Chance In Plain Sight

It was perfect! Just beside the South Portland end of the Casco Bay Bridge, on the south western bank. He'd spent four weeks carrying material for the shelter and now it was done. Sometimes it was from dumpsters in Portland's West End, sometimes it was from South Portland's Harbor Side neighborhoods. He had nothing better to do with his time each day, so he felt he could at least make himself useful and prepare for a long winter.

The spot he chose was on a steep slope that caught the afternoon and evening sun while blocking the north wind. It was really amazing how the temperature – even on cold cloudy days – increased significantly on that side of the bridge each day.

Thinking back, to the late summer, before this gathering began, he'd noticed that occasionally people would hop along the large rocks below him. The rocks were placed there during the bridge's construction, partially in the waters of the bay. Kids especially had fun romping along this rugged edge.

So building up a tangled camouflage of thin sticks and pine branches (since pine doesn't lose its needles as fast as other trees lose their leaves), then tying them tightly to each other with brown hemp twine so effectively, hid his presence nicely. From below it looked like giant bird's nest, but blended well with the dense bushes on either side.

Once the “nest” part was secure, he sat for a long time one day planning out the interior. After finding pieces of a torch-cut oil barrel on the beach and a lobster buoy post, construction of a rudimentary shovel was simple. The spot on the hill was fairly flat for about ten square feet. But that wasn't enough. He needed to lengthen it to allow for lying down. The excavation was challenging. He kept hitting fist-sized stones that would dent his shovel. Twice he had to get more of the barrel pieces and improve the shovel. But eventually the area had been cleared out and leveled off sufficiently.

On the other side of the bridge were thousands of Artemisia vulgaris plants. They are normally thought of as an invasive weed, but he knew from his days as a graduate student in biology, that they smelled quite nice, and they had an interesting attribute when thoroughly dried: they turned into a cotton-like substance that held together and never crumbled. For days he harvested the plants and brought them down into the nest, hanging them upside down until they dried. Then when they were dry, he removed the large stems and rubbed the branches and leaves between the palms of his hands to the point where they turned soft. Within about two weeks he had a very soft, insulating layer of puffy plant material, nearly four inches deep on his “floor.”

Up to that point he had been sleeping in Mill Creek Park or Deering Oaks Park during the day (if he could get away with it), then building his nest at night. It astounded him how much he could get done in each night.

Maine had been blessing him with a string of hot dry weather; nearly a month's worth. But it was not to continue. One day while he was in Portland, he saw the storm clouds rolling in from the west. He immediately thought about the floor of his nest.

He walked as fast as he could, down through the parking lot area, then past Brian Boru's on Center Street when the rain started. He stopped to put on his poncho. Crossing on to York Street, then he practically ran across the bridge to the South Portland, he was utterly exhausted by the time he got to the small ramp which led down into the park area on the opposite side of the bridge. There, he waited in the rain until the people who had been walking around were in their cars and leaving, before finally making his way down, and under the bridge, along the hillside, to the nest.

He crawled in the entrance and was happy to see that his laughably built thatched roof was just starting to leak. The rain got stronger and stronger, until it was a downpour. It was one of those terrible moments when he involuntarily summed up his life situation. Kneeling there in the human version of a bird nest, with rain dripping all over his hard work, and peering across the small harbor at the cars traveling along Interstate 295, he sighed. They had shelter, gas, heat and transportation all in one package. He looked down at his water-wrinkled and pale hands at that time... From this present moment he remembered back to that day, and that he had repeated his most comforting mantra: I will find a way.

His thoughts returned to his present shelter success. He smiled to himself. The air was getting chilly. Nights temperatures were dropping down to near freezing and days were rarely above 45 degrees. Half the leaves were still on the trees, but the bright oranges, yellows and reds had faded from their faces.

He had timed things well.

Beneath him was a soft, clean cotton comforter. It lay across two folded sleeping bags. They were on top of a pile of thin foam remnants he had scored on Commercial Street, and managed to stuff into a large laundry duffel bag for carrying over the bridge. And below them was his very well-dried cottony artemisia plant cushion. Before completing this pile of relative comfort with the foam, he had felt the cold of the earth below him; but no more. And he smiled again as he recalled how hanging up his artemisia after that late summer rain storm had entirely returned it to its puffy self.

He'd fixed the rain problem by interlacing plastic bags through the sticks of the roof, which formed a gentle dome. And on one particularly warm fall night he stuffed cattail (Typha) heads that he had harvested in the marsh beside Hannaford's Mill Creek supermarket, on the inner side of the plastic bags.

On the same night he managed to cover the top of the nest with an enormous, black tarp that he'd “borrowed” from the boat yard. It was big enough to fold in half for extra thickness. He tied it to the side supports of the nest and then covered it with all manner of thin sticks, dead weeds and small branches, which were held fast by more twine. His ever present utility knife, had become his best friend—a life saver. He kept it on him day and night, even when he slept.

On the inside of the walls was a layer of extra pieces of the black tarp, then stuffed with dry grass and cattail heads. There were padded blankets, sewed through with twine, into the insulating plant matter and then looped through the tarp, using a large sail needle. This give the interior a pleated look that he was quite proud of.

Early on in the process, he realized the future value of the rocks he had excavated while shoveling. And there was a section of the nest where he had kept these rocks in three five gallon buckets. Larger head-sized rocks were hauled up from the edge of the water. By stacking them carefully, he was able to build two very acceptably flat shelves, complete with a cat litter tray as a makeshift “sink” between them. It was his “kitchen counter.”

It was obvious that he could not have a fire without the smoke being seen from the road above, or from the opposite shore in Portland. This he pondered throughout the fall. Several ideas came and went. But in the end he settled on the idea of simple body heat as his primary way of keeping warm. He knew if there was snow it would create an igloo effect which would help even more. And with all his other insulating material, it was likely that he would be just fine at just above freezing—maybe even warmer. In this way, clean water could be kept and also food items that would need refrigeration, right there along with him in the shelter.

Since becoming homeless, he'd worked out a deal with his cousin who lived in Portland, to stand in as his “residential address” for his Food Stamp card and to receive the letters from DHHS. The cousin had a wife, two teen age boys and one little girl, so there was no room at his house to stay. He knew DHHS was far too busy to check up on where he was actually living, and he didn't have another meeting with them until the spring. At that time he would be able to work at the job promised to him by that same cousin, doing landscaping, and hopefully finding a more permanent place to live. He had loaned his cousin money five years earlier, and then forgiven the debt. It seemed like an even trade to be assisted in this way. And the cousin was more than happy to receive mail for a family member.

He really did want a way of cooking food though. So, in the last month he had saved his bottle return money and purchased eight small stove-sized propane canisters from Reny's in Portland, which came with a tiny, free stove head. Using the rocks from the five gallon buckets, he made a small walled-in structure to house the propane outside the shelter and double as his cooking stove base. He had found an eight inch fry pan at Good Will for $1.00, which was all he'd ever used even when he had an apartment and plenty of money.

To prevent carbon monoxide poisoning while cooking, he knew he'd have to cook outside. He tested his method by opening the fabric covered door, which, with old leather straps, hinged upward and then sideways to provide a roof over the stone stove set-up, outside. He cooked his first meal a week before finishing the shelter; a small steak, some instant potatoes (complete with proper butter and milk), and a can of green beans. It was the most delicious meal he'd ever had. The process worked like a charm. He wouldn't be able to cook every day, but a few times a week would keep his morale up, save him from having to pay more for prepared food and get some warm meals into his body.

Bathing was going to be a matter of sponge-bath style. In the winter he could melt snow for the water. But until then there was a drinking fountain up in the park that he could use each day, then bring the water down to bathe.

Peeing was no problem, he was man after all. And he had another dedicated five gallon bucket and an old toilet seat for “other business.” “Flushing” was simply a matter of walking down to the water's edge and dumping the bucket in the bay.

In this way, he checked survival items off in his mind: Shelter, check. Heat, check. Refrigeration, check. Cooking, check. Pee and poop, check and check. Things were definitely coming together.

He was quite tired by the end of that final winter-preparation day. But, with the $2.00 he had left, he made his way up under the bridge and over to Shaw's at Mill Creek to buy a celebratory beer. He wasn't a drinker, but it seemed like the appropriate thing do. And for the first time in many weeks he would be able to sleep comfortably at night. He could even sleep-in in the morning.

He walked into the market and straight for the beer cooler. He wasn't used to picking out beer, but he wanted the most bang for his buck, so he went straight to the bottom shelf. Among the malt liquors he found an actual BEER; a large blue 25 oz. can, calling itself “Natty Daddy.” Eight percent alcohol, more than two servings worth! Perfect. He said to himself. He brought it to the counter and paid the $1.09 (counting tax and deposit), still enough for a muffin in the morning.

The sun was already below the horizon as he walked down the street with his paper bag. He was feeling quite happy, and couldn't help smiling the whole way to Thomas Knight Park. The air was really getting nippy. He looked back and forth, then took his well worn path to the shelter.

He opened the gnarly door and crawled inside. Permeated with satisfaction, he left the door partially open while he cooked up a pan of soup. As it began to bubble on the stove, he cracked the beer. He listened to the lapping of the waves against the rocks below, he knew he had...Found a way. He was hiding, right out in plain site.

The beer lasted all evening and he ate his soup, enjoying every gulp of cheap brew and every bite of beef stew with the general extraordinary pleasure that most people only feel once in a life time...

By about 9:00 PM, the stove had been put away, the door was closed. It was surprisingly warm; toasty even in his shelter. He turned off the small flashlight that was standing straight up beside him.

On the edge of consciousness he saw Mill Creek Park in his mind, adorned in the bright, soft leaf cover of spring. The ducks floated by and children played around the benches and in the newly cut grass. Sun poured over everything, as radiant as God's own Light... Joyfully the vision transited him into a very restful sleep.

About half way through the night he was suddenly awoken by a terrible sound. It was a woman. She was screaming, “No! No! I can't get in! God, no!!”

He heard several men shouting things back and forth. He sat up immediately. He debated whether to go outside and investigate. His natural instinct to DO something got the better of him and he rushed to put his shoes on.

Upon opening the shelter door he saw a bright golden light shifting and reflecting off the water from the bridge above. Sirens howled out far away in the distance. Immediately he knew there had been some kind of accident.

He rushed down the path and out under the bridge, running as fast as he could. Getting to the ramp that wound its way up to the bridge he could barely make out flames under the hood of a car that was smashed into his side of the road.

He ascended the ramp as if each step were propelling him through the air in ten foot intervals. It was like the flying dreams he often had, where he could just will himself into the air; like he was being lifted along. He hardly even felt his feet touch the ground.

At the top, as he stood and surveyed the scene, he realized that an east bound car had somehow flipped sideways 360 degrees over the median strip and landed back on its wheels in the westbound lane. Traffic was stopped all around.

A woman who, due to he scrapes and bruises, had apparently been thrown from car, kept trying to run to it and then stepping back. The smell of gasoline was everywhere.

Without really thinking about it, he sprinted over to the concrete barrier that separated the sidewalk from the road. The side door and where the driver's door had been were facing him, but that entire side of the minivan was pressed up against the concrete barrier.

The woman on the road was beside herself. Several drivers who had gotten out to help restrained her from going any closer. He could see that flames were now making their way across the front seat and the thick clouds of black smoke from the burning plastic of the dashboard and steering wheel choked him—even as he stood outside, whenever the breeze blew across the vehicle. For a moment he just could not grasp why the woman would want to run toward the vehicle, so he just stood there.

Then, it became tragically apparent what was going on. In the back seat, behind the only window that had not been broken sat a small child, maybe five years old, in her car seat, just looking at him. She blinked and then looked around. She wasn't crying.

The breeze was blowing the fire, first toward him, then away; toward him then a way. He removed his big coat, and held it in front of him. The breeze was simply a cycle; maybe one that could be navigated.

He measured out the cycle and then when the breeze started to blow away from him he dove through the driver's door opening with his coat held forward. He was able to snuff out the flame from between the front seats with his coat. He crawled into the back seat, and said to the girl – with fear he couldn't hide very well – “Don't worry honey, I'm gonna bring you to your mom...”

That's when the girl began to cry. He felt the heat begin to build again in the front of the car. He tried desperately to pull at the buckles and straps on the car seat, with no luck in loosening them. Then he remembered his “best friend”: the utility knife!!

He grabbed at the side of his pants – day or night it was there - and opened it with a well practiced flick from his thumb. In a single moment he sliced the two main straps and pull the child to him. He was then able to dislodge the car seat from the back seat and threw it in front in a vain attempt to slow the creeping fire.

Holding the girl to his chest he laid back on the seat with his feet facing the unbroken back window. He kicked as hard as he could, over and over, but it wouldn't break. Then he thought of the utility knife again, and its hard metal casing. He sat up, closed the blade up, and with all the force he could muster, smashed it through the large window which shattered outward into thousands of diamond-glinted pieces.

By this time the fire truck had arrived and a fireman ran up the sidewalk to the minivan. He passed the girl to the fireman who then reached in with his other arm to help him out of the back seat.

But the fire would not yield. And the gas on that side of the car ignited in a brief but powerful blast. The fireman jumped back and ran down the sidewalk away from the van, with little girl in hand.

Then came the water. The water truck was close enough to the minivan to completely soak it, foam was sprayed out from another truck on to the surrounding road. The fire was smothered quickly.

Two fireman ran over from the road side, and stuck their heads into the minivan. On the back seat was an middle aged man. It was obvious that he had been very severely burned. The utility knife was melted into the flesh of his hand. He moved slightly. And they let him know that EMT's were coming.

He just said in a calm voice, “I think it's too late.”

The fireman who had returned the little girl unharmed to her mother, then ran up with the EMT's and pulled him out of the back seat, laying him on the stretcher.

As they peeled off his clothes, rumbling along the rough tar to the ambulance, he fell in and out of consciousness.

The street lights above were turning into the most beautiful sunlight. The power poles on the side of the road were turning into soft, green leaf-covered trees. The water in the bay below was turning into a gentle pond, and the ripples turned into ducks. Fall was turning into spring, just like the in the dream he had earlier that night, the idealized and perpetual heaven of Mill Creek Park.

He heard voices. “We're definitely losing him... Stay with us buddy; stay with us, buddy. You're a hero! You saved a little girl tonight. Stick around... Come on stay with us...”

He tried to speak. The fireman who he'd passed the girl to was riding with him in the ambulance. The fireman was crying. Through sobs he said, “Please, buddy... Come on... PLEASE!! You deserve to live! What is your name? What is your first name? Come on!!”

He opened his eyes and met the fireman's gaze. “Ch...”

“What? What was that you said? What is it?? Come on man!”

He tried one more time, “Fffirst...nnname is: Chance.”

“Chance? You're name is Chance? Cool name!”

“Yes.” Then as his inner vision filled with the beautiful sunlight of a New Spring, he said, “Aaand... I... I found the way!”

[Painting of Mill Creek Park in the Springtime, by Jack Riddle]