Being back in my home state of Maine has been a mixed blessing. It feels like home, but I literally suffer from a broken heart here. That's okay. Even Dorothy knew that when you bump your head, "there's no place like home" to recover. But, when I'm out in public - which is everyday - I certainly feel less like a prodigal son and more like an eyesore.
I have a good bed to sleep in at night. My tent is stored in suspended animation, but always ready to go (though it really should be repaired and cleaned). Being able to spend more time with my very busy sister and her kids has certainly made up for losing the adventure of the road. It isn't what I planned for, but if the side effect of a heart attack is getting to see them after two years and a summer of being away, that blessing will be counted every day that I am here.
Yet, I have had no income for a month and a half--nothing, zero. Getting back to posting regularly here at IWALLK is something I've been looking forward to, not just because I always have a lot to blab about, but because I'm hoping people will begin to follow it again and hopefully be moved to send a few bucks every now and then.
Being figuratively in mid air right now, as I jump through the hoops of the DHHS and Maine Health systems, no career plan can be established. The only thing I can confidently say about myself is that I am now fully immersed in the Second Class citizenry at the very bottom of society. The Second Class is not only filled with non-English speaking immigrants and refuges, LGBT folks, people of color, and, um, a large percentage of the female population, but also with below-poverty types, like me.
Yes, I was passing through this same level when I was working on my Journeys, except that I had a job (this blog). However, with no money at all now I'm really feeling like I am one of the people I used to examine and report on.
Like them, I can be found walking through parks--like Thomas Knight Park shown here, where other Second Class folks spend much of their time...
An abandoned cart, displaying a very direct message.
A young homeless couple catching some Z's.
I can also be found crossing the Casco Bay Bridge from South Portland to Portland at least four times a week, stepping out of the way for bicyclists. I still walk 8-10 miles a day every day. I'm always crossing something.
Even crossing the road can be a Second Class experience. Most drivers are not patient and unaware that pedestrians (even ragged backpack-wearing ones) also require a bit of attention, just like other cars do. When I'm waiting to cross the road, cars at a stop sign will often not use the blinker if no other cars are around--walkers are apparently invisible. Because I follow the rules, I assume they are going straight and I try to cross, then they turn right into my path. When this happens, their anger is directed at me of course for my inconvenient inability to read their minds. I can tell you though, that after nearly ten thousand miles of travel and dealing with the passage of hundreds of thousands of cars, that I am no shrinking violet in situations like that, and I have no problem letting the expletive-beast off its leash. No problem at all.
Anyone, even a brain surgeon making a million dollars a year, out for a refreshing jaunty little stroll around town, would face the same inconsideration from drivers. Yet, he or she might be a bit more forgiving than I, since almost being plowed over by drivers is not a daily occurrence for them. Building back up a tolerance for intolerant drivers is a separate personal project of mine. And, admittedly, it is going rather slowly...
When I went to the DHHS (Department of Health and Human Services) office a few weeks ago - home away from home for the economically-blighted of the Second Class - in order to apply for MaineCare (Maine's version of Medicaid), I had to return bottles to buy a one way bus ticket ($1.50 is 30 cans--a quantity otherwise known as a "backpack-full"). But, I still had to walk home again (six miles).
By the way, this is the procedure for applying for FreeCare--the very last resort of the Second Class for health coverage...
One must be rejected for MaineCare before one can apply for FreeCare. For me, being rejected was already a foregone conclusion, since Governor LePage, for purely ideological reasons, decided not to accept the matching federal funds from ObamaCare, which would have allowed single, childless males like myself to shelter under the MaineCare umbrella. Instead he threw about 40,000 of us away, like the trash that he though society had decided we are. Still, I had to do make this ritual trip to the DHHS office way out by the Maine Mall in order to formally and bureaucratically be recognized as a waste and therefor eligible for FreeCare. Ever wonder what it's like waiting to be seen at DHHS?
The buzzing florescent-lit reception area of the DHHS waiting room.
Upon walking in, you are told by the receptionist - every time, and no matter what hour you arrive - that there is no guarantee you will be seen that day, nor how long it will be before you are seen. So, if you are lucky enough to have a job, let your minimum wage employer know that you will need the whole day off, just in case you have to go to DHHS.
After waiting for an hour, and about ten minutes before they closed, a frazzled looking case worker called my name. I followed her back into her windowless office and together we entered the information needed for my symbolic application and rejection. She was very kind and did her best not to let the fact that she was overburdened with tasks get in the way of denying me my MaineCare benefits. We were both playing our parts in the hyper-redundant, red tape-lined performance art necessary for keeping the convoluted game in play. It is a game designed by legislators to be purposefully complex and maddening, in order to discourage the poor from using it.
When we were done, and I had been properly rejected for MaineCare, she let me know that, by coincidence, I did happen to be eligible for EBT food stamps, at $120 per month (or about $4 per day). After proudly supporting myself through my 24 hour per day, 7 day per week, 52 week year-job of work so intense it led to a heart attack, without food stamp assistance or welfare, this was my American Dream reward. I had contributed to the local economies of all the places I passed through, from sea to shining sea, since June of 2015. Now I was a food stamp recipient; derided by conservatives; pitied by liberals, shunned by the non-Second Class.
Why? Because I had a heart attack that cost as much as a house, was now imprisoned by doctor visits, and was forced to buy and choke down five pills a day--probably for the rest of my life. All typical for throw-away people who won't conform, and a perfect preparation for the enrollment in Second Class citizenship. Nevertheless, I was happy to have something which would partially put food on my dirty paper plate. As the sign at the top of this post said, "ANYTHING HELPS." Right?
Today after a walk into Portland, I returned back through Thomas Knight Park and saw that some anonymous person had left lunch bags on each bench. I opened one and discovered just how generous these folks really were...
Two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two cereal bars,
a banana, a juice box, and even a brownie!
There was a different handwritten note in every bag. I read each one... "You are worthy!"..."Believe in yourself!"..."You are special!"
I actually choked up a bit at the effort that had been made. I think this donor must have been a church, but no religion or dogma was peddled. It was simply love in action--old school, like I used to talk so much about here at the blog.
To love is to give, with no indoctrination, no strings attached and no expectation of receiving anything back. This person (or organization?) not only gave food, but encouragement.
Very honestly, I was deeply touched. With all of my jaded sarcasm and snarky criticism of "the system," I couldn't ignore the evidence before me: sometimes the Second Class is not forgotten.
When I got back into the Mill Creek Shopping Center area of South Portland, I decided to window shop at Goodwill, cash in some bottle return slips at Shaw's and buy a juice at the dollar store. That's we Second Class folks do. People with more money may choose to shop at these places (I used to). But we with no money have no choice...
I don't own any long pants. I was hoping to see some at Goodwill that would be under $5. That way I could collect and return enough bottles to get a pair, now that the colder months are coming. Unfortunately the pants were all $5 and up, and most were dress pants. This particular store used to have a good selection of jeans but not lately. I'd have to check in some other time. Maybe more clothes would arrive soon.
After, cashing in $0.75 in bottle slips at Shaw's and adding it to the $0.30 I already had, I walked to the...
I hadn't really had much to drink today and craved something cold and sweet. While checking out the drink cooler, I stroked my beard and realized just how overgrown it had become. For a moment, I considered buying a razor instead of a juice. I could see my own reflection in the cooler door and felt pretty scruffy. I really was fitting into the part. It wasn't rough camping and traveling that I could use an excuse now. I decided to grab the juice, paid for it, and enjoyed it as I walked over to Mill Creek Park to do some work online at a table there (they have a nice fast public Wi-Fi signal).
About an hour before sundown I saw a reporter and camera man awkwardly skulking around the park. They stopped by a woman who was sitting on the grass about 20 feet away from me. I heard them ask her if she would comment on the town council's meeting to vote about whether to ban e-cigarettes on all public property, particularly parks and school bus stops. She agreed, but gave a bit of a rambling opinion. It gave me time to formulate my own view on the matter. When they finished with her they came to me. I was then happy to give that view, which you can see by clicking the link below, and advancing the video to 1:24 (you'll also notice the shave I need)...
I said a lot more about how I didn't agree with legislating behavior in general. But, of course, that was all cut out.
When I was running out of laptop power, I folded it up, stowed it in the pack, and walked back over to Thomas Knight Park to watch the sun go down from a private spot I've named Site A.
I noticed that all of the lunch bags were gone except for one, which had only the two peanut butter sandwiches remaining. Rather than let the seagulls have their way, I snagged it and went to my spot to relax for a few minutes where I enjoyed my Second Class meal in the golden light of a Fore River sunset.
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