Life Imitates Art

I was visiting a mentoring and art center for homeless teens in Portland last week when my cell phone rang. It was Gordon (not his real name), calling from Orange County. I went to grade school with Gordon, and had not had contact with him since 1980. Earlier in the day, I had received a Facebook message from a fellow schoolmate, asking whether Gordon had also contacted me saying he needed $2500 or would be evicted by 3 PM. I told the classmate no; that I was sure it was SPAM, and that he should contact Gordon to let him know.

Standing yards away from a dozen homeless teenagers, two of them in wheelchairs, I asked Gordon if that was why he was calling, to let me know, the SPAM was not from him.

"No," he said. "I actually do need $2500 or I will be evicted."

I processed this, looking at the kids who come to the center each day for two meals, to make art and to read and use the computer until 2:30, when, rain or shine, the center closes and the kids are back on the street. I was visiting because the week before, I published a novel, The Bad Mother, about homeless teens in Hollywood. The kids at the center had found out about the book, they wanted to read it and to meet me. One girl told me she'd essentially been on the streets since age five, and then followed me around like a puppy, telling me her story, not with self-pity, just the facts, which included that she is, with the assistance of the center, renting a studio apartment and attending community college classes to become a CPA.

And here was Gordon, if it was Gordon, on the phone. We attended private school together in Brooklyn; last I heard, he had a white-collar job and was living in Southern California. I told him, his request had the sound of a common scam, and how did I even know it was him? I asked him what he called me in 7th grade. He got the answer right, and even sang the little ditty he'd sing when he said it.

I asked Gordon, what was going on? How did he find himself in this place? He said something about his business having lost clients, some bad financial decisions. He said he needed money and that he needed it today or would be out on the street. I asked him about his wife and children; he said they were with him and fine. He sounded cavalier. I told him, I was not going to give him money, and that his reaching out to people he had not seen in 30 years was very suspect.

"I appreciate you saying that, Nancy, but I always thought, once a Saint Anner, always a Saint Anner," he said, referring to the name of our school. "And if it was you calling me for money, even thirty years later, I would give it to you."

I told Gordon, I had to go. I might have added, take care, or get help, but did not. I have, as have nearly all of us, been around the block with people and their addictions, to drugs, booze, gambling, lying. We have learned that throwing money at the problem does not help.

I walked back into the center, thinking how bizarre it was to get this call here. I thought about the characters in my book, without homes, often without hope. And I met E, who was playing around on an espresso machine donated to the center. He told me he was learning to be a barista; that he didn't know a lot yet about coffee but he loved it. I told him, my husband was in the coffee business.

"Really?" he said, his face becoming both bright and shy. "Do you think I could meet him?"

I told him, I would be happy to help.

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