I took a bus ride into downtown the other day that brought me face to face with how close one can get to sleeping on the streets of a major city. I will describe that experience in a moment.
The first leg of my trip had auspicious beginnings; I took the express bus (number 522) to downtown with no problem. I enjoy riding the buses; I like to interact with people, and study their faces. It is a strange thought that it is unlikely that I will see any of these people again in my lifetime. They are living their lives that are as real as mine, but they seem like phantoms until I make eye contact and initiate conversations. And I often do.
I wasn't dressed appropriately to walk ten blocks up to Capital Hill. I don't recommend walking up hills in leather sandals, especially when the temperature is hovering around freezing. I arrived at the Northwest Film Forum office on 12th Street ten minutes late. Twenty mostly twenty-something year olds were listening to Marty Oppenheimer, of Oppenheimer Cine Rentals, explain the workings of two 35mm motion picture camera's and a super-16 film camera. To buy the 35mm camera's would set you back anywhere from $100,000 to $250,000. The super-16 only cost $15,000. Making films is not an inexpensive proposition. You can ruin your credit rating with one unsuccessful film, not to mention it might lead to your getting divorced and being pursued by your financial backers, and the I.R.S. Which is to say emphatically: filmmakers are the either the bravest people in the world, or the most foolish, or both.
Oppenheimer is in the business of renting film camera's to people who are not afraid of risking everything. He knows the ins and outs of every model, and he and his assistant showed how each was loaded. The eager young filmmakers gathered around him as he removed the film magazines, loaded them, and filmed us. The images were dark and this was due to the fact that it was rather dark in the small theater, plus our breathes were probably fogging the lens, because we were packed like sardines.
While I was at this demonstration I met two people. One was a Cambodian-American man who was planning to shoot three documentaries in town. The other was a young man who grew up in Cambodia, France, and yet was born in Pittsburgh. After the presentation the three of us went to lunch at Phnom Penh, a Cambodian restaurant in the Asian part of downtown. The owner, Sam, had just released a book about his experiences during the Khmer Rouge years. A poster advertising the book was displayed on the front window of the restaurant.
Over lunch we talked, or mostly I should say we listened to this Cambodian-American, "Bobby" talk with intensity about the Khmer Rouge genocide and the injustice of the United States not to educate and provide for the refugees who flooded into America from Cambodia due to those horrible years that happened over thirty years ago. He said it was America's fault that a fair percentage of these Cambodian refugees ended up homeless, and incarcerated for criminal behavior. Bobby promised the young Frenchman, Timothy, who grew up in Phnom Penh and was leaving for Cambodia in two days, that he would show him how to run a camera, and that while Timothy was in Phnom Penh, he should: A.) Recruit attractive Cambodian actresses to be in Bobby's films. B.) Find impressionist art, (he would wire Timothy the money for the art). C.) Get back as soon as possible so they could begin filming in Seattle. Uh-huh.
I was the odd man out, and I was also the only one with any experience to speak of in making films, and creating art, and writing scripts. None of this mattered to Bobby.
After lunch Bobby dropped me off in downtown. I had an inkling that our film alliance, our triad, would go nowhere, despite Bobby's assurances that we would all be working together very soon. I suspected Bobby was a drug dealer, as he avoided answering my direct question about how he'd made his money, and his mentioning that pot should be legalized. I didn't doubt Bobby had some money, but I figured it smelled like pot. I have had dealings with typical Hollywood film people, who make all sorts of promises and don't fulfill any of them. After L.A. you get a sixth sense about things like this. It is like the old joke that goes, "Hello," he lied. Clearly, if a film was made, it would be Bobby's vision that led the way, not mine, and I wasn't sure I wanted any part of it. No, I was sure I wouldn't be.
The gray sky showed a rim of lavender. I was in downtown Seattle, and it was closing in on 4PM; it would be dark in an hour. I had the sudden insight that my bank had not attached the right pin number to my new bank card, but my naturally optimistic side pushed that dark thought to the back of my mind, because I didn't have one dollar in my wallet.
I arrived at my bank at 4:15 and discovered that the bank had closed early, so I stepped inside the glassed in ATM area and tried my card. It said I had a zero balance in my account. I tried three different pin numbers to no avail. That was when the panic crept in. I knew I had money, but there was no way I could get to it, and the sun was setting, and the vampires would soon be waking up. I always had a fear of vampires and darkness, and it was not looking good for me. I rubbed my neck, dreading the bite I felt was coming.
I went to to four stores to see if I could get cash back on purchases. The clerks were in no mood for my explanation; they had heard it a million times from other indigents.
As I walked block after block, wondering what I could do about my situation, I walked amongst throngs of seemingly successful, well coifed people doing their holiday shopping. I passed scores of homeless people begging on street corners, often with glassy eyes that showed they had lost their hope, or displayed their intoxication. I thought of myself and how close I was to sleeping on the street, and I said a prayer for help. I am a person who has empathy for people, and recalled my friend mentioning that when a person is homeless they become invisible. They cease to exist in the eyes of most of the world. But I knew if I used my brain I could find a way out of the situation. Or so I thought.
At a Walgreen's I phoned my brother for a ride. I didn't want to do that because it was an eighty-mile round trip for him. I phoned while a manager was considering my story. I was trying to get cash back on a purchase of a bottle of Fiji brand water. Then the man did something unexpected that I wish everyone in America would do more often: he opened his wallet and handed me three dollars. "Gosh," he said, "I'm sorry you've had a hard time of it today. Will this be enough to get you home?" he asked.
I felt a wave of tension sliding off me. "Yes," I replied, "Thank you!"
The Cambodian-American, "Bobby" was wrong about America. Americans have faults, yes, plenty of them - but one thing the United States has done more than any other nation: they have always given money to help people. And it works on a big scale, and it filters down to the little people who work ordinary jobs in American cities who give money to people in need - like me - this past weekend.
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