After my several expeditions to the local Goodwill, I felt a sense of accomplishment from it all, as odd as it sounds. I don't think people should feel good about themselves when they successfully steal an entire business-like outfit from a store, but I didn't really have much to be proud of these days. Okay, well, enough with the wallowing in self-pity.

So once I got my ensemble together, I dug through a dumpster near a shopping center and found an old rusty pair of scissors to cut my hair. It was so matted by this point, that I knew even with a snazzy new suit, nothing would be able to hide the fact that I had been living outside for the past several months. Once I cut my hair, I used the water from the sink to mess it up a little and hide the unevenness of my new 'do'. I proceeded down the street feeling like a new man. I consciously held my head up high to give the illusion that I was completely sure of myself. As I walked into the cafe a couple blocks down from the dumpster I found the scissors in, I somehow felt that I could get the job if I was up front with them. I had no current address because I was, in fact, homeless. I would tell them about my struggles in the past. I would tell them just how passionate and enthused I was about having a job, even if it only promised 2 hours a week and paid minimum wage. I just needed some hope at this point. With my new plan in mind, I stopped at the counter and rang the little bell that summons a worker from the back. Almost immediately, the tall, slender woman from the park came out from the back of the store and greeted me. I lost all confidence thinking about how impossible it was for me to talk to her that day. What made me think I could do it now? She was radiant. Her dark hair was pulled back and she had flour on her hands and apron. "Forgive me," she said as she moved a piece of hair from her eyes, "I was baking more cookies when you rang, and I'm a mess." She laughed at herself and put her hand on her forehead, causing a white, powdery handprint to be left there for the rest of the afternoon. I tried to talk, but I couldn't. I just looked at the floor and mumbled, "It's okay," which I followed with a nervous laugh. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER was all I could think to myself. I thought of my mother encouraging me to do things and how much she would believe in me. "What would you like?", said the lady with striking blue eyes. "I-uh...I'm.." I paused and took a deep breath and cleared my throat. "I'm Bandy...I'm here to apply for any openings you might have." She looked at me for a moment and squinted her eyes. "Do I know you?" she asked curiously. "Yes", I answered almost too suddenly. I began to think about whether or not I should tell her I was the homeless man from the park. That was my plan as I first entered, but that's no good now. It all changed as soon as I saw her. I continued with saying "of course you do! I'm your newest employee!" I couldn't tell, at this point, whether I was trying harder to convince her or myself that I had potential, but it worked. She smiled, threw her head back in laughter, and threw me an apron. "Well, lets get started", she said as she lead me to the kitchen, "By the way, my name is Yolanda".

It was around this time in my life that I met Yolanda.

I was sleeping on a park bench one day when I awoke to a wet sensation on my face. Slightly aroused and startled, I awoke to find a large collie licking the right side of my face. I jolted up and looked around to look for an owner or any person who looked like they'd be in search of a lost dog. It was just then that a tall, slender, dark-haired woman came over to me and apologized for her dog getting loose. I barely heard a word she said because I was immediately drawn into her piercing blue eyes which were brighter than the afternoon sky. I had never seen anything like her. The beauty that she so effortlessly radiated was beyond magical. I eventually muttered something that I thought sounded like, "No big deal". My mind raced to find something I could say to keep her here, but before I knew it, she was walking away with her dog in the direction she came from.

I didn't sleep much the next two nights. I just thought of how I could possibly see that woman again. I walked around town half hoping to run into her, half hoping to find a place that was hiring and wouldn't mind handing an application to a straggly homeless man. It was kind of a horrible cycle. I had to buy clothes and clean myself up before I could go job hunting; however, I had no money to buy clothes and clean myself up since I had no job. I got turned down at virtually every place I went to.

I forgot to mention that now I'm in Denver, Colorado. So I decided that the only way to get presentable clothes was to panhandle. I picked a spot near Benedict Fountain and presented people with the following statement. "Hi, my name is Bandy and I need to be honest with you. I'm terribly down on my luck and need a few dollars to purchase clothes for a job interview. Any assistance would be greatly appreciated." I then put on the sad puppy look and locked into their eyes while squeezing out a salty tear. Within a few hours I collected $25 dollars, enough to buy a dress shirt, nice pants, shoes and a belt from Goodwill.

So with my wad of cash in pocket I started the long walk up Colfax Avenue towards Goodwill. By the time I got there, it was closed. I always find myself just missing the boat in life. I'm a terrible planner and find it difficult to think rationally when there is something I want. Having more money at that moment since working at the school, I felt the urge to spend a little. I wasn't sure what to buy until I walked past a small neon tube sign hanging outside a rotting wooden building. I entered into a smokey room with a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. I promised myself before I entered that I would only have a beer and some fries, but like my Dad, once I start drinking I can't stop. Four beers and three shots of whiskey later, I flashed back to consciousness as I was being thrown horizontally out the side door. I landed on my cheek and was knocked out for what seems like a minute. When I came to, I attempted to shut my mouth and was shocked when my teeth wouldn't line up like they were supposed to. A tremendous pain rushed to my skull. My jaw was dislocated and I was the only one that could put it back in place. At this point I was in shock. I reached in my mouth and pinched my lower molars between my my thumb and pointer finger on each side. I counted to three and pushed with all my might to set my jaw back back in alignment. I heard a loud pop as the upper jaw grinded back in place below my right ear. Opening and closing my mouth made a melody of pops, cracks, and clicking noises. I walked behind the bar dumpster and passed out in exhaustion, drunkenness, and pain.

The next day I woke up in the most excruciating pain. I couldn't even open my mouth wide enough to eat a piece of sliced bread. I set off towards the soup kitchen to get the usual midday meal. Lucky for me they were serving my favorite, lentil and onion soup. My mood improved after a meal and I took off down the street for a stroll. Along the way, I saw a strap hanging out a trashcan on the street. On closer inspection, it was an orange Jansport backpack in only slightly worn condition. I took the bag and put my arms through it. It fit perfectly. My mouth and cheeks started raising into a smile. It felt like a passerby hit me square in the face with a sledgehammer. I later read that a jaw dislocation and a broken collar bone are the two most painful injuries.

During the next week, I frequented Goodwill stealing each item one at a time, secretly stuffing them in my new backpack, inside the dressing room. I tried a few times to beg for money by the fountain, but it was hard to talk and people stayed away from me because of the wound on my cheek.

Bandy early years

To sum up my last post, my father was an alcoholic and my parents died when I was a teen. My life is far from privileged and I've been through some trying times. I am now 43 years old and I'm homeless in Salt Lake City. My reason for writing this blog is because sometimes I get a little lonely and finding someone willing to listen is difficult. When I try to talk to people, they ignore me or curse at me and call me names.

Back to my story.

I am now 19 years old and still living in the same apartment in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. My job as the assistant janitor at Cuyahoga High was going okay. It was a rather warm day for early March and I was satisfied from my lunch of pepperoni and American cheese. I was sent to fix a clogged toilet at the auditorium which is located in a separate building next to the school. This single occupancy bathroom at the back of the auditorium is rarely used except by teachers during assemblies and members of the chorus that practice during 4th period. The person that dropped off a load of this caliber, big enough to make a Roto-Rooter sputter, was probably one of male tenors.

I rolled up my sleeves and made any necessary precautions to prevent a splash back. This was a big bad monster turd and I was determined to conquer it in battle. My plunger as my lance with a firm grip and a clear mind I gave my first attempt at basic combat. I tried to remove the blockage with no luck. I pictured the Knight in the story my Mom used to tell me before bedtime. He was the greatest horseback rider in all of Spain. A bright idea flashed into my mind. I felt the need to mount my chocolate-filled porcelain steed, similar to the Indians that can ride a horse standing on the saddle. Now on top of the seat staring down at my fate and freedom, I raised the rubber ended stick over my head and brought it crashing down with all my might... this was a mistake. The plunger broke a hole in the front of the toilet along with breaking the value that brings water in to the bowl. Sewage was spraying in air akin to an indoor geyser. I desperately tried to stop the flow until I was up to my shins in dirty liquid. The stench in this small bathroom was worse than my Dad's breath. Because I broke the toilet they fired me on the spot. I never received my last pay check from Cuyahoga High. My landlord kicked me out immediately when I couldn't pay rent. Lets just say that tenant rights were basically non-existent in 1966.


Now I am homeless again and on the road because I had my fill of Ohio. My library computer time is almost up.

Here is a poem I have been working on.

Bandy kept going
One day bruises will heal,
a simple pat on my back
Can I feel
A sincere compliment
all I need
Will I freeze tonight

starting out.

My name is Bandy...I'm not sure how this whole blogging thing works, but i thought I'd give it a try as a hobby and as something to hold on to since I no longer have much, but we'll have time for that all later.

I was born in 1967 (making me 43 years of age) and life has consisted of some pretty interesting ups and downs. my Mom died when I was only 12 years of age and my father had raised me since. My mother was a beautiful woman who was full of life. She was very involved in my life and loved me very much. We would go to the park every Saturday morning and sip orange juice under a giant tree by the river. We'd catch butterflies and push each other on the tire swing. Those happy times changed when she passed due to a strange illness she acquired from working as a nurse in the town hospital. From then on, my life was doomed. My father became extremely distant. He spent his days in his recliner in the dark of our den watching family videos from when I was first born. Although before my mother's death, I don't really have any recollection of him being a big drinker, he was from then on. He always had a bottle in hand. I began to grow up fast, having to suddenly make my own lunch, walk 4 miles to school (because dad was usually just going to bed), clean up after him, wash my own clothing and cook my own meals. I never really minded doing this though because I loved him and I thought I was taking care of him. I got a job when I turned 14 because we didn't have money for food anymore. All the money was going to my father's increasingly dangerous habit.

I didn't stay at my job long because I was let go for poor attendance. I never told anyone what happened at home, so surely I couldn't go to work with bruises on my face. I would stay home until they cleared and then journey back into the world, only to become a shut in the next time my father had a mental break. He would call me names and tell me I "stole his wife away from him". He was clearly losing his mind, but I was only 14 years old. What could I have done but care for him in his most fragile state? Since I got fired, I had trouble finding another job that kept me around because of my attendance issue. I began stealing from the local stores for items key to my survival. I really had no other choice...and I never once got caught. I prided myself on my ability to be swift and stealthy. I mean, what else did I have?

Eventually, my father died of alcohol poisoning. I was 17 years old when I woke up on that rainy morning in April. I immediately went to the bathroom to tend to my wounds from the night before's beating. He threw me down the steps, and I'm pretty sure I broke my ankle from the fall, but I'll never know. I just limped around for the next few weeks and told people who asked that I had twisted it playing catch with my dad. Far from the truth, but I needed people to believe I had a normal home life. After washing my face and replacing bandages, I went downstairs to the den to check on my father. He looked exactly how he usually looked in the mornings- slumped over in his recliner, empty beer bottles and cans flooded his feet, but an unopened one was never out of arms length. I walked over to him slowly, unsure of how to wake him up. I didn't know if he'd continue his rant from the night before, or if he'd go up to bed like I would quietly suggest to him. As I approached, I smelled something awful. I'll never forget the smell, however, I'm still not sure how to explain it. I noticed he had thrown up all down the front of him. He still had wet lines running down his rugged face from when he had cried. I reached for him but stopped suddenly when I noticed that his eyes were open. I jumped back, as a shot of pain rushed through my whole leg starting from my ankle. After I gathered myself together, I cautiously walked over to my father again who hadn't moved since I came downstairs. I touched his shoulder, which was ice cold, and there he sat. Still. Motionless. Lifeless.

In a state of panic, I ran outside, and down the street to my best friend Kenny's house. I didn't even think about the throbbing pain in my ankle or the wounds on my face and arms. I collapsed on the front porch as Kenny's mother opened the door. I told her how I found my father as best as I could while catching my breath and crying uncontrollably. My head was pounding. She had her husband call the hospital and within minutes the ambulance came, presumed my father as dead, and took him to the morgue. I stood alone a few days later at my father's funeral, which was graciously paid for by Kenny's family. He was buried right next to my mother, and now they were finally together like he had wanted for the past 5 years.

Since I was 18 in a few weeks, I was only in a foster home until then. Thank God for that, because it was the worst place. I'd much rather be at home with my alcoholic, abusive father than at that foster home for one more day. I had, by this time, dropped out of high school, so after the few weeks in the foster home, I found a cruddy job that paid minimum wage. I lived with Kenny for a little bit until I got enough money saved up for an apartment. It was a real dump, but it was what I could afford. I often would lie awake at night and think about my parents. Think about why my dad hit me and accused me of taking his wife away. Think how my mother is doing and if she still watches over me. Think if they would be proud of me and what they would say about my very own apartment.

My hour in the library on this computer is up, so I'll write more later.