True Stories: ‘Peter’

Once upon a time, in a strange little town in California, I served as a “street outreach liaison” working with homeless youth in parks, under bridges, across the railroad tracks, and everywhere in between. This is a true story of one of those experiences.

. . .

Today, suddenly, I find I am not a detective anymore. Today I am a rock, patiently supporting one slowly stumbling until he is ready to go on.

Halfway up a wooded side path ascending to the Park’s hilltop homeless encampment two men sit silently, heads bowed as if descended into reverent meditation. A third, much younger man lies beyond, appearing to lounge casually upon the dirt and stones. I nod and greet each man as I pass. After an exchange of small hellos with the young man I resume my upward march… and manage almost three steps before turning back, reeled in by an uncomfortable undertone grating beneath his quiet greeting.

I ask more openly how the young man is doing. “Not too great,” he says, and asks what I’m doing here. He seems to think that I might be a “traveler”— that I might actually belong here. I tell him honestly of my outreach work, and my quest to find Alex.

The young man tells me his name is Peter, then abruptly exclaims, “Sorry!” and holds his nose. After some awkward moments of silence, Peter explains that he has a painful sinus infection. I try to ask for more information, but in doing so begin to understand just how remarkably strung out Peter is— and how much he is struggling with his immediate state of being. I ask what he’s doing, and he says he’s trying to get enough motivation together to get up and leave the park. So, on instinct, I simply sit down in the dirt beside him and wait.

Peter eventually mumbles something, asking if anyone has water. “I don’t have water,” I say, “but I’ve got an empty bottle if you’d like me to go fill it up for you.” Peter thanks me but declines my offer, assuring me that in just a minute he’s going to get up. Then he rolls over onto his side.

Peter is now lying fully spread on the ground. I continue to wait beside him, conveying my support through simple body language. After a few minutes, he still hasn’t made any moves. I ask again— “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some water?” “Alright,” he says, “if you really want to… I guess.” I ask where the fountain is, but Peter’s limp arm gesture fails to indicate a useful direction. I walk the way I *think* he pointed, until it becomes clear I have no idea where the fountain might be. I ask a bald man clothed in dust and half a pair of thick tan overalls for directions. “Over there, by the rock.” The man points to a spot at the bottom of the hill, close to where I started.

The shady hollow under the hill is soft and still. I fill my disposable plastic bottle with cool water, listening to the fountain’s soothing trickle, feeling its gentle wetness spill across my fingers. I turn off the fountain and watch the water rush down into a tiny black hole at the bottom of the basin. For a moment I stare into the circle of utter darkness as it swallows the last of the water with a hungry sputtering suck. Somewhere inside the stone the fountain-pipes’ watery innards gargle and gurgle; then mutter, murmur, and cease. Silence. I look up at the trees, and feel the slow gnaw of anxiety churning in my belly as fluttering thoughts carry my mind’s eye high among the boughs over the hillside where Peter still lies on his back.

Afternoon has begun to give way to evening. Deepening shadows already touch Peter’s legs, whiskers and fangs of a hundred dark mouths slowly swallowing him whole and enfolding his body with whispered promises of a cold night’s unforgiving embrace.

“Water!” I announce with a playful smile, and thrust the bottle aloft in the retreating amber light like a trophy. Peter thanks me, and slowly lifts his hands to grasp the bottle. Eventually he manages to take a few sips of water, and seems somewhat reinvigorated. By rocking his body back and forth Peter gradually achieves a precarious crouch, where he remains perched for several more minutes.

Finally finding the wherewithal to imbibe a substantial gulp of water, Peter returns to life enough to climb to his feet. He thanks me profusely, and then hobble-hops down the hill like a geriatric jackrabbit. Bent low to the ground, leaning on a comically small stick and pausing occasionally to regain equilibrium, Peter hardly seems a match for the hungry shadows nipping at his heels. Then again, you never can tell. I feel a strange relief as I watch him weave precariously between the trees to break free upon the lawn below, darkness spilling down close behind.

Peter has left behind his wool hat, which I bring to him in a few easy strides before heading home to write notes— and share with others the simple rewards of sitting in dirt where shadows walk the earth.