Down and Out on the Street
By Freddy Bosco

They never called it “homelessness” when I lived on the street. In the early 1980’s that particular bureaucratic pidgeon-hole hadn’t yet been invented. I just thought that I didn’t have any particular place to go. I therefore realized I didn’t have to worry; I could stay just about anyplace, provided it was out of doors or in a lobby.

The people in my last residence gave me a sleeping bag along with my traveling papers. I stashed the bag beneath a hedge, and it made for a comfortable transition device. That sleeping bag was okay for a while, but I can’t say it was especially clean, or healthy for long. Walking around gave me a view of Miami, then Denver, and then Manhattan that many have probably never seen.

There I was, addressee of the slogan “no shirt, no shoes, no service.” I just had more freedom than I had any idea what to do with. I frequently recalled a line from the Beatles: “Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go.” I remember having that sensation occasionally when I was outside. One afternoon I stood in a spot on the sidewalk near a medical school. I watched as people hurried to where they were going. I was puzzled that they were so busy. What was I missing? They all seemed to know where they were going. All I could do was stand there and watch. I wondered why nobody would speak to me.

Another time, on a street corner, I engaged a man in conversation. We were getting along fine until his gaze traveled down my leg to my bare feet. Point. Set. Match. End of conversation. My meals were from what I could find in trash cans. I struck it rich one day as I found the dumpster behind a pizzeria. I feasted. As for homeless cuisine, I can swear that nobody who goes to McDonald’s ever leaves anything behind.

The entire time I was homeless, I entertained a belief that I was in direct communication with God. In the absence of lithium I took when I had a home in my twenties, every event had monumental significance, although I would have been hard pressed to describe or articulate any of the meanings I derived from mundane events.

A lost plane ticket, an absence of any form of money, and a bipolar diagnosis obtained in a rebound from the hospital put me in a trespassing mode. It seemed inevitable, then, that I wound up in jail. I was not locked into a passivity that would leave me walking and walking forever, eternally grumbling and talking to myself. I broke a law, and in I went.

I loved jail. A steady bed. Regular meals. People to talk with, even if their conversations revolved around crude discussions of criminal adventures more than around my desire to discuss theology. But once the medical staff ascertained that I was a consumer of mental health services and needed medicine, and that I was one of those “forensics” who only wanted a place to stay, they let me go. I had come into focus enough to realize that what I needed most was a ticket back to the remains of the life I had been living indoors.

I got back into the loop with a million stories to tell and write about. I am left with a feeling of astonishment at those on the street who only endure day after day on the street until they die. It could have happened to me. Since resuming my indoor life, I have developed a deep gratitude for simple things, things we all take for granted. I have also been able to achieve a new career, a new life, bolstered by a greater realization that the way we do things, like medicating a grubby, filthy man just off the street with a wild look in his eye are benevolent and effective.