A Homeless Joe

Just quick writing I did in 40 minutes. Submitted for an essay entry.

17 years old. Mexican-American. Well, more American than Mexican. The bottom rung of the low-income chart. Single mother. Alcoholic stepfather. Emotionally distant sister. She graduated high school, but she soon became a college dropout. That continues to this day. Classic sob story, right?

12th grade. Final year of high school. I’m finally getting out of this joint. I’m not going to college, I repeat to myself several times through the school year. Just to end up like her? Why waste my time? October and November 2003. I remember those days. All my friends are rushing about here and there holding applications in their hands. They hound teachers for tips, advice, anything that will help them pick the right college. I don’t have many friends. They’re mostly Asian-Americans, African-Americans, and Latinos like me. Very few Caucasian students in my school. They’ve probably already got college locked up. Why should they worry? Lynda McGee’s office is lined up with students. Application forms to fill out. I didn’t fill any out. I still have time, I thought, if I ever decide to go this year. Did you want to talk to her? Prepare to skip class to find an open slot when she’s not busy, that is, if she’s willing to help. December 2003. Time’s up. I found out too late those were the only dates. Now it’s Community College for me. What colleges did you apply to, my best friend asks me. Oh, this one, this one, and that one. I’m too ashamed to tell her I didn’t choose a college. I don’t need her hounding me.

February 2004. Final semester of high school. As of two weeks from now, we no longer have a home to go to, my mother suddenly tells me one afternoon after school. We’re right about the Civic Centre Metro Station. Next to us, the judicial offices. Fancy cars, lawyers dressed up in their very best. Expensive suits, I think to myself. Why should they worry about someone like me?

February 17. The dreaded orange eviction letter blasted right outside the door of our third-floor apartment. Everyone can see it. Time to pack up. Where shall we go? Hotels. Don’t worry  They only cost $60 per night. Even better, that’s exactly what my mom makes every day. Besides, my sister works. My stepfather won’t leave us abandoned, will he?

The first night of the hotel. No stepfather here. He’s found his own place. Thankfully, his sister lived closeby. He has a place to say, my mother reassures me. But what about us?

Two nights pass. Then, three nights. Time for a different hotel. We can’t afford $60 a night anymore. There’s no refrigerator, and we have to buy ice cubes to keep our daily bread ready to enjoy before it spoils. I wonder how the Israelites lasted for forty years in the desert.

One week passes. Three different hotels. This one looks promising, my mother says. It’s near your school. You can go walking. You like walking, don’t you? But I know the truth. I reason in my mind that it’s time to quit school and get a job. I don’t know how to work, I hear myself say. Well, only one way to find out, right? But what about school? Will I outdo my sister? Will I become a high school dropout? At least she graduated high school.

GED. There’s your option. Besides, all my teachers say that I’m intelligent. I’m gifted. I can write. A GED exam won’t take any effort at all. But, no one can find out about my situations. My friends, the teachers, they all know I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Shall I tell them who I am now? Just another homeless Joe?

It’s lunchtime. 12:30pm. Lynda McGee’s in her office. Though she’s married, I prefer to call her Ms. McGee. Just tell her you need information about a GED. Don’t tell her you won’t be here next week. She doesn’t need to know.

I walk up to her desk. Her office’s filled with books. Mostly financial aid for lower-income and minority students. The walls are decorated with college and university banners. They’re the places her students have gone to, she later tells me. One day, I’ll bring her back one, I reply then.

She’s busy typing on her computer. A letter of recommendation, I manage to make out on the small screen.  I used to have a larger screen, well, before all of this, anyway.

Ms. McGee, I ask her. I know it’s Mrs., but Ms. sounds more dignified. How can I take a GED?

The long blond haired woman I’d seen throughout four years of high school stares back at me. Nice eyes, I think to myself.

Why? Sweat rolls down my face. I’ve never been a good liar, so I stutter.

Well, just in case I need to get one. It’s easier than being here, right?

She doesn’t flinch.

Where are you going, Daniel?

Nowhere. I just wanted to find out, well just in case.

She knows something’s up. Her piercing eyes can tell me that. She can probably see my lip quevering, a dead giveaway.

I break down in her office. She usually has student TAs, but none are around. A good thing, too, since I’ve never broken down in public.

I tell her the truth. We lost our a/partment. For the past several weeks, we’ve lived going from hotel to hotel. I pin the blame on my sister. Now, I need to work.

Either my face is drenched with sweat or with tears. Doesn’t matter. She looks at me tenderly, like a person to a wounded animal. Do I really look that bad? Yes, I do. The mirror right next to her desk don’t lie.

Look. Don’t give up your studies. You’re an intelligent young student. From what you tell me, your sister can work, and I know her. She’s going to help you guys out.

Just promise me you won’t tell anyone.

I won’t.

I leave her office and head to the nearest bathroom. No one can see me like this.

March rolls by. The hotel manager offers my family a weekly rent. Just $280 a week. That’s doable. Though the room is smaller than my bedroom, at least it has a TV. At least it’s home for now. Home for a Homeless Joe, I think to myself. One day, I’ll write about my experience. Maybe someday, someone will read it.

April marches on. Then May. Just a few weeks away, I think to myself. Then I can leave school forever. I’m home free.

During those months, I pass by her office multiple times. Probably once a day, to be honest. I work up the courage to tell her the truth: I screwed up by not sending any college applications.

She gives me books to read. I’m not a reader. I’m a video-gamer, but with no console left to play and only basic TV to watch, I have no choice but to read. Financial aid for low-income students. But, if I’m homeless, do I count? She ignores my naivety and continues providing me last-minute college applications. She must’ve taken hours to explain Financial Aid. I didn’t know so many organizations actually cared enough to help me out. In fact, Mrs. McGee even helps me fill them out one by one. Nice person, I think to myself. Very nice person. I make sure not to tell her that I distrust Caucasian people. At least, I think I didn’t tell her.

May 26. School’s about to end.

You won a prize, Daniel, I hear her say as I’m walking down the halls.

A prize for what?

That letter you sent in about college counselors that have helped you out back in April. They selected yours.

I remembered that letter. I wrote it the day after the police impounded our only car. My mom wanted to visit my stepfather. Don’t go, I told her. You don’t have a license. Even worse, the car’s not registered. That didn’t stop her. Right after visiting my stepfather, I hear the police sirens. It’s for us, I think instinctively. After 15 minutes, the two Caucasian police officers didn’t hesitate to have our car towed away. I watched as that green Toyota got torn away from us. I walked home minutes later. My mom was left behind. I clench my fist and strike the wall with all my heart. So, that’s what pain feels like. The throbbing takes at least an hour to subside. I couldn’t forgive my mom for that. If only we hadn’t left, like I told her to.

Here’s the best part. Tonight, you’ll get to read the letter and they’ll award you with $100.

I’m not good with crowds. But I don’t care. $100 for writing. And Mrs. McGee gets recognized for what’s she’s done. I finally worked. I finally helped out my mother. I finally contributed. At least now, I’m officially a writer. I finally made money for my family.

It’s nighttime. The place is full. I read the letter. People look at Mrs. McGee and smile. I look at her, too. I don’t care about crying in front of people now. She deserves it.

June rolls by. I received my high school diploma. Time to get to work, I say. I’m finally out of this joint. Yet, I’m not finally out of Mrs. McGee’s sights.

I didn’t know that she had received a call from a university admissions officer. I didn’t know that they really liked my letter. I didn’t know that she had discussed the financial aid details with the officer. It’s from a university in Louisiana. Lafayette, I believe. Never heard of the place. I’ve never been out of Los Angeles. I didn’t know she told the admissions officer my story. Although school doesn’t start until late August, I can stay a few days with him and his wife. Then, I’ll start my studies. Then, I’ll be a writer. I didn’t know I had been accepted to the University of Louisiana in Lafayette with a full financial aid scholarship. I didn’t know.

July creeps on by. My family finally found a place to rent. Her and a couple of other teachers found a way to pay for my one-way plane ticket.

Just pack your bags, and I’ll wait for you at the school to take you to the airport, she tells me.

First time university student. First person in my family to attend university. First time away from home. Goodbye, mother. Goodbye, sister. I’ll write to you both from over there. Goodbye, GED. Goodbye, Homeless Joe. I’ll write about you one day. I promise.

Author's Note

I purposefully omitted several quotation indicators, as well as deliberately broke several grammar rules (as I always do.)