a room of his own

Helping Kyle move from his more-or-less agreeable cottage to a downtown residential motel was a morning cheerlessly spent. The move itself was simple—all Kyle’s belongings fit easily into the back of a minivan. It was the circumstances under which he was forced from his home that were so dispiriting.

Carrying the first of only three loads from the curb to his second-storey unit, I did my best to hide my disappointment upon entering his new place. Kyle explained that he had been there for four days, a fact I confirmed based on the number of Slurpee cups on the windowsill. The walls were pitted, punched, and marred by the hideous streaks of what appeared to be some sort of sauce or oil. The bed—a drooping, uninspired mattress cowering close to the fudge-colored shag—was squeezed into the room, leaving only a narrow catwalk around the perimeter. And even this walkway was clogged with boxes of laundry, books, dingy couch cushions, and the inner-workings of a couple walkie-talkies. Sinking onto his mattress, Kyle sat and stared.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly. “I work hard, and things keep getting worse.” Then in a burst of emotion he shouted through grit teeth, “I can’t keep doing this!”

This large complex of ramshackle rooms, referred to quaintly in painted letters above the main entrance as an Inn, features a community kitchen and a would-be progressive co-ed latrine. Walking into the latter after unloading my first armful of items, I was confronted without ceremony by an uneven bank of lackluster urinals. Beyond these was an array of creaking stalls, and set up opposite them, a row of yellowed washbasins. I tried to imagine calling this home.

Then I saw the pair of shower booths at the far end of the room. As I approached them (out of morbid curiosity, to be sure), I discovered that between them was posted a patronizing restroom code of conduct on copy paper warped by moisture. Hung with opaque vinyl curtains, the narrow showers were dank and dim and featured grout freckled by black mold. This is where Kyle will step every time he wants to clean himself.

I arrived back in his unit with my second armful of inside-out clothing and HAMM radio magazines. “I’m sorry,” he began. He looked at me with his small, close-set eyes: “You know I don’t want to ask you for anything,” and again he paused; “but I’m out of food.”

Kyle has a learning disability. He has extremely low-functioning fine motor skills that make it difficult for him to button his shirt and tie his shoes. And he began his first bout of homelessness at age 12 when he fled an abusive foster home.

In sixth grade, after being hit over the head with a bottle by the woman who was responsible for caring for him, Kyle sought refuge beneath a freeway onramp. For a while this is where he slept, and when hunger would get the best of him he would scurry back and forth across the freeway to scavenge food from behind a Safeway.

Eventually a concerned woman who saw Kyle running across the onramp picked him up and took him to Child Protective Services. For the next six years he was shuttled between various group homes, until at age 18 he was once again relegated to the streets.

Now Kyle works as a security guard. His willingness to patrol deserted buildings and quiet complexes at odd hours has kept him employed through the recession despite his lack of a high school diploma or any otherwise saleable skill. His shift has lately been from 8:00P.M. till 4:00A.M., and at 25 years old, his work schedule, his natural difficulty with socializing, and his seclusion in an inhospitable living situation render him effectively isolated from the rest of the community. It is a lonely existence, and it was taking its toll on him.

Upon hauling up the final item—a disassembled futon—we took stock of the dismal accommodations. A man with a long beard poked his head into the room without a word and in an instant was gone just as mysteriously as he had appeared. Kyle then explained to me how it had come to this.

A month ago, Kyle’s former landlord had threatened to raise his rent from $700 to $1000 per month. When Kyle protested, the landlord offered him the opportunity to render the additional $300 in labor. Kyle, not knowing his rights, agreed. He did yard work, minor repairs on the landlord’s household electronics, and even ran his errands. But the relationship soon became so abusive that Kyle could no longer take it … and so out he went. But the move was costly for him. It was only the 10^th of the month, and Kyle had already paid the entirety of that month’s rent. It took his entire paycheck to secure the residential motel, and at his wages, it will take a long time to recover from paying rent twice within ten days.

“If you can just help me with some food, I promise I will pay you back.” His mouth hung slack after he had finished speaking, his eyes red from having had only four hours of sleep between getting off work and his move. I guess I hesitated in my response, for he quickly followed with, “I won’t ever ask you for anything again. I can help you with whatever you need help with. I can volunteer at Sacred Heart. I promise.” And I felt sick.