It Could Happen
It Could Happen
It’s morning and we’re sitting at a table in a Madison hotel. The night before, we attended a 50th anniversary concert by the local rock band Spooner. Dane was especially excited because he had followed the band when he lived in Madison decades ago. Butch Vig, a Viroqua native, is the drummer. Both Vig and Spooner frontman Duke Erickson went on to found the band, Garbage.
Among the 650 people who packed the hall, Dane spotted his old roommate, Larry, within 10 minutes. I bumped into our friends Jan and Johnny soon after we entered, as well. It always delights me when surprises like that happen. Once, during a stay in Isla Mujeres, Mexico, we discovered my good friend Sally, her husband, and their daughter in the room next door!
As Dane and I savor our morning meal, I mention that if I were homeless, I’d walk into this hotel for their breakfast brunch. Dane reminds me it wouldn’t be easy because, if I were homeless, I’d stick out, not looking like the others around me.
He has a point. We also went to the Art Fair on the Square yesterday, where I noticed many homeless people. Some were sitting on pads, others were holding signs asking for spare change, and a few were taking an afternoon nap. I could only imagine how exhausting being homeless would be.
Soon we’re discussing our earlier days of hardship. Dane recounts being “voluntarily homeless” for the last few destitute months of his graduate career, slipping in at night to sleep in his basement teaching assistant's office.
For me, hardship meant a few nights of sleeping in the car, and standing in line a full day with a tired toddler to get food stamps. Dane and I both understand something that some people don’t: We are all susceptible to being homeless, even people who think Never—not me. Before we finish considering how and where to find free food when you don’t have money, we agree that any of us is only a day away from being disabled.
Dane and I have these conversations often. Walking on State Street, we pass the outdoor dining areas, and you can bet both of us are thinking about the shameful waste of food. Often there’s half a sandwich left on a plate, along with relishes. It would seem easy for a passerby to reach over and grab it, but we both know someone homeless would get in trouble for this. Why can’t there be a system to give leftover food from restaurants to people who need it? Sometimes the hungry resort to dumpster diving, but we can do better than that, can’t we?
Both of us acknowledge that Kwik Trips, with their generous free samples, are perfect for hungry people. But again, if you look homeless—and there is a look that comes with not having access to running water to clean your clothes or take a shower—would they hand you that slice of pizza to try?
We finish breakfast and head to Lake Monona. We started a tradition years ago of riding our bikes around the lake. It’s an easy, scenic ride featuring the water, the city skyline, interesting homes, magnificent gardens, and lots of flowers.
Later, after loading up our bikes, we drive to our favorite Indian restaurant for lunch. On the long, flat drive home on Highway 14, we talk about the concert, and Dane tells me stories about rooming with Larry.
When my tired head finally hits the pillow that evening, after an enthusiastic welcome home from the dogs, I start listing all my “gratitudes” from the weekend: how Dane’s face looked when he met his friend, how we both had crazy smiles plastered on our faces as we rode around the lake, how we kept saying over and over how crisp and yummy the garlic naan was.
Then, instead of drifting off, my mind plays a memory of standing in line for food stamps all those years ago. Jessica was tired, sweaty, and clingy. I was anxious, overwhelmed, and frightened.
Is it just luck that I went to bed with a full tummy today and that Jessica, three hours away, did too? Will we someday be homeless and hungry again? Will either Dane or I become disabled?
More than half a million homeless people in America would agree: It could happen.