Wanna Ride with Deke? Just Peacefully Step Aboard

The world is upside down; those who have,
versus those of us who have something,
versus those who have nothing.

Deke's Note: Perhaps I should have written this earlier, but I have in bits and pieces over the years. Hopefully, my words haven't been overly-negative toward the homeless, but I'm afraid it's a social ill we all tend to gloss over. Surely, many of you reading have either been there or perilously close. Here, I finally pay homage to those we often look past while hoping we don't fall victim to their plight.

They ride my bus, and often they do pay their fare. Sometimes they politely beg a ride. Others just brush past me without a word; perhaps they're tired of explaining they have no money. If they're short some amount, I don't care. You drop a few coins in the fare box, I print you a ticket. I've grown to realize life is too short to squabble over pennies. Our management doesn't care, why should I? My job is to provide rides; it's management's job to give a shit whether people pay.

We're victim to some of their horrific antics: abuse, insult, injury via assault. They assail us more than "normal" passengers. Still, our office is filled with those of all socioeconomic strata, every walk of the paths humans traverse.

I too have been homeless and also close to it, in my own life. As a newlywed 20-year-old who moved to Boulder, CO just for the hell of it, I was woefully ill-prepared for life. Neither of us had a job when we arrived, but we managed to find decent ones after a disastrous stint as encyclopedia salespeople... one in which we starved while begging people to buy into our less-than-honest pitch. After a few weeks of banging on doors, we gave it up and sought "real" jobs.

The deal-basher for me was when I knocked one day to find a little girl in a black dress opening her door to me.

"Hello," the kid said.

"Hello," I replied, smiling. I've always loved kids, even when I was one myself, which at that time I pretty much was. "Is your mommy home?" This was the best play, as the ladies were often more interested in the education of their children.

"No," the little girl answered. She looked directly into my eyes. "My mommy died today."

"Oh," I managed, choking. I took a step back. "Okay... I'm so sorry honey. Peace be with you." I turned abruptly away, shocked and feeling terribly guilty. I heard the door close softly behind me. Although my own mother would live another quarter-century after this episode, at that time I dreaded it. Luckily, my parents had survived through my childhood and would continue well into my middle-age.

I sat on the curb just down the street contemplating my next move, fearful how horrendous our financial situation was. We were living out of our Datsun pickup, stubborn in our desire to live on our own. However, this gig wasn't cutting it. After two weeks on the road, I sat on the corner of some residential district in Bumfuck Nebraska. I had under 10 bucks in my pockets, my wife had even less. We hadn't made a cent on this fool's errand, not likely to any time soon.

The little girl had really shaken me. It was that moment I decided to quit. Sitting there, I heard loud rock music coming from the house across the street. It was a "what the hell" moment, and before I could knock on the door, it opened to a wild-looking but smiling young man.

"Dude!" He looked genuinely concerned as he studied my face. "I saw you sitting in front of the Jensens' house, and you looked totally freaked out! Mrs. Jensen died today in a car wreck! Sweet lady, major bummer. Come in, you look like you could use a beer!"

"Yeah," I managed. "I believe I could."

I don't remember the rest of that afternoon, except that I made it to the pre-arranged pickup just on time, or I would have been stranded there. Reeking of beer and God-knows-what-else, my wife and co-workers quizzed me.

"Almost had a sale," I lied. "But they were too buzzed to give a damn about encyclopedias. Had a good time though!"

My supervisor wasn't impressed with my , and my fellow salesmen seemed a bit jealous of my good time. When I told them what had happened, everyone quieted for quite a long while. We rode in silence a good 10 minutes or more.

Had I not quit when we arrived back in town, I'm sure they would have fired me. I refused to go out selling any more in the few little towns we preyed upon afterward. In one town, I found a park and sat there smoking cigarettes and flirting with squirrels. It was impossible for me to knock upon another door. That little girl haunted me too much.

A week later, I found a job at a printing plant and began earning a paycheck again. We still lived in our truck. My wife worked at a health club, giving us somewhere to shower. By the end of my week, a soak in the jacuzzi revitalized my young body. She worked days and I nights. She'd pick me up at 6:00 a.m. and I'd drop her off at work, shower and head up into the mountains where I slept the day away. Come evening, we'd switch roles.

It was fun, in a way. However, we felt scared and lost even though the adventure of it was initially alluring. Our meals were meager, but regular. There was a sense of freedom in the midst of fear. Neither of us had suffered the loss we now lived. It didn't last.

Even though we lacked a proper roof over us, we could have tucked tail and headed home at any time. We fought through it and found a basement to rent. We survived.

Shortly before I met my beloved (current, and final wife), I was a lost and disillusioned single father of the wonderful child my first marriage produced. I made just enough money to pay rent and bills, and food for the weeks I had my daughter. Many a time, I starved myself to make ends meet. One time, I was cited for not having auto insurance after an illegal left turn in front of The Man. (This was my last ticket... 26 years ago.) I told the judge it was either pay for insurance or not feed my daughter. He basically told me to starve... it wasn't against the law to do that. Then he levied a fine and ordered me to buy into state-sponsored extortion otherwise known as... insurance. Pay in with no expectation of an invested return. There was no option.

Today, I remember how lucky I was in comparison to many who languish in today's hellish economic reality. Many are mentally ill, without the ability to work. There is little society does for these poor folks... they get by as empty-bottle peddlers, beggars. Others are just dopers who don't care what happens to them; they have given up any hope of a "normal" life. Some just don't think the battle is worth the fight. They have enough money to survive, and live wherever they can pitch their tent for the night. Given today's lack of empathy and compassion, it's easy to understand. When a two-bedroom slum costs over half the minimum wage doled out to the working masses, where's the allure?

The vaunted American Dream is as dead as half the Beatles. The Greatest Generation sold out to the rich man's party, the Greedy Old Patricians, leaving us fighting amongst each other over the crumpet crumbs dribbling down from the richest. Trickle-down economics efficiently emaciating the masses. Hard-working, decent people are pitted against those who do the same work for a mere pittance of what it costs to simply survive. Unless a major paradigm happens to shift, we're doomed to continue this slaughter of each other in misguided self-loathing rather than rise up and say: ENOUGH! Example: mass shootings too numerous and excruciating to delve into here. Their cause? Divide and conquer, beloved readers of all beliefs. We're ferociously pit against one another, too blinded by exaggerated and falsified bullshit to see the irony of our rage.

I'm one of the few who can legally ride transit free. It's a great benefit of the job I do. My salary is enough to keep housed, fed and insured. This writing gig doesn't earn shit, but I continue out of love for my brothers and sisters. Our management surely won't give us our due in pay or respect, so I write in hopes my words simply give us a voice. Without that, what else is there? Either way, we are the collective Oliver Twist, who dared utter: "Please sir, can I have some more?"

So, when poor folk clamber into my rolling office, it matters not whether they pay. While I don't agree transit should ever be free to the masses, I cannot help but feel solidarity with those who cannot pay. If they do, am I insisting they ride in exchange for some paltry meal? Is it that important they pay, even when some poor working stiff scrapes together pocket change to honestly offer full fare? It's truly a conundrum, but I favor compassion over a rich man's faulty ideology, any day.

The rich want us to fight each other: those who have a bit versus those who have little. It keeps them in power, and us arguing over petty bullshit. Remember this when you vote. I certainly will. Even though I "work" for a living, to what ill dreams has it provided? We're living proof of what has become the American Nightmare. I'm still one paycheck from those who beg a ride. We're not much different; I'm just a tad luckier than they.

Pay when you can. If you can't, on my bus I'll understand. Been there, somewhat... done that. Welcome aboard, just humbly accept and we're good. It's the least I can do.