Every city has their homeless characters. Unique people, considering their lot in life. My town is no exception.
Last winter my director was concerned about the death of three homeless people within days within days of a particularly nasty Canadian cold air mass. “We need to talk to those men living under the bridge” he said. “We need to get through to them that it just isn't safe out there.” I asked when we were heading down to the bridge, but he begged off what with the budget planning and all.
I had a pair of boots in the truck along with an emergency bomber hat stashed under the seat. Off to the bridge community I trudged.
The first denizen I met was a guy I called “pirate Jim” because of his voice and inflections when he spoke. Nasty little bugger with a mouth like a Navy lifer. “What do you want a..hole?” “Just some of your time” I said. I asked how the half dozen inhabitants were dealing with the cold and was told to get the f... out of there and to mind my own business. Dealing with homeless pirates is a thankless job.
One guy popped his head out of his donated LL Bean tent and said hello. His name was John; “Cardboard John”. A very soft spoken man of 65 and somewhat thin for his height. I talked to John for some time and learned that he worked for many years at the steel plant and had a family a long time ago. I pointed out that he was probably eligible for some pension benefits and for sure Social Security. And then it began.
John told me the hard times started when the Australian secret service stole his identity when he was on R&R during the Viet Nam conflict. And that he needed to return to Australia and tract down that agent to get his identity papers back. I mentioned that there was the possibility that this “agent” might be dead by now to whit John agreed and hadn't made a serious attempt to return down under.
I continued to engage John in idle conversation, as best one can when talking to a schizophrenic, and suggested he come to the Mission's shelter until the cold snap passed. John replied that the Rescue Mission had burned down ten years ago. I asked him to walk with me out from under the cavernous bridge and after a few minutes, I pointed to a huge building across a busy street and said: “That's the Rescue Mission”. John looked at the building for a few moments, then at me, then back across the street. “Well, I guess it didn't burn down” he uttered under his breath.
John came into the shelter that frigid January day and stayed until the first warm day in March and disappeared. We missed him as we get few quiet, well mannered introspective schizophrenics.
Just before Christmas this year, I was doing data entry in the shelter when a tall, thin bundled-up man stood at the door peering in. “It's open” I called and in walked Cardboard John.
“Been to Australia yet?” I asked. “Naw, that intelligence guy died ten years ago”. “Pick a bunk John” was all I could respond.
*For those outside the mental health field it's helpful to understand that John's delusions and lack of time awareness does not constitute grounds for commitment to a mental health facility. John is not dangerous to himself or others. He eats every day and keeps himself clean. No MH Crisis worker worth his salt would waste three or fours of their lives trying to get the cardboard man committed.