Landslide

A Report From The Street

originally published April 7, 2004

"I'm a Pisces. The fish, they say, that swims against the current and makes it to the top of the stream enjoys great success. Like going against the flow of life: everything that gets put down to you to accept - rejecting it instead - and finding the truth of yourself. That's real hard, and it's going against the current all the way."
As John Newsome speaks, the city writhes around us. A hundred cars on Broad St. growl their way past, as dozens more sit in waiting on College. Passersby go about business as usual:

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into Barnett's Newsstand for the new paper and some cigarettes, across the street to Blue Sky, Planet Smoothie, or Starbucks. It's about 2:30 in the afternoon, and Athens is at its busiest - save when the sun recedes below the horizon, and a different breed come out to celebrate the evening.
"Okay. Right on off, becoming aware, I realized that society is not where it's at. You live a nice, comfortable life, but it's not - really not - where it's at. It's not the truth; it's not the knowledge of life. It's - well, what leads to these other things."
John looks at me to see if I'm paying attention, and I look back at him: a mop of blonde hair that doesn't seem to be quite the right color hangs down in front of his sun-burnt, weathered face. He has all of his teeth, as far as I can tell, which is more than can be said of most homeless people. A silver cross hangs around his neck on a small chain, resting on his shirt; his arms are resting on his camouflage pants; his hands hold a cigarette in their long fingers; uncut and dirty fingernails flick the filter, sending ash into the breeze to find a spot on the streets of Athens.
Almost everyone who walks by is going somewhere. They may check out the windows of storefronts or the specials of the day at the restaurants - written in chalk on boards placed near the doorways. John doesn't do any of this. Even if he wanted to, he would not be allowed inside any of these places. The streets are the only place for him, the only place to stay.
Three years ago, John's mother died. He says an aunt got the estate and now denies John and his brother the right to speak to their father. He and his second wife split up, after nearly a decade and a half. John gave her everything without a fight, on account of his two sons, aged 14 and 11.
"I just didn't want to do anything to hurt them. When my mother died, it was like a domino effect, and I ain't recovered. I just got weak and down with everything. I ain't even tried to recover, really. It's just, like, see how far you can fall. Now I'm out on the streets for the third time in my life."
In the '70s, after Vietnam, John returned to Atlanta with only one thing on his agenda. "My intentions were just becoming a heroin addict," he laughs, "That was my goal. I done that. It had some rough sides to it. I ended up in prison."
He became well known in Atlanta's drug culture. He dealt to support his habit. "But," he maintains, "I sold to dealers. I didn't go to schoolyards."
Living on the streets then, and again after he split up with his first wife, was more a matter of choice than John's current downfall.
"It's all experience," he explains, "Any other time, I could recover when I wanted to, but this time, it's like, I'm so far down I can't get up. Everybody is turned on me; every door's been closed. Some of these people make it a lifestyle, a way of living. With me, it's not been that. I mean all this, to me, has a meaning. I'm not gonna be down, you know, never for a long time. I'm being taught lessons for something I've gotta do later. It's not a common thing, I mean, tailspin, and all."
Now two police officers walk down the street toward us, one tall and lanky, the other short and stout. The tall one seems oblivious to our presence, but the short one tries to stare us down through his too-cool shades. I look right back at him, though, not aggressively, just looking. He turns his head to maintain eye contact, almost to the point of turning around and walking backwards. I wonder if it even crosses his mind to just nod hello.
"Continual hassle," John says. "I mean, you're out here, and you're homeless. None of these businesses will let you even use the restroom or anything. It's hard to even find a place to shower. If you go to the only place you can for natural functions, that's an offense to go to jail. If they catch you back in the bushes just drinking a beer, that's an offense to go to jail. That's open container. And you have nowhere to go; what are you supposed to do?
Nobody wants you around. Churches will try to sometimes do a little something, because they know they're supposed to - the Bible says they're supposed to; but for the most part these people got their lives, they got their houses; they don't care. Out here on the street the only life there is is to eat and drink, and pass another day and try to stay warm when it's cold, stay dry if it's raining. I mean, those are basic facts of existence. Humans are animals, just like every other animal, no matter who wants to color it how and place themselves wherever. I mean, we all need to eat, have to release our food, and it's all animal. It's all, you know, fucking animal. This is just a more animal existence than what most people lead."
We take a break, just sitting and smoking our cigarettes. A sign is stuck on a window across from us, reading "No Restrooms," only someone has placed other stickers over the "No." I point it out to John, and he laughs.
"Yeah, that was my buddy, just fucking around... You know, Jesus Christ was homeless, himself. Let's not at all forget that. Most of those that are of Christ come in a similar fashion to him, whereas man's law, and persons of society just look down their noses at 'em and put 'em down. Jesus Christ said, after people done him the way he was treated, he said, 'We shall see how they shall treat the one that I shall send.'
Nobody enjoys this, man. Nobody likes being put in jail. Most homeless people go to jail over and over again. Nobody enjoys this; that's why they just get fucked up all the time. But it's just a part of life, just like being rich is a part of life. I mean, it's two different things entirely, but they're both things. Having money ain't no crime. I'm not against rich people; I'd just like to see hearts aright. I'd like to see everybody do unto others as they would have them do unto them. But this world has never learned that lesson. They never listen to the most wise being that ever passed through the flesh. If they did, then we wouldn't have all these problems: ill feelings, wars and fights. You can't straighten out or make something right that is wronged by the doings of people and the hearts of people. Hearts are either hardened to destruction, or hearts are softened unto mercy. Most of the hearts in this world are bent on destruction. They're hard, man... they're hard."
After a few more minutes of small talk with John and his friend, Frank, I remember that I only had a dime for the parking meter. I say good-bye as rain starts to fall and head back towards my car. Pedestrians are walking faster towards their destinations or huddling under the canopies of shops lining the street. As I get into my car, out of the rain and wind, I see John across the street, pulling on his hood and taking a drag from his cigarette.

Greg Cole