Fences and Scents

Of the 675,000 people who make up the population of Kansas City, Missouri, most have homes; they have an address.  But some don’t.  Data from 2011 suggest that about 3500 Kansas Citians are classified as homeless.  Through the efforts of organizations like reStart, Inc., City Union Mission, and the Salvation Army, 350,000 to 400,000 bed nights are available to Kansas City’s homeless men, women and children.  Simple arithmetic confirms that nearly a million person nights are left to be spent on the streets each year. 

Our address was Fountain View on the Plaza.  The complex of 500 apartments sat between Oak and Main streets just north of Brush Creek.  The Spanish style buildings were constructed inside a six foot high, wrought iron fence where access is restricted by a digital entry code.   Only a short walk west lay the posh Country Club Plaza, an iconograph of Kansas City.  One hundred and twenty-six steps from the west pedestrian gate is the north end of the bridge over Brush Creek that connects Main Street to Brookside Boulevard. 

Looking left of that spot, I saw flattened cardboard and a frayed plastic tarp woven into a shelter for sleeping.  In that sideways V-shaped crevice where the bridge starts its span lived a homeless man.

Second floor apartment life meant that Eva, our black Labradoodle, and I would be taking lots of walks together.  We both enjoyed getting outside the apartment compound.  Through the east gate and across Oak Street lay Theis Park.  Its grounds sloped up to Cleaver Boulevard and looked like an extension of the front lawn of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  It’s a green expanse punctuated by bronze sculptures and giant shuttle cocks.  Iron park benches dotted the meandering walkways that traced paths through the trees.  On early morning walks, Eva and I would see men starting to rouse from a night on a bench that was tucked in the darkest corners of the park.   Those homeless guys weren’t hassled but weren't part of the casual community of walkers or players in the park. 

On our walks, friendly faces abounded among people and their dogs.  Whether they lay on a blanket sipping the sunshine or walking along our paths, we would offer the standard greeting.  I’d nod, smile and perhaps say, “good day.”  Eva would circle the other dog so they could exchange the scents of their nether regions.

Even when the breeze spits chilly slivers, the greetings between strangers are warm – just as warm outside the fence as inside.  No greeting met the stranger who appeared to be a person without an address.  When a homeless man was near the path, walkers would follow a jug handle detour and turn their eyes away.  I did it too. 

On one early fall afternoon, Eva and I set out for Theis Park but it was jammed with rows of tents and hundreds of people.  Reversing course, we walked beside Brush Creek west toward the Plaza.  As we crossed under Main Street Bridge I noticed a man sitting high on the grassy bank.  Unshaven, with disheveled hair and tattered clothes, the man appeared homeless.  It was time to try a different path.  I climbed up the bank and sat on a small outcropping of rock.  Eva’s circle was the length of her leash plus the margin she could gain by coaxing me to extend my arm or lean toward the scent she pursued.  The man was close enough to be inside her circle.  I nodded to him.   He may have returned the nod but didn’t speak.

After sniffing most of her circle, Eva chose a spot close to the man.  All of us stared down toward Brush Creek as though three souls were hypnotized by the rippling stream. He nodded toward some cardboard flotsam bobbing on the far side of the creek.  “That started in Westport.” 

I was surprised to hear him speak.  His fact struck me as impossible to know but there was no doubt, no conjecture in his voice.  Wanting to connect I asked, “How can you tell?”

“It probably started next to the dumpster behind the Foundry.  Those same boxes, cut open and folded back in the same way always overflow the dumpster.”  Then after a pause, “You hear that storm last night?” he asked as he patted Eva’s head.

A little confused, I replied, “Sure, I heard it.”  Lightning had lanced the ground as torrents of rain and exploding thunder rattled the windows and rafters of the sturdiest structures.  Everyone had to have heard it.

“Probably caught the storm sewer overflow and rode all the way down Broadway, past the tennis courts and jumped the curb just on the other side of that bridge.”  Sounding like a professor expounding a hypothesis, the man nodded toward the Main Street Bridge.  It seemed likely and logical but who was this guy?  Why not ask?

Years of angst about homeless people took over and I slipped into small talk, “You come here often?”

He responded, “Every day,” then resumed his stoic stillness staring at the creek.  Conversation ceased.  Spending every day and night with the rippling creek and rustling leaves might have taught him a language that values silence and is known to those who live apart from people but who, perhaps, are not alone.   

I wanted to ask if the spot under Main Street bridge was his.  Had he sat in that crevice as last night’s lightning creased the blackened sky and the overflowing water jumped the curb and cut a rill carrying trash into Brush Creek?  Why was he homeless?  What’s your name?  Hundreds of questions I should have asked but reticence, mine and his, won out.

After some minutes of silence, I stood to go.  The man softly said, “Here, Eva.”  She sidled toward him.  When she sat, this time she looked into his eyes.  “Good girl,” he whispered.  He scratched behind her ears, under her collar.  Their eyes remained locked as if portals for thoughts.   He gave the top of her head a final tousle.  She leaned in close and licked the stubble on his chin.  I saw a smile before his head tilted down.

Eva and I finished our walk and found we were back at our favorite grassy knoll.  We both glanced at the flattened cardboard wedged under Main Street Bridge.  The plastic tarp and some remnants of clothing were rolled together as neat as a freshly made bed.  Eva sat for a moment, looked up at me and then stared toward the creek.  After a minute of stillness she lifted her nose to the air.  I believe she was searching for the scent of a friend.

                                                                                                              --td