this casino stands out as a high-tech palace. How do people not realize that all this is paid for by the money they come and lose without getting any product in return? It’s been dark for an hour or two now; normally I’d be looking for a place to spent the night, but even though I’m getting tired and my knees are sore, I’m not interested in sleeping anywhere near this area. The whole city makes my skin crawl! I need to get off my feet for a while though, so a large McDonalds up ahead is a welcome sight. If they’ve got outlets and free wi-fi I’ll park there for a while and do a little blogging while I give my feet a rest.

                Considering the condition of the rest of the town, the McDonalds is a very nice building, clean and spacious. A welcome reprieve.

                “You look like you’ve been walking a long time!” The lady behind the counter looks me over, but I think she saw me leaving my luggage outside too.

                “Yea, I started out in Miami this morning.”
                “You walked all the way from Miami? Wow, that’s a long way! How far are you going?” I have to pull out my phone to double check.

“I’m headed up toward the West Palm Beach area.”

“Wow, that’s a long distance!” I nod agreement and look at the menu options.

                “I’ll take two hamburgers and a tap water please.” As I fish out some cash I pull out one of my cards too and hand it to her. “I write about my travels and stories on this blog here, you can check it out if you’re interested.”

                “Yea, sure!” She takes the card.

                “I’ve been well over two-hundred miles with that pack and cart so far.”
                “That’s amazing!”

                “I’m just going to sit down here and write on my blog for a little while.”
                “Are you going to write about me?”

                “Sure, what’s your name?”

                “Shawn.”

                “Well, I’ll definitely write about you then.” When my burgers are ready, I find a seat next to a power outlet and settle in to write.

                And that brings me to now. It’s 10pm on the nose. My clothes were soaked with sweat when I walked in, but they are mostly dry now. Maybe I can get a fresh outfit and change in the bathroom. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to walk through most of the night and some clean clothes would feel great. The McDonalds doesn’t close till midnight, so I think I’ll just sit right here and rest until then. There’s an extremely drunk man at the counter harassing the cashier. Maybe it’s time I order something more. I step up behind him. He’s swearing and making inappropriate comments at the manager.

                “Excuse me sir, you’re going to have to leave.” She demands. He argues and gripes but doesn’t move. My turn.

                “It’s time to move on man.” He turns on me and lunges forward. I brace myself and lock eyeballs with him. He would have smacked tight into me, but the bill of his baseball cap presses into my forehead and holds our faces apart.

                “What did you say?” I thought the hoodlum had bad breath, but this old man is sloshed out of his mind. He’s leaning his weight against me now and the bill of his hat is digging into my forehead.

                “I said, it’s time to move on.” I repeat myself with the same soft, even tone. The manager looks alarmed by the confrontation and pipes in again.

                “Sir, there’s the door, you’re going to have to leave.” He tries to perform the same lunge at her, but smacks into the counter that she’s standing behind. My turn again

                “They’re going to call the police if you don’t leave.” He lunges back at me and smacks his hat against my forehead again until I’m holding him up by the bill that’s digging into my forehead. I don’t flinch. “I’m trying to help you out here.” I say in a low whisper. “I’m trying to take care of you. You haven’t been taking very good care of yourself have you?” His hard jaw softens, he leans back, and his shoulders droop. He looks like he’s about to start crying.

                “I’m an old man.” His lips quiver. “My life is all spent up.”

                “No it’s not you’ve got plenty of…

                “Sir! You need to leave now!” The manager is getting impatient. He lunges back toward her but he’s already forgotten about that pesky counter that keeps getting in the way. I just stand in front of him and put my arms out like a goalie. He keeps yelling at the manager about how he fought two wars so that she could have a job. I keep in front of him and walk towards the door forcing him backward until he gives up and storms out. Wow, and I thought my excitement was mostly over for the day! When I sit back down I realize I’m shaking from adrenaline. I really was afraid for a minute there that the guy was going to try to sucker-punch me. Drunk or not, he was clearly stronger than me and could have done some damage. It would have made a great blog entry, but I’d really prefer not to get beat up tonight.

                On that note, I think I’ll close up and post this before anything else happens. I’ve had enough for one day. In just over an hour it will be tomorrow, so I’ll save the rest for the next post.

                Here’s a question for the comments section below:
                “How do you handle confrontations?” Be it drunks, drug-pushers, or whatever kind of people try to push in on your space and pressure you to do things their way, what do you find works and what doesn’t work when you respond to that? Tell me about a confrontation you’ve had or how you usually handle people like that.