The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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If you want to light a bonfire down at the South End Diner, bring up the subject of homelessness, no quicker way to warm up a cup of coffee without a microwave, trust me. Two mornings ago the boyz were slamming down chicken fried steaks, curly hashbrowns, four egg omelettes and something called ‘the works’, which, by god, really was. Everything from bacon to eggs to ham slices, cheese and vegetables, all slathered with white gravy. Add the toast buttered heavily and what you have is a heart attack waiting around the corner. ‘The Works’ is the favorite for my pals. Wash it down with four or five cups of java and between shovelfuls, the conversations are caloric.

Four Finger Fred was wiping gravy off his tobacco stained beard before he pushed back his chair contentedly and asked our little group of sociologists how many homeless people they knew down here on the South End. “Why you asking, Freddie?” Two Toke wanted to know, hoping maybe to head off what he knew was coming. “Because,’ Fred said, ‘the County is conducting a survey, that’s why. First they’ll run the numbers, then they’ll inflate em, next thing you know they’ll be busing drug addicts up from Seattle to our island, taxing us for free housing, probably build them a damn house.”

“There was a guy once who lived in his car south of Tyee Store,” Little Jimmy said. “Cops finally ran him off.” Fred shook his head, “He’s long gone now, Jimbo.” Two Toke set his fork down and pushed his plate back plenty agitated. “What’s it to you, Fred? Folks fall down on their luck, you what, you want to run em off the island?”

“I don’t care where they go, Tom, just so long as they go. All I’m saying is there isn’t a problem here, why go looking for an expensive solution?”

I said I had met a woman this summer who was watching the eagles’ nest with me down at the Head, nice lady standing on the bluff when I walked up. When I asked if she lived around here, she told me she didn’t live anywhere and when I asked the obvious follow-up question, she said she lived in her car, moved around place to place. Her husband had left her and taken up with her sister and when their mother died, her sister had stolen her inheritance and her husband kicked her out of their house.

“Oh right!” Fred howled. “What a story! Skeeter, you are the bleedingest bleeding heart in the world. I bet you let her stay in your yard. I bet you gave her money for a motel. God, what a sucker….”

A better man than me might have done that, I was thinking. Might have asked, at least, if she needed anything. Food, money, whatever. But mostly we just talked and I listened to her troubled stories. She had some ‘mental issues’, she said. She was working to get her share of the divorce, maybe her share of her mom’s will. Fred might’ve been right, it could have all been fiction. But … I’ve known some homeless folks down here, living in the woods, hitchhiking to town, working odd jobs for food and beer and cigarettes. Harmless folks, folks down on their luck, folks with mental issues. Fellow South Enders. That’s what I told Fred anyway, who sarcastically replied, “What am I supposed to do about it, Skeeter? Throw money at your loser friends, buy em a house, what?”

“I don’t know, Fred, but what I really want is for the rich to shut up. I want you to stop your whining, that’s all. We got it made, why begrudge the poor?” Fred, of course, just laughed. “Brenda,” he called to our waitress, “how about a refill for all of us. If they haven’t got enough for the coffee, it’s on me.” Brenda rolled her eyes before coming near us with her thermos. “Just add it to the tip, Big Spender,” she muttered. Fred, of course you know, doesn’t leave tips.

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