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Then he paused, and turned to a different subject. "You know that councilman who’s trying to get rid of the homeless in town?" he asked. "Councilman Calvin Carpenter."
I nodded.
"Well, he thinks we give West River a bad name. He must not have gone through any bad times himself." John drained the last of the coffee from his cup. "Or maybe he’s just forgotten what bad times are like."
I stepped behind the counter and brought out the pot, and refilled his cup with hot coffee. I remembered seeing that same councilman on TV campaigning, and how he'd compared the homeless to rats taking over the town. How could one human being refer to another as a rat?
"He should get to know you on
a personal level," I said. "He would see that you're a real person, just like his neighbors or his family. We’re all people."
"Yes, but not everyone is like you, Laila," said John. "That red hair of yours must be what sends fire through you when you think you have a cause." He laughed, and I joined him. I liked to think my hair was dark auburn but John would always tease me about being the redhead.
"The ones who rule the town spend most of their time around their shiny oak table making up rules," he went on. "I think Councilman Carpenter gets out in the air just to harass us."
"You're probably right about that," I said. He brushed his tangled, falling locks away from his face. Good humor sparkled in his eyes, despite his otherwise rough appearance.
"Where will you go if the councilman gets his way and forces you off the street for good?" I asked.
John shrugged his thin shoulders. "I don't know. I really don't worry about it."
"Well, some of us worry about it. Isn't there a shelter anywhere in West River? I'm sorry to say that I don't know what we've got here."
"There is. But they're far and few and to be honest, they're not that great. Crowded, noisy, you know. It's easier sometimes to just find a place.."
Then I suddenly had an idea. "Hey – I've got a friend who would know where to get services for you. He – "
"Oh, you mean that good-looking young paramedic you've been seeing, don't you?" His dark brown eye – the only one I could see under that mop of dirty-blond hair – twinkled as he spoke.
I could feel my face turning red. "Yes. Daniel Jenkins. I could ask him. Maybe there are other places that will work. I'm sure he'd know where you could go."
But John only shook his head. "No, thanks. I’ve survived this long. I’ll make it okay."
All I could do was give him a slight nod. I'd never known anyone who lived on the street before, and I'd always wondered how someone like John could end up like this. He was intelligent and a good person. I wondered where he came from. He'd just sort of appeared one day, as if from nowhere.
I glanced up as the door opened and two more customers walked in. "Okay, John. Just wait here. I'll be back in a minute," I told him.
A young couple, new to me, sat down at a table near the wide front window. They ordered cheese scones and two lattes. They were engrossed in their own conversation, so I returned to John.
His face held a sadness I hadn’t seen there before. "Are you okay, John?" I asked him.
He hesitated and I could tell he wanted to say something. "I’m all right," he finally said, "but my brother worries me."
"Oh, you have a brother?" It was the first time I'd heard him mention any family. Surely a family member would take him in! "What's going on with him?"
John looked down, and shook his head. "He got into drugs several years back. He’s been in and out of rehab more times than I can count."
"Well, some places can get people back on the right track. But there's no guarantee," I said. "I’m sorry to hear this. Do you see him very much?"
He shrugged. "Well, yeah, I do get to see him once in a while. I've never touched drugs myself but I’ve seen plenty of it on the streets. I know what it can do to people. It’s almost impossible to get away from the poison. It’s an addiction that keeps pulling the person back down."
This was the most I'd ever heard John talk about serious things. I offered him more coffee, but he shook his head and smiled at me. It seemed there was more he wanted to say, and I didn't mind. I was a good listener.
John took a breath. "Steven, my brother, went to prison a bit ago because drugs. He told me he was clean, but when he got busted, I didn't know what to believe. It blew me away, The story was that he was dealing and trying to sell to an undercover cop. He says, of course, that he was framed," he laughed quietly. "I want to believe him, and the more I think about it... I just don't know. But the evidence was there and he was convicted."
He sighed. "I'm still worried about him. You know, Laila, even in prison a person can get drugs."
I nodded. "I’ve heard that, but I still find it hard to believe. Is your brother homeless, too?"
