There is no getting used to the shock, the sickening mass that rises in one's throat when confronted with this 61 year-old man lying naked on the side of the city street, covered in flies and fungus. Yet there he lies each night.
Wads of soiled tissue debase his surroundings, and his wheelchair, with its one flat tire, simply adds insult to injury. At his side is the waxy cup from 7-11, the one in which he relieves himself, and next to it is a paper plate with some white rice and what looks like beef.
Spider's head rests heavily on the pavement, a stinking heap of tangled hair, dirt, and blood. Just a few inches away is a small gap in the pair of double doors to the vacant building whose doorway he calls home--and through that gap we have seen wiry, brown-haired rats pass, carrying who-knows-what manner of fleas, parasites, and disease. But there he lies each night.
Perhaps we can get used to it.
Or so I would have thought. But for more than a month now, a group of friends and colleagues has been rallying around Spider. Not content that he should be left to molder in the middle of the sidewalk, these otherwise-ordinary individuals have organized themselves to ensure that every evening a couple people pay him a visit, bringing him food, companionship, and hope. They bring bowls of soup, burritos, beans and rice, chicken--anything soft that he can manage without the use of teeth. They bring him adult diapers, batteries for his radio, new blankets, rolls of toilet paper, and whatever else he can make use of. But still, it is not enough. And they know it.
More remarkably, this group has committed to loving Spider as they love themselves. They are in the process of reminding us all just how revolutionary this now hackneyed moral precept truly is. They are working hard to secure humane housing for Spider, something befitting his human dignity. They want to make sure his medical conditions are treated. And they want to make sure he is part of a community that cares for him.
About a week ago--inspired by the devotion of this group--I thought I'd pay him a visit, myself. I approached Spider as he reclined just a few feet from the heavy traffic of a Friday night in downtown San Jose.
After some opening pleasantries, I got down to business: "How does a cheeseburger sound, Spider?"
He looked up, vaguely in my direction, and came out with this: "It sounds about half as good as two cheeseburgers."
"What?"
"My stomach is up against by backbone," he replied, and through the humor I was reminded of his very real suffering. I asked him if McDonald's would suit him, to which he responded, "That would be sufficient," using one of his most oft spoken--if not peculiar--expressions.
I made my way over to the downtown McDonald's, ordered the fare, and handed over the $2.16. And as I did, I looked at just how meagre that amount of money really was. Is that all it takes?
When I returned, I found that Spider had dozed off. I set the bag by his head, but I was worried that the rats would get it if he left it for too long. "Hey, Spider," I said softly, but he jerked awake with such violence that I leapt back. I felt horrible for waking him, but after a moment I was able to re-orient him. "I brought the cheeseburgers. They're right by your head."
A few days earlier, knowing that he was totally blind in his right eye and nearly so in his left, I had asked how he recognized me whenever I approached. "By your voice," he answered. I had hoped that he would tell me that he could still make out faces if they were up close, or that he could tell by the way I carried myself--but his vision is gone.
By now it was after 10:00PM, and I was looking to return home. I began bidding my farewell, when Spider asked if I had picked up any salt. The question caught me off guard, and I really couldn't imagine why he would want it. "Do you want to put salt on your cheeseburgers, Spider?" I asked with both amusement and disbelief.
"Um, yes," he snapped back in a tone of near perfect condescension. I looked up to the night sky, black and starless above the city's lights, and then back at Spider. "You can get it across the street at the Taqueria," he advised me in a little-boy's voice, as if my pause were simply an indication that I couldn't figure out where to get the desired substance. He followed with, "Would you mind getting me three packets?"
Three? How weird is that? That he determined it would be one-and-a-half packets per burger struck me as exceedingly curious, even for someone as curious as Spider.
I don't even think I had it in me to muster a sigh in the face of this crazy, pitiful, gentle, human being, this brother who had confided to me that he cried himself to sleep every night. So off I went, dutifully returning with the three packets.
This all took place about one week ago. Since then, two of the more courageous members of the group dedicated to looking after Spider gave him a hair cut and trimmed his beard. Another has been working feverishly on he trail of his missing money. And last week he was able to get it reinstated. The disability checks are now scheduled to start up within about one week of this posting. And with that funding comes the possibility of shelter. He is literally that close--after 28 years of almost continuous homelessness.
However, the transition from the street to stable housing is almost impossibly difficult--more strenuous on the individual than most of us could even begin to imagine. Please continue to keep Spider in your prayers. It will be not much short of a miracle to get him into humane quarters. But we are so close.
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