The sky looked like it had been crying. That didn’t seem to stop the throng of locals from paddling out past the reef until they became specs on the watery horizon, waiting patiently like sharks for a good wave. I was at Ala Moana Beach Park, wishing I had brought a sweater, feeling like the ultimate wuss for being cold in Hawaii. And feeling like the penultimate wuss for not owning a surfboard.

A husky man with a shiny dome for a head sat in deep concentration at one of the tables behind the lifeguard station. Ala Moana is a well-known bum haven in Honolulu, but all the bums I ever saw were always asleep, so I didn’t immediately realize that the man was homeless himself. He was working with a needle and thread, muttering quietly to himself in a rather content manner as I approached. The piece of cloth he was stitching appeared to be a shard of an old dress or woman’s coat – fuchsia with sequins.  The man was sewing little accessories onto the cloth with what appeared to be great purpose.

His coat was what tipped off the bum-radar. Although the muttering should have cued me in also. It was an old military jacket with several pieces of thick pink rope sewn in random spots, the collar worn with years of abuse.

I had to speak in order to get his attention, even though I was standing over him, “What are you making?” I asked.

The man looked surprised, then worried, then confused, and then emotionless again all in about a half second, “Oh I’m just working on some stuff,” he replied, returning to his piece of cloth. His accent confirmed my suspician that he was African and not American of Afrian descent. Although his voice hinted at being in the states for a long time, he still had the hearty tone of a true child of Africa.

After some prodding, the man opened up, telling me that unlike most bums (my word, not his), he liked to keep busy and work on projects during the day. He was homeless, but had a mission to sew.

“It’s good to be busy. I’m pretty good at sewing, too,” he confided.

I couldn’t determine exactly what it was he was sewing, and he seemed to either not want to tell me or to not really know himself. He did, however, tell me about his jacket, “As you can see I made some modifications to my jacket. It’s a used one from the Salvation Army, but I spruced it up with these here,” he pointed to the pink rope. “And I added some pockets, too, because they never put pockets where I want them.”

I didn’t want to bother him too long, being busy and all, but I did want to know his name before I made my way up the damp hill to my apartment. When I asked his name, his eyes got wide, and he looked around nervously.

“I… uh… uh…” he sighed a sigh that said I can’t think of a good fake name and I guess you’re probably not a threat, “My name’s Abraham.”

“My name’s Shane, and it’s great to meet you Abraham. Good luck on your work!” I waved as I turned to leave.

Abraham relaxed, looking like he’d just been acquitted from trial. Realizing that I was just some kid and not a cop or con man, he cracked what looked like the ancestor of a smile and called, “You have a good day!”

And I concluded that while the stigma exists that bums are entirely indolent, that stigma is wrong. Many bums do work, just in their own way or in the only way they know how. How can society tell them they can’t do that if they want to? Abraham looked surprisingly happy to me. Happier than a lot of rich people I know.

Share on Facebook

There were five homeless people in the park. After considering how much I wouldn’t actually mind if someone stole my bike, I chained it to a street sign and made my way toward a gentleman who was sitting at a picnic table with his gear. Judging from his wrinkled, mocha-colored skin, I figured this man had been spending his days outside for a long, long time. He was Asian, from China or Taiwan by my guess, and his clothing was the color of sun bleached dirt.

“Aloha!” I greeted him. “I’m a writer, and I’m going around Honolulu meeting interesting people. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

The man’s response revealed a mouth empty of teeth, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Ohhhhh Kaaay, I thought, proceeding to the next bum in the park.

“I’m ok,” the second man, a little less tan, with a few more teeth, croaked.

“You’re ok to talk to me? Or you’re ok and don’t want to talk to me?”

“No, I’m ok.” The man turned away.

Turns out, nobody in the park was very thrilled to talk to me. I guess Bum Park is where the angry, antisocial bums hang out. So, for The Bum Anthology this week, I have been officially:

Next week I think I will try the Ala Moana Beach Park. The bums there always seem to be having a good time.

(real picture of bums at Ala Moana)

Happily, though, when I rode by Thomas Square on my way home, James the Bum (from last week) waved hi to me.

It looked like he was almost done with his book.

Share on Facebook

The man showed me the cover of his book: The Perfect Storm. “I mean, fiction is. . . I mean a lot of fiction is really just nonfiction. This is, you know, fiction, but it’s not.” James spoke in a voice that cracked of cigarettes and one too many rainy nights on a park bench. We talked a little about books before I got around to asking him what his own story was.

James – 46 years old and homeless – and I sat in Thomas Square near downtown Honolulu. I held a notepad I had swiped from The Rio in Las Vegas and scratched notes furiously while I perched atop the short brick wall that divides the park from the street. Sitting on the bench next James was a woman of similar age with scraggly long hair. She had refused to speak to me, but James volunteered to tell me a few things about himself.

“I can’t speak for anyone else here,” James protested vigorously when I asked how many homeless slept in Thomas Square on an average night. “That wouldn’t be right.”

Besides an 18 month stint in Germany with the US Army, James told me he’d been living in Honolulu for the last 42 years, since he was four. He told me that he wasn’t eligible for veterans’ benefits or social security like some of the other guys in the park, but I couldn’t help but wonder if his service had been cut short by an injury of some sort, based on his somewhat stuttering speech and difficulty thinking of answers to my questions. Born in North Carolina, James had moved with his family to Oahu in the 60s, and he has no plans of ever leaving again.

Most days, James said, “I head over to Labor Ready to see if there’s any construction work I can take. They didn’t have anything Monday, and… tuesdaay… today I was feeling sick. They pay 45. 45 dollars. A day. And I think the economy is going to make more work at Labor Ready, because it’s cheaper to get construction from there than the contractors. So it might pick up more.”

Perhaps the most surprising thing that occurred during our interview was when I mentioned President Barack Obama. James didn’t know who that was. I explained to him that Obama had used to live with his grandparents just down the street on Beretania, and that he just became President. “Oh. I think I have heard about that,” James told me.

Our conversation was brief, and it sparked more questions for me as it went on. Where is his family? What makes him tick? What was in the shopping cart? But it was getting darker, and more bums were starting to filter in the park, signaling that it was time for me to go home. I refrained from taking a picture, due to the dark and some rather menacing bums in the vicinity who looked like they would seriously confront me if I tried to snap a photo anywhere near.

I thanked James for his time and offered to let him borrow my book by President Obama, Dreams from my Father, if I ran into him again at the park.

“Are you from Greenpeace?” James asked before I left, pointing to my shirt (a Greenspace logo t-shirt by Rackspace Hosting).

“No. I’m just writing for a blog.”

Share on Facebook

This guy was really really interesting to talk to, and he told me all about the crazy places he had been and the people he had met. He currently lives in random places on Oahu, and he sleeps in a hammock. He does odd jobs during the day, and then explores around and lives with a minimal amount of belongings. Jacob is one of about a zillion people without homes here on Oahu, and his story was fascinating.

So, I’ve decided to start a series of interviews with homeless people, which I will write about on the blog here for the next few weeks. I’m going to try to get a picture of them, too, and hopefully you find this series interesting. It won’t start for a couple of weeks, because for the next week I will be in Las Vegas for Affiliate Summit 2009, but after I get home I’m busting out the tape recorder and the digital camera so I can create:

Share on Facebook