Just a test- don’t be alarmed citizens.

I was at a coffee shop in Newport tonight, drinking green tea and  psyching myself into banging out a few more scenes in my screenplay, but to no avail. I ended up browsing craigslist instead. A man next to me tried unsuccessfully to draw me into a conversation about digital readers, kindles and laptops. I was uninterested but attempted to be polite.

After a few moments, long enough for me to assume he had given up, he asks “Have you ever been homeless in your life?”

I turned off my computer, and told him I hadn’t and asked him what it was like. For the next 20 minutes or so he described the life of a homeless man in Newport. His mom had kicked him out four years ago- for reasons he didn’t offer and I didn’t pursue. The trauma of being on the street for a month was new to him, and he ended up “On the 8th Floor”, which is Aquidneck Island slang for being in the mental health ward at Newport Hospital. After being stabilized, he was admitted into a shelter- one that I had worked with in the past. He described the people as well meaning, but the facilities as lacking. “If I wanted to have people touching me at night, and worrying about Cockroaches and bugs I’d stay on the street,” he said- as if trying to convince me it was true. He claimed the people were very nice, especially compared to the other shelters in Rhode Island.  He left that shelter after a year- citing lack of adequate provisions.

He then began to give me insight on how the homeless get by day to day. Stealing was necessary from time to time to get things he needed, he explained, food and other things- though there was no explanation of what he meant by other things.  Legally he can collect a disability check, likely a result of his diagnoses from the 8th floor. On top of that he has food stamps and other welfare options from the state. To secure housing, he shares these benefits with someone with a spare room but no other resources. These situations fall apart after several weeks or months, and then its off to another shelter until other arrangements can be found. Some shelters are specialized, and only provide support to convicted sex offenders, veterans or women. One shelter only is available to Newport residents. “If I was a resident, that means I have a place to live, you know? If I was a resident I wouldn’t need a shelter. How long do I gotta sleep outside in a city before I’m a resident?” Seemed to be pretty valid questions- but of course I am only hearing one side of the issue. When all other options are exhausted, it means a night on the street.

“You don’t sleep every night on the street,” He said plainly. “I’ve been up for 72 hours.” I wondered how he kept track of that without a watch- but his mannerisms didn’t give me any reason to doubt the claim. “Sometimes you been up so long you have to, but its better to stay moving so you don’t get in trouble.” He said he had been shot several times, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time- but I think he was just trying to impress me with that claim. But then his face changed, leaving behind the predetermined script in his mind, and began describing sleeping in a box. “You crawl in, you stuff yourself in there with newspapers and you got maybe a blanket. Its a tight fit, a size 55 TV box. And you think about people you see every day, some ten million dollar guy who has this in his house, and I’m in the box. Its dark in the box, you close it up and see nothing above you, nothing but darkness. And sometimes if its real cold you see a light, but it isn’t hope. Its death, and sometimes it comes closer and sometimes farther but its always in the box with you. Thats why you don’t sleep on the street unless you have to.”

The coffee shop was closing, and I offered to buy him a pizza before going on my way as a payment for his story. He had told me earlier how he would eat anything he could all at once when it was available, and then not eat again for a few days. We went around the corner to a new pizza place, they eyed him suspiciously and looked at me. He rushed up and ordered a medium Buffalo chicken pizza- as if he had been rehearsing the order in his mind since I made the offer to him. I talked with the store owner a bit as they ran my credit card. He offered me some of their products as new stores often do to attract customers, I turned them down because of my diet. The homeless man didn’t even react. I think the irony was less interesting then the meal he was about to have.

The man who has eaten too much, and a man who will likely never have enough. The shelter that only provides housing for residents. The system that taxes citizens for the provision of food and shelter to criminals- criminals charged with taking food and provisions from the citizens directly. The man who owns the TV and puts it in his house, and the man who puts himself inside the TV’s box- making it his house.

He didn’t seem to be a substance abuser, none of the familiar twitches or slurs. He seemed like he could be me after a few years of psychological damage brought on by a life without a home. All of us are a few bad choices and unfortunate circumstances away from being in that life. It would be very appropriate to end this with a description of what we can do to fix the problem of homelessness. If any of you have the solution, the man living in the TV box behind Brick Alley Pub is waiting to hear it.

The villian thinks of the destruction of his opposition as victory. He is comforted by the stark contrasts of black and white. He doesn’t believe he is being devisve, because he sees the world as divided by design. All that is right sits within his realm, leaving only error, ignorance and treachery for his enemies. He is not always immoral, nor exclusively moral- but he justifies all his immorality in terms of the actions of his enemy. His success is measured in the failure of his enemy. He must have an enemy, for without one he no longer has a reason to be. Therefore he can never succeed in his agenda, yet will always fight. It is not courage or conviction that fuels his zeal, but fear of facing his desicions alone, without an enemy to bare the blame for his shortcomings.

I used to love going to this place as a kid. Parents would often complain that stuffing your kids with pizza was bad for them, and in some respects I can agree- but not at this place. After one slice your child has little interest in the glorified microwave pizza and was running around a ball pit- jumping on a rhythm game or shooting hoops. It was a blast- and far healthier than tossing a bag of heart disease at your kid as you drive them from recessless school to indoor console gaming bedrooms.

Things, inevitably, changes.

Gone is the ballpit- enjoyment without additional purchase? I dare say socialism. The percentage of real games on the savannah of the game floor teeters between white rhino and unicorn levels. What fills the gap? Ticket vending machines.

Here is a look at the income stream in a typical Chuckies of the new millenium. Parent buys ten dollars worth of tokens. Child places tokens in machines where they are transmuted into tickets through various means other than skill or merit- and certainly litlle interactive entertainment value. These tickets are used in the reward zone to purchase toys of a value between 1 cent and 2 dollars retail.

See what just happened? Chuckie Cheese got rid of the entertainment value of it’s games- and in so doing became a convoluted toy store. With Dollar Store merchandise. And Toys R Us prices.

I haven’t decided to look at who is running this chain these days- but I wouldn’t be shocked to see Harrahs or G-Tech in there. After all, they can’t put the kiddies on video slots till they are 18- and it seems like a great way to prime the pump.

While this isn’t a universal truth, do you ever notice how often the words and actions of a toddler that are defiant in the heat of the moment tend to be endearing when retold?

Imagine the scenario. You tell a spouse or friend of what the child said and did, retelling with as much accuracy as possible, only to end up sounding like a monster for losing your patience with such an obviously precious child.

My solution? Use liberties in the retelling. In fact, this is a good general rule for story tellers. The truth can be confining and distract from the intent of the speaker. Better not leave interpretation of your version of the truth to chance.