7 Days

Cold. This body is so cold. So many things hit me at once. In addition to the cold, I feel extreme hunger, something smells rancid, and someone is poking my arm. Tentatively, I open my eyes. The person standing over me seems pleased – I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m awake or because he thinks he’s responsible for reviving me. The younger man smells bad, but I think I’m the one who smells rancid.

He says, “Hey, man, I scored a half-eaten sandwich. I’ll give you a piece if you let me wear your shoes today.”

I sit up, nodding in agreement. No wonder I’m cold. I had slept on a piece of tattered cardboard, with no blanket on the asphalt in an alley. My dirty clothing has holes, and the morning air is frigid. I rub my hands together to warm them enough to accept the piece of sandwich being offered. Cold roast beef with soggy vegetables were never so satisfying.

My situation is so crazy. I don’t know who I am. The current pattern of my existence is that I live in someone's body for one week. That person passes away, and I get transported to another body. I got the short end of the stick with this one. I wonder how he became homeless. Unsurprisingly, there is no wallet in my pocket.

I manage to say, “Thank you,” to the man in between bites. I ask, “What's your name?”

He says, “Man, I knew you were trippin' last night. You were talking end-of-the-world shit and stuff. Now you done forgot your best friend, Pete? Remember how we ran from the police that first day we met?”

I ask Pete, “What’s my name?”

Pete puts his hands, palms up and responds, “Now you’re really starting to scare me. You’re Tom, man. Tom Harvey. Did you hit your head or something? I know you’ve been trying to get off the bad stuff, but this better not be a permanent thing with you. I don’t wanna go tellin’ you your name like every 10 minutes.” At least I now know how Tom ended up on the street. I’m not sure if it was drugs or alcohol, but I seriously hope he's clean.

I say, “Sorry, Pete, I think I just had a crazy dream and woke up all groggy.”

As I take my shoes off for Pete, a worn photo falls to the ground out of the left shoe. I snatch it up and study it closely. It’s a young boy, perhaps a five-year-old. On the back, I can just make out the fuzzy words, “Bobby, age 4.”

I hold the photo up for Pete to see. “Hey, Pete, is this my son?”

Pete shrugs and says, “How am I supposed to know? I never seen that picture, but you do go on about how smart your boy is. Robby, I think, and also that your late wife was the love of your life.”

I feel a thick fog of sadness envelop me, with sorrow for the relationships that might have been. I hold the photo to my heart and bow my head. I know that I must try to find this child for Tom. Aloud, I say, “It’s Bobby,” my head still bent low.

Pete changes the subject, “You comin’ to the mission? I’m gonna see what they’re servin’ for lunch.”

I can’t help wrinkling my brow in confusion. “It’s only morning.”

Pete points with his thumb, “It’ll take a good part of the morning to walk there, especially with you barefoot.”

I have learned many things in my weeks of inhabiting different bodies. I never thought that learning where to step with bare feet would become so important. We stop to panhandle for money on several corners. We manage to pull in $4.50. Pete finds the back of a restaurant where they just threw out a somewhat crusty loaf of sourdough bread, so we each take a couple of bites and put the rest in Pete’s beat-up backpack/pillow. At one point, we pass a man in an alley who is talking to himself. Most of what he says doesn’t make sense. He smells like rotting cabbage. He sees me staring and starts to shout. It’s gibberish, but it’s disconcerting to have it directed at me. We leave him, ranting.

When we finally get to the mission, I am tired, foot-sore, and once again famished. This body has aches and pains in places I’m not accustomed to. I’m shaking, probably from withdrawals, but at least I’m not cold anymore. The mission has a line of maybe 12 people. It’s moving slowly, but surely. I can smell something tasty, which turns out to be chicken noodle soup. I gratefully accept the bowl and a small packet of crackers. I vow if I ever have a normal life, I will spend time volunteering in such a place.

While eating, I make some plans. I need to clean myself up – perhaps Pete, while I’m at it. The first thing I need is a pair of good shoes. Then, a shower, a shave, and some better clothing. While I’m returning my bowl, I ask one of the volunteers where the closest Catholic Social Services branch is located. She says it’s about 10 blocks away and points in the direction.

I take the lead as we leave the mission. Pete stops walking and asks, “Where are we headed?”

I smile and say, “Catholic Social Services. Maybe we can get help there. I need some shoes, and we both need a warm place to sleep. I also want to get cleaned up and meet my kid.”

Pete shrugs and resumes walking, and hastens to catch up, and says, “It’s great you found Jesus and all, but where does that leave me?”

I turn to Pete and chuckle, “You don’t have to be Catholic to get help from them. I suppose it won’t hurt to pretend though, just in case.”

Pete folds his arms and grumbles, “I ain’t doin’ no sign-of-the-cross shit though.”

“Suit yourself. I figure it’s worth it if it gets us off the streets.”

The afternoon breeze picks up as we walk along. My dingy long hair is so coated in filth that it hardly moves as the wind flits across my face. I close my eyes and imagine I am walking home to a real family after a hard day’s work. I wonder what percentage of homeless people are due to addiction, and/or mental issues.

I estimate there are 10 people waiting in the lobby of the building when we arrive. Most of them look about like us – in need of a shower and some clean clothes. The lady in front of us has two kids in tow. My heart aches for their predicament. I hope they get the help they need. Some people are given used clothing and leave. Some, like the mother in front of us, are ushered further into the building.

The middle-aged lady at the desk is wearing a Nun's habit. She says, “God bless you. How can I help?”

I say, “God bless you, Sister. I need some shoes, and me and my friend need a place to stay while we get cleaned up.” On cue, my body begins a new round of tremors, and Pete coughs uncontrollably.

“We have a one-week rehabilitation house. There will be an opening tomorrow. Do you think you can manage until then?” Without waiting for an answer, she continues, “I’ll see what we’ve got for shoes.” She calls, “Sister Kate, this gentleman needs a pair of shoes. I’d say, size 9.”

I nod. It sounds accurate. Sister Kate, a rather young, mousy-looking woman, pokes her head out an adjoining door and says, “Yes, Sister Casey,” and goes back inside.

Sister Casey writes on a piece of paper and hands it to me. At the top, is the address for the rehab house. The form has the dates we’ll be allowed to stay and her signature at the bottom. We sign it as well. It’s a good start. She points and says, “Step over there while Sister Kate looks for shoes.”

“Yes, Sister. Thank you very much.” I elbow Pete gently.

He says, “Um, yes, thank you.”

After just five minutes, Sister Kate comes out the door with a bundle of items. On the top is a pair of sneakers. They’re used, but clean. Inside each shoe is a pair of new white socks – one for each of us. At the bottom of the pile, are two small blankets.

We both say, “Thank you” again, and leave.

Pete says, “Let’s go find a church yard for the night. Sometimes they have cushiony grass.”

It is a pleasant night. While we are laying out our blankets and eating the last of the sourdough, I ask, “Do you have a family, Pete?”

With a dismissive wave, he says, “Nah, my parents died long ago, and I never hitched up or anything. You’re the closest I got to kin.”

I rub my hand across my forehead. “Pete, I don’t want to alarm you, but I don’t think I’m going to last much longer. I want you to try to get cleaned up and find a job. Then, maybe you’ll get hitched.”

He looks at me with eyes wide. “No, man, you gonna live for a long time.”

I shake my head. “No, Pete. Trust me on this one. I will be gone by this time next week. That’s why I have to make sure my boy is being looked after.” Pete nods and looks off into space. He nods his head and says solemnly, “I understand.”

The next day is the start of our new selves. At the rehab house, we both get a good shower. We panhandle for more money and manage (along with the $4.50) to get enough for some clean clothes from a thrift store. They’re not stylish, but they don’t smell, and they don’t have holes. We learn of a place which offers free haircuts for the homeless before they open on Saturdays. The next day, we’re the first two at the door. When I sit down and look in the mirror, I am horrified, but the woman who gives me a trim is very kind and talented. Pete and I both look like different men. He has the cheekiest grin on his face. He looks 20 years younger.

Sunday and Monday are largely spent on the computer at the rehab house. We look for jobs for Pete. Pete gets one washing dishes at a restaurant, starting next Friday. He likes that it will keep his hands clean. Catholic Social Services helps him find low-income housing. He will be able to move in on the first of the month, two weeks away.

We look for my son. The only Bob Harvey who shows up is a retired businessman. Tuesday afternoon, a lightbulb goes off. I Google, “Robert Harvey adoption.” Bingo! A Lutheran Church newsletter dated one year ago posted an article about my son's adoption to a couple in the congregation. Included is a picture of the happy family of three. He was 11 at the time. He looks different, but I can tell his eyes are the same as the ones in the old photo from my shoe. There is no address posted, but Faith Lutheran is only eight blocks away. We walk there Wednesday morning. I sweet-talk the secretary, begging her to give a dying man his son’s address. I promise I won’t make trouble. She relents.

Thursday, Pete and I walk to the address. It’s a long walk. I can barely stay upright, but I’m determined. The house is small, but pleasant. We sneak up to a window. Bobby is eating lunch with his mom. He laughs at something she says. I can’t help smiling. I turn away.

The years of substance abuse have played their toll. I collapse on the lawn, unconscious, but at peace.