Graham Homeless

© Albert Marsolais 

The long trucks that ate diesel and coughed toxic fumes made their way snout to tail down the four-lane bisecting the city. Besides delivering goods, they provided constant entertainment for the encampment nestled in the brush under the power line which followed the highway. 

While others watched the trucks and gossiped, Graham huddled in his tent. He wanted to cry but there was no point. At least he had the tent. It was a four-person Coleman he used for camping in better times. But now he just had the tent, a summer weight sleeping bag, and some clothing jammed in a day pack he found in the garage after she forced him to go. And he soon discovered had no money, since she had emptied their bank account before throwing him out. This was after his job terminated, after his mental breakdown, after his employment insurance ran out, and after she met that guy. 

He didn’t want to camp there beside the highway, but what choice did he have? There were alternatives, but they were worse. The men’s shelter downtown was full of druggies and crazies. He tried it one night and was groped. Left at four in the morning. Decided he’d rather freeze on the street. That’s what he thought till he tried it. It wasn’t even below freezing, but even huddled in his sleeping bag against a building wall, it was too cold. He knew he’d rather be dead than endure that again. So that was how he found himself shivering in a tent by the side of the highway in late fall.   

“Hey buddy!” someone shouted into his tent. “Like a hot coffee and a sandwich?” 

“I’ll take ‘em,” he said, poking his head out the tent flap. But what he needed more was the volunteer’s coat. It was one of those expensive, fur-trimmed, down parkas made by immigrant ladies in some vast factory. 

“New here?” the young volunteer asked before handing him the package.  

He grabbed it cautiously, feeling the paper wrapper, then smelling to see what was inside. “No…err, if you mean this camp, I suppose so.” 

“Your name? Mine is Peter,” the young man smiled in that way which could be genuine or deceitful. 

“Name?” he said, unsure if he should tell the truth.  

“Yes, we can help you more if you provide ID. Just sayin’. You can remain anon, but if you want a nice warm place to…” 

While listening to Peter explain further, he had unwrapped the sandwich and pulled it apart to reveal its contents. “Meat,” he mumbled, then handed it back to the volunteer. “Cream in the coffee?” he asked before removing the lid. 

“Milk.” 

“Then give it to someone else. And my name is Graham…Graham Crackers!” he laughed until he realized Peter had little sense of humour. 

“Nice to meet you Graham…err…Crackers?” smiled Peter, bravely extending his hand for a shake. 

“Don’t touch. But I appreciate your efforts. Could use a flashlight and some fresh fruit…any kind really.” 

“I’ll see what I can do, but they don’t like us handing out more than the basics to those who don’t provide ID. And I can see you need better clothing. You’ll never be able to get a good job looking like that. May be able to get a few things. Large shirt and 34 X 32 pants?” 

This had been the longest conversation Graham had had in a while and he was beginning to feel like fleeing. “Not interested in signing up. OK, gotta go. Bye Peter,” he answered, then ducked back into the safety of his tent. 

“Umm, all right, but if you change your mind. Oh, one more thing before I go. The fellow in the tent beside you. Careful with him. He’s a bit of a nut.” 

Graham heard Peter trudge away. He sighed. “That went well,” he thought. “But I do need more to survive,” he acknowledged, noting his meagre belongings. 

Another night and the low temperatures had him shaking with cold by morning. He could hear others nearby. It was a jumble of mumbles, coughs, and farts, and the sound of zippers going up and down. “Need to find the latrine,” he mumbled with some urgency. 

“Toilet?” he said to the first person he met outside, an older man carrying a case of Pepsi. 

“Anywhere but not here,” the man replied. “Most use the thicket over there,” he added, tilting his head in its direction. 

“Thanks.” 

“Bring toilet paper. Nothing in there but leaves.” 

He made it to the thicket in time. “Should have asked Peter for toilet paper,” he muttered afterwards. 

Relieved, Graham went back to his tent and there was a man dressed in black standing by the entrance. On closer inspection, he noticed that the man was fully encased in what appeared to be motorcycle gear, including a helmet with its visor up revealing a lop-sided, damaged face.  

“Look here,” the man said. “Can’t have you so close. You need to move your tent back eight feet.” He was taller than Graham by a good four inches and filled the outfit, including several exterior pockets packed to overflowing with all manner of necessities.  

“Eh?” replied Graham. 

“You are camped on my land, so you need to move.” 

The man sounded threatening, but Graham said bravely, “Your land?” 

“Move your tent or there will be trouble.” 

Graham remembered his dad’s advice about standing up to bullies, which often had landed him a beating. He considered the man, the threat, and his situation, before answering, “Give me a day. Just got here. Don’t know the rules.” 

“Good lad. Noticed you went to the thicket empty handed. I’ve some toilet paper to get you started, but you must replace it. Come over tomorrow once you’ve moved.” The big man turned and strode off in the direction of the thicket while retrieving a wad of toilet paper from a zipped pocket. 

Wanting to avoid conflict, Graham thought to get himself toilet paper and other supplies from Peter. But then there was the requirement to identify himself, and Graham wasn’t sure he wanted that since it could be on his record forever. What he wanted more than anything was a proper life back, with a decent job, a home, and the wherewithal to enjoy them. But he knew that cooperating with the authorities came with a price: his life would be recorded, controlled, and on view for all officials to see. He didn’t want more of that if he could avoid it.  

It was the day before the food bank opened and Graham decided to spend his time looking for a job. He went on foot, and as presentable as could be in his slept-in jacket and stained pants. But he soon found that the shops wanted skilled tradesmen or those enrolled in government employment programs, and all he could offer beyond sketchy references, were verbal assurances that he was willing to try anything. Some showed pity and said they would keep his resume on file, while most laughed and sent him on his way. Defeated and hungry and with nightfall approaching, Graham resigned himself to another night in his cold tent. 

“Can tell by your face, you had no luck,” said Dave, with what could be a look of sympathy. Although with Dave’s facial deformity, every expression seemed at least somewhat threatening. 

“No.” 

“Then come on in. I have some tea and bread.”  

Dave had been good to his word after Graham moved his tent and provided a half roll of toilet paper in return for a signed receipt. And as a bonus, he had even given Graham a stale naan bread scavenged from a dumpster behind an Indian restaurant. It was a welcome gift. 

“Problem is you’re a white-collar worker and don’t look it—not now. And if you won’t provide government ID, you’re screwed. Told you that already,” said Dave, as a sage might to a novice. 

“Thought I might be able to talk my way into something,” Graham replied. “Life has been so unfair. I don’t deserve this. I’m a good person. Made a few mistakes and had some bad luck is all.” 

“Well now you know. Only way is to go full government or live like me on the fringes.” Dave had removed his motorcycle helmet. To most he would be a frightening sight, but to Graham he was the only genuinely kind person he had met since leaving home. At least the only one willing to help without requiring much in return. 

“There is another possibility. A guy I met in the parking lot of one of the factories in the north end said he knew someone hiring for construction. Labourer, no experience or qualifications needed. Said they take men like me and illegals too.”  

Dave nodded and watched Graham consume the naan bread, alternating with gulps of hot tea from a discarded Tim Horton’s cup. Dave nodded again, then said slowly, “Be careful of them ones. Be very careful.” 

Graham glanced at Dave, a question forming on his face. 

“Do I have to spell it out? Them guys are crooks and thieves,” said Dave before Graham could ask. 

“Yeah, well so are you. Seen you bring back loot in your cart.” 

“Not like me!” Dave barked. “I recover, reuse, recycle, and rewhatever. It’s not really thieving, is it?” 

“Not judging. But construction may be the only chance I have. I’ll check it out tomorrow.” 

“Dave shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” 

“I won’t, and thanks again for the tea and bread. You’re a lifesaver. I’m exhausted. Need some sleep.” Graham rose to go, shaking the breadcrumbs off his pants onto the spotless floor of Dave’s tent. 

Dave grimaced. “Don’t forget, we go to the food bank at ten tomorrow. Now get lost.” 

The convoy of the homeless headed across the highway toward the food bank, trudging in grim silence, the wind driven rain buffeting them in waves. There was no helping it because the food bank was open for only two hours a week, and if you missed it, too bad, there was nothing else but to risk going downtown.  

“It’ll be better walking back. At least it won’t be in our face,” said Dave, pushing the grocery cart he had liberated. 

“Hope they have some toilet paper, almost out and I need to pay you back,” replied Graham, his head tilted toward Dave, one hand protecting his ear from the wind. 

“You owe me a quarter of a roll and they likely will give you one roll to last two weeks.” Dave had everything calculated like that as though somewhere in his mind operated a spreadsheet constantly keeping track. 

“No worries, three quarters of a roll will be plenty till I get paid.” 

Dave snorted, the snot hanging on his ragged moustache.  

“Yep. Got hired this morning. Start tomorrow. They drive us to the site at eight.” 

“Well remember what I told ya.” 

“He seemed a nice fellow. Said he’d helped a lot of men like me.” 

Dave grinned at Graham like he was listening to bullshit but said nothing further on the subject. Then a few minutes later, he pointed to the food bank portable building which was settled beside the government office.  

Several other people were ahead of them and many more coming behind. At the entrance, a welcoming smile and a ticket was offered along with instructions to be seated and wait for the number to come up on the wall screen. Settled on the plastic chair, Graham studiously observed as people were processed. First stop was the woman near the waiting area who operated the computer. Graham noticed a reflection above the woman. “There’s a camera, pointed at the chair by the computer. See? It’s on the ceiling,” he whispered to Dave. 

Dave glanced up, then shrugged. 

“Same as the ones we had at work. Look for the glint from the lens.” Graham pulled his hood tighter then scanned the room looking for more lenses. None. But that didn’t mean there weren’t any, in a room filled with neatly stocked shelves, coolers, and tables with volunteers behind them. But hunger overcame fear, and he waited, increasingly nervous, and hating himself for having to do this. 

Dave’s number came up next. He rose and flipped his visor down. The well-dressed computer woman greeted him kindly enough with a “Hey there. Good to see ya.”  

Dave said something through the helmet that made her laugh. In a minute he was checked in and took his chit to collect a plastic basket.  

The number on the wall changed. Graham checked his ticket, then stood, his knees wobbly with anxiety. 

“Name?” she said as soon as he sat down. 

“Why is there a camera on the ceiling pointed at me?” Graham asked. 

Up close, the woman looked elderly. She laughed softly, her creased eyes enjoying the question. “For our safety. We are sometimes assaulted. There’s another camera pointed at the table staffed by the volunteers. It’s on the ceiling above them.”  

“Assaulted?” Graham mumbled, his body tensing. 

The woman nodded, watching Graham’s face for signs of immanent trouble. In a moment she said, “Look, I need a name, and the camera up there takes your pic. You can come here once every two weeks and fill one basket. Only fair, isn’t it? We only have so much to share.” 

Graham’s chest tightened. “Do I need ID?” 

“Nope. We just need a name and to see your face.”  

“Dave didn’t.” 

“Dave?” the woman chuckled. “The guy before you? Is that his name now? Known him for years. And yes, he did show us his face.” She leaned closer, the scent of perfume invading Graham’s hoodie. “Don’t worry sweetie, we don’t share your info with anyone.” 

Graham glanced over at Dave who was speaking to a volunteer at the table about what cans of vegetables he wanted. Then Graham sighed, knowing he couldn’t go on without food and he was starting work soon. And Dave and the rest of them seemed unconcerned. “Alright,” he said in a low voice to the woman. My name is John.” 

The woman chuckled in that voice again and said as she typed, “OK, John, now flip back your hood and give us a nice smile.” 

It was over, and then he was beside Dave filling his basket, the nervous tension ebbing as thoughts turned to eating.  The food was basic and nutritious, but he wasn’t sure how he could cook it. And raw potatoes and canned peas didn’t seem appetizing despite his hunger. But it was free, and he was thankful. At the end of the table were toiletries and such. He asked for two rolls of toilet paper, received one, but was surprised by the rather nice shaving kit and hand soap on offer. His basket mostly full, he transferred all to the two paper grocery bags recycled from a defunct shop. 

“Told ya this was easy,” said Dave waiting at the exit. 

“Got a roll of toilet paper.” 

Dave nodded. “And I hope you took some tea. You owe me four bags.” 

Graham thought to object, but instead said, “Guess I owe you some stale naan bread too.” 

“Nah. That was a freebie.” 

“I should ask next time.” 

“Yep. Don’t want a fight, do we.” 

Graham thought about it as they trudged back to camp, and concluded it was best to avoid everyone. Too many rules. Too many possibilities for conflict. And besides, he would soon have a job and be gone from the camp. Thoughts of a warm apartment with a pantry filled with food made him smile. 

It was roofing, and his job was moving bales of asphalt shingles from the truck to the forklift then onto the roof. The newbies always got that job. It was the worst. A test of sorts to see if they could hack it. The crews were mostly Hispanic from Central America, with a few Africans sprinkled in. There were no others like Graham, except the supervisor who spent much of the day in his truck playing with his phone and smoking. 

The men worked quickly with few words exchanged. They knew their jobs well. Instead of voices, the air was filled with the sound of music from the portable radio, punctuated with shots from the power nail gun fastening shingles to the roof. But as Graham soon realized, the work was brutally hard, requiring a combination of strength, balance and endurance. Graham lacked all three. Already weakened from living rough, the additive weight of the shingle bales took their toll. But he tried, he really did. To make matters worse, the raw vegetables from the food bank had given him diarrhea. The supervisor eyed him suspiciously throughout the morning as he made many trips to the portable toilet.  

By late afternoon Graham’s body was depleted and all it took was a slip and legs gave way on the ladder, tumbling a bale to the ground below, damaging many shingles. Some coworkers laughed; others helped clean them up. Then the annoyed supervisor told him to leave. He hadn’t lasted a day. 

“Well at least they paid me,” Graham said to Dave that evening, after explaining what had happened. “Got enough to buy more toilet paper.” 

“And now you know you aren’t suited for that kind of work. Shingling isn’t like your posh customer service job.” 

Graham shrugged and took the last slice of pizza he bought on the way home. “Maybe not. But something will turn up.” 

“Hah! You’re screwed as is. And that money won’t last long.” 

“I know, but it’s a start. At least the shits have stopped. Just need to find something more suitable.” 

“That may take a while. Take some help from the government to get you through it.” 

They had discussed this before. Graham knew Dave liked living like this. It made him feel free with no bosses or rules. But Dave took his fill of handouts too. He played the system to advantage and was used to this life. Graham wasn’t. He wanted more. He wanted his old life back. Well, most of it. All but the faithless woman. 

“I don’t want the government involved. Told you that,” said Graham emphatically. 

“You’ll change your mind eventually. Talk to Peter.” 

They left it at that.  Graham knew it was sound advice. Winter was coming, and he had no heat for his tent. Soon his cash and food bank supplies would run out. He hadn’t bathed in several days and his clothes were soiled and wrinkled.  

His belly filled with pizza; Graham slept well that night. By morning he was well-rested for the first time since he had arrived. “I’ll find a job today”, he said to himself with renewed confidence. He walked and walked, stopping at every business he could find. But it was to no avail. Dave was right. He couldn’t get a proper job without ID. The next few days were the same. There were a few offers of temporary hard labour, paid in cash. Jobs no one else wanted, with no future beyond day wages, till his body broke down.  

“Don’t know why you won’t take some help from Peter. Can’t hurt, can it,” said Dave that evening. “Maybe they can get you into a government subsidized position at a factory, or into re-training. That’s what most people do. If you stay here, you’ll die.” 

Graham nodded. He’d seen them carry people out. Drug overdoses, disease, violence, starvation. Many had given up, but he hadn’t. He still wanted his life back, and he knew now that Dave was right and there was no other way. But then there was that issue, the reason he was broke and camped beside the highway. 

“Glad you changed your mind, Graham. We were worried about you. Of course, we can help. First, we need your ID. Anything with a picture from the government: passport, driver’s license, health card,” Peter asked with a hopeful smile. “Then we can get you into a shelter, and much more.” 

Graham nervously retrieved his wallet. It was all there, his old life, ID, useless credit cards and cancelled memberships. “Is this, OK?” he said, handing Peter his driver’s license. 

Peter photographed it with his phone. “Perfect! We can take you now. I’ll call George in the van. Pack up, we’re leaving in about 20 minutes.” 

Graham was more in shock than relief. It had happened so fast. Dave had been standing nearby watching, his visor down in full incognito mode.  

“They’re taking me,” he mumbled to Dave. 

“Can I have your stuff?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good luck bro.” 

“Thanks.” Graham walked away stiffly, as though to his execution instead of liberation. He looked back once. Dave already was in Graham’s old Coleman tent. 

Three days later, four heavily armed police officers arrived at the motel. Graham was charged with assault on his wife. They had him face down on the floor in cuffs moments later, and whatever deluded hope he once harboured evaporated. He knew he would never get his old life back.