what he could afford to give

With his duct-taped crutch pads looking as if they had been gnawed by rodents, George explained as best he could why he sleeps on a mound of leafy soil behind an apartment complex. 

"There's something wrong with my disability p-payments. They aren't giving me the right amount of dollars, so I can't pay for my rent. The lawyers s-said it would be better if I stay homeless. It would be better for my cases. Then I'll be able to move into my own h-house. But I'll still need someone to take care of me."

Developmentally disabled, George struggles with his words. They seem to slip heavily from his tongue before being fully formed. Until six months ago he had stayed in a group home with 24-hour supervision, unable as he is of taking care of himself. But after a fall down some stairs this past January he awoke in a hospital, and for some reason, from the hospital he ended up on the street. Try as I did, I never understood how he ended up homeless. All I know is that he is getting old.

It was Sunday, and we were at church. George had at some point earlier in the year come up with the idea of taking shoelaces and knotting them to his backpack, and from there wrapping them around his crutches to ensure that the latter wouldn't disappear in the dead of night. "I need them to help me walk" he explained. He also told me that he has a blanket that he wraps around his legs to stay warm.

"Sometimes they t-tell me that I have to get out of there. By the fence. I don't bother anybody." 

"Who tells you, George?" 

"I think it's the guards. So sometimes I go and stay under the bridge, under the freeway, but it's dangerous. You c-could get hurt under there. Yeah, you could get hurt."

George had the week before given his reduced disability payment to God. He had placed the check he received--still made out to him--in the church mailbox. The church secretary had returned the check to George, but he then took it to a bank and returned with a money order and dropped it in the offering basket.

"George, how do you get your food?" I asked, seeing that he had given everything he had to live on.

"I go t-to the dollar store."

"To get food?" The dollar store had never occurred to me as a place to buy groceries. "What kind of food can you get at the dollar store?"

"I get camp food."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Like Deviled Ham and chips," he said. 

For a moment I could only stand there and look at him: powdered sugar covered the greasy stains on his jacket while his face glistened in perspiration. I pleaded with him to consider moving in doors, but he trustingly maintained that the successful resolution of his law suit depended on his destitution.

"Next week I'm going to give $40.60 to the church for the priest's retirement. I like him. He's a good man. That's how much I get on my next check, $40.60. I want him to be taken c-care of when he's old."