Reliably, when I’m talking to almost anyone and the topic of ‘downtown’ or ‘riding the bus’ comes up, their reaction is at least mild revulsion, and sometimes not so mild. “The bums are everywhere downtown,” they’ll say, and, “How can you stand to ride with the kind of people who ride the bus?”

I’m the kind of people who ride the bus, but usually I don’t bother with a reply. It’s not my responsibility to dispel every stupid myth that stupid people swallow. Hell, that would take 25 hours a day.
You think being within half a block of a homeless person will give you tuberculosis? You think you need to fear for your life riding the #7 bus?If so, you’re the same kind of idiot who worries when black people walk past, and you probably voted for Trump twice, and I want less to do with you than you want to do with the bums.Except, of course, that the people expressing such fear-laced opinions are usually my mother, my brothers, and my sister.Millions share their ill-informed opinions, though. I hear it everywhere I overhear conversations, and overhearing conversations is a hobby of mine.When I’m feeling feisty, I say this: The disdain you feel for the homeless, the helpless, the lost souls, the impoverished, and the generally icky among us is exactly what the wealthy feel when they see you — if they see you at all.♦ ♦ ♦  Riding the #132 bus one fine evening, there was a black guy sitting behind the second door, higher than the roof of the bus. He was waving his arms, babbling loudly that, “Gino, you fucked me over,” and “Why you done that to me, Gino?” He was, of course, riding the bus without Gino.That passenger is the stereotype that terrifies people like my mother, my brothers, and my sister. He’s why they’d never consider riding the bus.It might slightly help the public image of public transit if someone like the babbling man was escorted off the bus. Many people would support doing that, but not me — because where would anyone take him? And who would do the taking?In this cruel society, the only answers are jail and the police, and both those are far more frightening than a black man waving his arms and complaining about Gino.There’s no telling how many lost souls like that guy are out there, riding the buses and wandering the sidewalks and sleeping under bridges and in doorways, and America offers damned near zilch in help.The government will happily arrest that man and jail him, but it won’t help him. That’s official policy, or might as well be.♦ ♦ ♦  Waiting for the bus one morning, I noticed that someone had left a fanny-pack in the little private park by the bus stop. I only glanced at the fanny-pack from a distance. It wasn’t ratty-looking, but hell if I’m gonna walk thirty steps to find out whether anything interesting was inside.I waited until my bus came, rode to my job, had another shitty day doing meaningless work at the office, and gave the abandoned fanny-pack not another thought.The next morning, the fanny-pack was still there, at the same spot.By the third morning it was gone, either reclaimed by its owner, swiped by someone, or carried off by pterodactyls, I dunno.What I know is, I live inside city limits, but my neighborhood is so very boring and ‘suburban’ that an abandoned fanny-pack can sit undisturbed for days in a park.I need to be someplace else — someplace unsafe for abandoned fanny-packs.
♦ ♦ ♦  Downtown is where reality is, and where I ought to be, not in this very quiet, almost unreal neighborhood. More than a year here, and I’ve never heard a gunshot, or even an argument. Tires never squeal. The loudest disturbance is the neighbor’s lawn mower. The nearest cafe is half a mile away. There’s an elementary school down the street.This part of the city is astoundingly boring. It’s Twin Peaks, only without the murder and without any dark undercurrent. I gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing I ever do.First or second thing once I’m out of work, I need to start seriously looking for an apartment downtown.
♦ ♦ ♦  I’m still employed, at least until my boss answers my email, but this afternoon I applied for two jobs I’ll never get, at downtown homeless shelters. Probably made a fool of myself in the box where it asks “Why do you want to work here?” Because I’ve lived in this world and seen how it sucks, how it knocks people down, and how little and how rare is any help.I have lived around the destitute, had long conversations with some
of them, and unlike most of America I neither hate nor fear them. I’d
like to help.
Yeah, you’ll notice that I have no pertinent experience. Almost every job I’ve ever had has been sitting on my duff in an office,
but I’m looking for something I can feel better about, someplace
where I can help instead of simply plowing through data entry and
prepping reports and calling for repairs when the HVAC makes that weird
rattling sound.I can help, damn it.
Of course, they’re not going to hire me. They want someone with at least 18 months experience working with homeless populations, among many other qualifications I don’t have.But I’m trying. Jeez, I’d love a job that does somebody somewhere some sliver of good, as opposed to another job in another office doing work that helps nobody at all.6/17/2023