THE BAG LADY
Wichita, Kansas
Winter 1978
This was my first time in Wichita; it was, and still is, a beautiful city to me, with areas of cobbled streets, a lovely, clean river, and gorgeous churches. The city had more snow than I was used to when I arrived, but I was delighted, since I was traveling with friends and we had a place to stay. Until they discovered that I was sixteen years old.
The phrase is ‘harboring a runaway’. It did not matter that I was a throw-away, and not a runaway; anyone caught giving me shelter could actually be arrested and get significant jail time. So it is hard to say that I was mad at them when they kicked me out. But they kicked me out in the middle of winter.
Outside I almost froze to death a few times, and I did once end up in an emergency room for frostbite on my hands, which still bothers me when the temps get below freezing. I did as I usually do when I’m homeless and afraid, I searched out churches to sleep near. The Pastors and Priests rarely called the police if they discovered me, and often they would let me stay the night. But Wichita had an incredible homeless population then. Soup kitchens often ran out of food before the line was gone, and I was too scared to stand around for any length of time while the men looked me over. I was losing weight at an alarming rate.
Then, late one night as I was walking to keep warm, exhausted from lack of sleep and food, not familiar with this town, I stumbled behind a large Catholic hospital. It was then that I noticed the hospital’s chapel. It was located inside a side entrance, with a little foyer just before the open chapel area with about a dozen pews. In the foyer was a sweet life-sized statue of the Mother Mary, surrounded by fake plants. These plants were huge, and the entire area was full of them, covering Mary’s legs up to the knees. I stepped in the building and was met with what I wanted more than anything one thing at that moment; warmth. It felt so good, that I knew, Knew, immediately what I had to do. I climbed behind the statue and nestling under those magnificent fake plants, I wrapped my body around Mary’s feet, and I slept.
Even at sixteen I had already learned the hard way how to keep myself secret. As soon as I heard a noise, any noise, I got myself out of there, and made sure to stay out of the area until it was well past midnight. I had found a place…a wonderful place.
But I was still starving. I had to avoid all forms of authority. I knew that I was would be arrested immediately, and never released until I turned 18 and I could not let that happen. But the faster I lost weight, the more I couldn’t think straight, or walk the miles to the various soup kitchens for hope of a meal. So, finally, at one point I was doing nothing but hiding outside of my hospital in the cold dark by the big trash dumpsters, waiting for it to get dark enough to go to the Mary statue. That was when I met the Bag Lady.
I call her that, but she had a shopping cart. We just don’t have a name for a homeless woman who pushes her belongs around in a shopping cart, so I refer to her as a bag lady. Back in those days all shopping carts were metal, and especially loud outside over dirt and asphalt, but she didn’t seem to notice; she rolled up to a dumpster like it was perfectly normal and without hesitating she bent right into the large, filth covered metal trash can. Within moments she straighten again, now holding a crushed fast-food bag. This she fiddled with until she tore it opened to reveal various pieces of trash…the wrappers and discarded ketchup packages. She tossed the bunch back into the dumpster and reached in again. This time she had one of those triangle sandwich containers, ripped wide open, but with one half of one sandwich still remaining. Without pausing the woman stuffed the sandwich in her mouth – the entire thing. Munching loudly, she turned and reached in again, taking a moment as she moved things around. Swallowing, she came out this time with another fast food bag, but clearly this one had weight. She looked right at me and nodded, her face serious. Her face was always serious.
This package held half a carton of french fries and about one-quarter of a cheese burger, and I expected the Bag Lady to inhale them as she had the sandwich, but to my surprise she sat on the curb next to me and handed me the hamburger. Astounded by all I had seen, I automatically took the offering and stared as she ate the french fries.
She looked at me, then the burger frozen in my hand, and she exclaimed loudly, “Hell, are you scared?!” and ripping the food from my hand she carefully removed the chewed edge of the burger, then replaced it to my palm. “There!” she told me, “No germs!”
Only a person who has been truly starving knows how good food really tastes, I am convinced of that. That cheeseburger was the world to me. I immediately felt my strength returning, and I didn’t feel the cold winter so badly. I think the woman knew how bad off I was; she ate her fries as quickly as I ate that partial burger, and we rushed back to the dumpster, both of us, looking for more treasures. I ate more that night than I had eaten in weeks.
Still munching the woman told me “Now you know, you can come here anytime to get food. Don’t go downtown to the soup kitchens anymore. They are too dangerous.”
I asked, “Do you get your food here?”
She frowned and exclaimed “Hell no! I’m not telling anyone where I get my food, and don’t you go telling anyone where you get yours!”
I felt as wonderful as any person on earth in those moments. I had a warm place to sleep and food when I needed it. I wouldn’t die this winter after all. Then I watched as the Bag Lady went over to one of the hospital’s doors, with lots of ashtrays, and to my continuing surprise, she took a half smoked cigarette and lit it, clearing enjoying it just as much as if it were brand new. She went to hand it to me, filter first, covered in the red lipstick of the original owner. I hesitated.
“Oh hell!” she exclaimed again, and with an impatient grunt, she tore the filter from the smoking cigarette, and discarding it, she re-offered it to me saying, “The germs are gone now, ok?”
I had just started to ask, in my clueless sixteen year old way, “Do you get your cigarettes here…” when,
“Hell no! I’m not going to tell you where I get my cigarettes, and don’t you go telling anyone where you get yours!”
I nodded, and she said, more tenderly than at any moment since I had met her, yet still with no hint of smile or friendship, “Time for bed.” and with her shopping cart she rattled into the night. I never saw her again, and I looked. I wanted to thank her, I have always wanted to thank her.
She saved my life. I hope to meet her in Heaven, so that I can thank her; it is a special request of mine.

Honolulu 1985
It was impossible and it happened within seconds.
There must have been at least one hundred people waiting in line for food; the line stretched through the soup kitchen, and spilled to the sidewalk outside. My friend and I were closer to the back of the long building, so we knew we had a long wait in front of us, but it was worth the trouble for the plate of food we would eventually receive from this place, the only soup kitchen in Honolulu at the time, and more than likely our only meal of the day.
Everyone has waited in lines and the experience is pretty much the same all over, shuffling about, low talking, people moving to and fro with their food. So it was not noticeable when a local man came up to the line, right about to the middle, to speak with another local man who was waiting. But then the newly arrived man cut. He stepped right in front of his friend, and then turned around and grinned, daring anyone to defy him. He was a big man, known for drug abuse and violence, and no one had any intention of defying him. Until someone did.
It was so fast, yet, if I had painting skills I could paint every molecule of this instant as it came into being. A young white man, thin and dirty, and as quick as a lightning bolt, jumped out of the line and pulled a butter knife from his pants pocket. For a brief moment he held it at eye-level…any of us who happened to be looking in that direction, as I was, could easily see that it was a butter knife. Smooth and brightly reflecting the light, we could tell that there weren’t even any serrations on the blade. I know that many of us who saw this had just enough time to think how futile such a dull knife would be against this local Hawaiian man, twice the size of this skinny attacker, before the white man lunged forward. The simple utensil disappeared into the man’s chest, handle and all and the amount of dark red blood that suddenly exploded from the wounded man immediately told us that his heart had been hit. The red stream was so forceful as it covered the attacker and many nearby, that it seemed to be spent by the time the victim hit the hard floor. Many closer to the scene mentioned later how disturbed they were by the fact that the victim had not had time to close his eyes before he died.
I wish I could say that this was the most startling thing that had ever happened to me, and that I was frozen in place with shock, but I knew better. I knew that there was nothing I could do. I also knew that if I stayed I would be forced to go to the police department for questioning with a hundred other people, and that all the white people would be held even longer, for longer questioning, to make sure we didn’t know the murderer. So, like dozens of others, I ran. We ran in all directions, some screaming, all of us crying.
No one knew the young man – he had only just arrived from the Mainland. We never saw him again either, though the effects of his  insane actions were far-reaching. Because the killer was a Haole, a white person, and he had killed a local, there was a time of retribution, when homeless white people became especially unpopular. Locals, homeless and otherwise, would bully us, and worse. The police know about this sort of backlash, and we (white homeless people) were advised not to be seen at the soup kitchen for a while. Instead, we were fed from a van under a bridge on the outskirts of town, for about two months, a policeman always standing nearby for our protection from angry locals.
The van would come every day at 5 pm, and we were grateful, even if we did have to walk a few more miles to get it. And when we did meet under that bridge we would always talk about that day, that terrible moment. We all agreed, every single one of us, when memories of that horrible incident came into our mind we wouldn’t see the killer, or the victim, or even that insane amount of blood…we all saw that damn, impossible butter knife.

2002
I simply cannot recall what road we were on, except that we were trying to get from California to Arizona – I think. There are some experiences that are so affecting, so harsh, that time and space fade away. This was one of those experiences, though you might be surprised at how slight it may seem at first. I hurts my soul to this day.
Two friends, a lovely couple, my dog and me. Hitchhiking is all the horrible things that you think it is, but it is also a ride when you are in need. So we were nothing but grateful when a man in a pickup truck offered a lift for a good hundred miles. Since I had my dog, GG with me I sat in the bed of the truck with her. It was cold, very cold, and if you have ever ridden in a pickup truck at 70 miles an hour in the winter, you know what I mean.
I was relieved when he pulled into a Kentucky Fried Chicken place because it meant a break from the freezing wind. I was surprised at this generosity when he asked us to join him in the restaurant. We were living outside, and I’m sure that our clothing and smell reflected that, yet here he was, doing this wonderful thing. I explained that I didn’t feel right leaving my dog, she was still pretty young and we had not been separated. So they went in, and sat down and I sat in the pickup with my dog, dreaming of the wonderful meal that I felt sure they would bring me. You can imagine…we had not had hot food in months, let alone something as tasty as this.
I’m sure my tummy grumbled in delight when they finally approached the truck and the man was holding a small box, walking toward me. Just before he got close enough to hand it to me he stopped, looking at me straight in the eye. Then he fed the food to my dog, and when he handed me the box the only thing left was the biscuit.
What would you have done? We needed this ride. I ate the biscuit and cried for the rest of my life about it. I’m crying now.

Why? What was he trying to say? What was his point? I can tell you my theories: homeless people shouldn’t have dogs or women shouldn’t travel alone or…What does it matter. I had heard it all before. I got his message: in his eyes I was something less than my dog. I didn’t deserve. I needed to be punished.

PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
2002

My road-dog, GG Shepard was about six months old; she was a German Shepard mix with a sweet disposition and who was loyal to a fault. We were alone, camping outside of Prescott in a gorgeous rocky area known as the Dells. These granite rock are amazing…I still don’t understand how they were formed; boulders of all sizes, some as large as a house, scattered with evergreens and streams and all above a mile high in elevation. It was not an easy place to traverse, with all the climbing involved, but it was an excellent place to camp unnoticed.
As with any illegal campsite the secret to safety is distance; it is vital to get far enough away from civilization that you are not followed by human monsters or reported by homeowners to the police. Our campsite was perhaps a mile and a half from town. That might not sound like a lot, but when you are climbing hundreds of rocks and boulders to get there, it is plenty far enough. Another vital aspect is to get to camp while there is sufficient light to see by, and one day our luck ran out. GG and I were visiting with friends when I realized that the sun was setting. We set out immediately, but I knew that if we were to make it safely we would need to take a short cut, one that involved a much more rigorous climb. GG was okay with climbing, in fact she often scared me with her prowess, so we made our way as quickly as we could. Then we came to the crevasse.
Now, technically this was no large crevice. It was a space between the boulders perhaps three feet across which, even with my full fifty-pound back pack on, I could easily leap across. However, in between the stone megaliths was a gap with a drop of about forty feet straight down onto another collection of rocks. The jump was tricky – we were in a narrow space between two large boulders with just enough space for me and my backpack to squeeze through, and jumping to another set of boulders with a narrow ledge. But I was careful and successfully made the jump. I continued on, thinking only of the sun setting; we did not want to get caught sleeping outside without our gear. We would be ok, I was sure, but we would not be comfortable. Still, we had made excellent time so far, and there was a good chance we would make it back after all. Then I heard the faintest, smallest little whine and my heart dropped.
Sure enough, I turned around, and there she was, my six month old puppy, on the other side of the crevasse. She was crying and shaking, and she had buried her nose into her paws as though she understood exactly what I understood. We were in an emergency situation and GG was too afraid to jump. Normally I would have simply jumped back, picked her up and continued on our way (I had carried her across the Oklahoma City Interchange just a month before!), but this was different. I could not turn around on the ledge I was on which meant that I would have to jump back between those boulders with the heavy packback…one slip of any kind and the pack would pull me into the crevasse.
Watching the sun get closer and closer to the horizon I begged GG to jump, then I yelled, then I cried. She tried…she would wiggle, and turn and yelp and whine, but she just couldn’t. I think perhaps it was the sheer darkness creeping in all around; we were simply never out at nighttime and she wasn’t used to it. So, resigned, I prepared to remove my pack. It contained a fresh supply of food and water, so I sorely did not want to lose it, but there was no choice; there was nowhere to set it down except at the bottom of the dark crevasse.
I am not ashamed to say that this was one of the most terrifying moments in my life.
These backpacks are meant to carry a couple hundred pounds, and so it had a belt that goes around your waist…this belt is crucial because it keeps the weight from crushing your shoulders. I knew the moment that I released the waist belt the fifty-pound pack would pull my shoulders back, in this case back over the crevasse. I would have to ditch the pack as fast as possible, and I prayed that it would not catch on my coat, or hair, or…my mind raced with all of the things that could go wrong. Leaving GG was out of the question; little puppies and even grown dogs do not often make it alone in the wild.
Closing my eyes (I didn’t want to see the fall) I took a deep breath and fumbled for the belt buckle that would release the backpack; then I heard the thump and there she was. GG had made the leap! To this day I believe that she knew…she understood how much it meant for her to make that jump.
Night did fall, but we made it back to camp, though it took GG’s nose and wonderful sense of smell to get us through the darkness for the last few yards. I praised her loudly the entire time.

My sweet girl lived ten years for me. ❤️🐾

FATHER RUBY
Honolulu, Hawaii
1985

In my seven years living homeless on the island of Oahu, this was the only church that I knew of that offered coffee and donuts before its service. The Episcopal diocese church. Another anomaly was that the service was held early, 8am each Sunday, which is much earlier than most churches. It was held at a magnificent stone cathedral with ceilings so high and walls so thick that it reminded me of a castle, only in miniature. The beautiful cathedral was surrounded by lovely statues flanking great metal doors that opened wide to greet the parishioners. But that was not where the service with the coffee and donuts was held; that was not where Father Ruby preached. He gave his sermon in a small wing of the complex, off to the far right. It was no less beautiful than the rest of the cathedral, and it was surrounded by trees, and one statue, of Mary. Also, this service was Episcopalian.
Raised protestant, I still don’t know the difference between Catholic and Episcopalian. But I didn’t go to that church to learn, and neither did the majority of the people who showed up at this place, so early in the morning. If you were to drive by at 7:45 you would see a line of people, clearly homeless by their dirty appearance (staying clean while living outside is impossible). You might even notice that it is almost always the same people, because it is not everyday that someone gives you donuts and coffee for free, and you don’t forget a thing like that. Now, I will admit, most of the people who came for this wonderfulness did not stay for the service, though they were always lovingly invited to do so. But I did. I stayed for Father Ruby.
I am not sure where he was from; his accent was very thick, maybe Spain, maybe Portugal. He was small, and soft-spoken and he smiled all the time. He was the one who provided the coffee and donuts and had secured this unused wing of the church for us. It was him who agreed to hold the service two hours before the main church, not just so that the congregation would not have to see homeless people, but also so that we could have some dignity within our own group.The homeless know that they are being judged when people look at them. Father Ruby knew who he was working with.
Here is an example of a sermon he often gave:

“Jesus had no home. Once he left his family he never had a home again. He knew what it was like to have the ground for his bed, and he knew what it was like to own no food. I have always had a bed to sleep in, every day of my life, and I have always owned food that I could eat at any time I wish. I am here to tell you now, you are more like Jesus than I am.” And another of his sermons, aimed at the addicts:
“When you go into the world today and you want to drink the beer, buy only the one beer, not the whole six-pack. And when you want to smoke the pakalolo (marijuana), buy the one joint, not the whole bag. And when you sleep, be sure you are safe first.” I won’t lie, those donuts were often the high light of my week, but honestly, sitting for an hour in that gorgeous building that was created for the love of God, and hearing Father Ruby talk to us…to us…was amazing.
Father Ruby knew us well, and while I never converted, I loved him for knowing us.

I think the above is the article?

The Riot
Roswell, New Mexico
1981

Job Corps is a government controlled residential trade school for people between the ages of 17-21. It was begun by President John Kennedy and put into law in 1964. Designed for disadvantaged youth, it provides a stable place to learn a trade while going to school and getting a diploma. Roswell Job Corps held 500 people when I was there and the campuses, or “centers” can get even bigger.
The reasons a youth might end up at Job Corps are numerous, some involving drug addiction, or mental illness, while many were placed by a court Judge in lieu of jail time. These latter corps member were under a level of stress the others of us never knew, because if they messed up at the Center, they knew they would have to complete their prison sentence. As for the rest of us, we would simply be expelled and left to our own devices.
My friend, Dana, was one of those who had been ordered by the courts to complete his courses in Job Corps or he would be forced to complete his sentence in prison. He had been addicted to heroin, but had kicked it. He was kind and thoughtful and one of my best friends. We had both been accepted to some college classes, which meant that we were allowed to live in the college dorms. This was a huge; instead of four beds per room there were only two, and there was no “lights out” rule. We could leave the lights on all night if we wanted to. Sure, we still had curfew, and couldn’t leave the Center without permission, but that didn’t damper our enthusiasm. And enthusiasm is what Dana and I had. We both enjoyed learning and getting our GEDs and looked forward to the future. I even spent a holiday with his family. Then a young woman showed up, a new member of the Center. I cannot remember her name at all…weird. I think it started with an M so I will call her M.
College dorms were segregated; men and women could not go to each other’s dorms, so I was surprised to hear that Dana was seeing this young women in his room. She lived the Center’s dorms and both could be expelled for this violation. They had known each other back in Las Cruces, before coming to Job Corps, and were restarting their past relationship. I didn’t like Dana breaking the rules like that, but I chalked it up to love and gave him some space.
It didn’t take long to realize that Dana was doing drugs again. A person can hide alcohol use, cocaine even, but no one can hide heroine use. The change in personality, look and even the walk changes almost right away. His girlfriend was always nearby, so when I learned that he had dropped a college course, and was in danger of losing his dorm status, I confronted her outside, between two buildings. A few people witness this. We immediately began by throwing insults but then she took off her belt, a chain-drive belt made from the chain of a motorcycle, which was popular then. I was a very physical person back in those days and I wanted to pounce on her like a mama bear protecting a cub, and I stepped forward, ready to tackle her. Yes, I knew I would be hit by that belt, but then I would grab it and I would have a chain to hit her with. This was not my first rodeo, as they say. But to my surprise, someone from behind but a belt in my hand. It was the leather variety, but it was enough to stop her from charging at me. But just then (thank you, God) we heard that adults were on the way, and we scattered. Job Corps had a no tolerance policy on violence…it didn’t matter who started it, anyone involved in throwing blows would be immediately expelled. I didn’t know what to do so I walked away. Later, I got notes to Dana, and he wrote notes back, insisting that all was good and not to worry, so I backed off. Then I heard that Dana was being expelled. When people are expelled from Job Corps they usually leave that day. I never saw Dana again.
When I heard the news I cried with anger; I actually think my tears were hot. Dana was so sweet, so intelligent…so not meant for prison! He had been my best friend, and I couldn’t help, wrongly or rightly, to put all of my anger and frustration on that woman who had brought heroine back into his life.
I had gotten the news on my way to breakfast; it had so upset me that I had stood outside of the cafeteria building, crowded with corps members on their way to eat and I literally screamed that I was going to beat up that woman for doing this to Dana. Too upset to eat, I went back to my dorm room and fumed some more. By the time lunch came I was hungry enough to be forced from my room, but I was still furious, and hoping to see her.
I sat with a few friends and then M came in and to the surprise of everyone in the room, she was flanked by two adults, Residential Advisors. They got their trays and sat across the room, facing me. My friends urged me to remain calm, but then that woman, Dana’s downfall, smirked at me, narrowing her eyes and smiling wickedly. I snapped. I stood up so quickly that I flipped by tray, full of food, onto my friends lap. I might have tried to reach her then, jumping over the tables and all, but the adults gave me a stare that was as good as a brick wall. I stormed out.
There was one path to and from the cafeteria building, and a parking lot behind the building for staff. I sat next to the walking path and insisted that I was going to wait for that girl and then I was going to kick her ass. I just kept muttering loudly, “She’s mine. Don’t touch her. She’s mine. Back off.” over and over again. Dana was expelled, probably headed back to prison and again addicted to heroin, I had lost a good friend, and this bitch was being treated like royalty. I just could not let her get away with this injustice. All of my attention was on the door of that building; I didn’t notice what was going on behind me.
My friends came out and sat with me, try to calm me down, but it was no use. I couldn’t calm down. I alternated between crying for Dana and yelling for the monster who had destroyed him. I wasn’t sure how much time passed…
Suddenly, from behind, a student yelled, “They’re taking her out the back!” I looked at the parking lot and sure enough, surrounded by adults, the woman I wanted was being led into a car. I jumped up to run in that direction, but my attention was diverted by movement from my left. To my amazement I was being tackled by a police officer. As I hit the ground and rolled I could see a mob of people and police running around, hundreds of them! Students were screaming, trying to get away, fleeing into all directions, while cops only had to reach out to grab someone, and throw them to the ground. As I was put in the back of a squad car I got a better look at the scene behind me. This area had trees and the police had snuck up on us, like Ninja, and were in place when the adults took the target of my wrath to the parking lot. There were not only City police, but County and State officers as well.
They cops knew that I was at the center of this disturbance, so they whisked me away and my two friends to the County Jail right away. I insisted, without stop, that my friends were innocent, what a travesty of justice this was…on and on. We were booked, and fingerprinted, and was told by the female guard to stop talking. So I started muttering, but careful to mutter loud enough to be heard. We were taken through one locked door into a hallway which ended in another locked door, and there were the stripe on the floor where you stay on one side, and the guards stay on the other side. Once in this hallway the guard locked the door behind us and then unlocked the one in front of us. My two friends went through, and I was about to when the guard suddenly crossed the line and stood in my way. She moved so quickly that I actually bumped into her, and being taller than me I had to look up to see her at this close angle. She was looking at me with eyes so dark that I stumbled back. She growled one sentence, “Get off your high-horse, now!”
I was in jail longer than I needed to be because Job Corps, our legal representative, does not tolerate cursing, and it took me two days to calm down enough not to curse. Then I found out that I was charged with Inciting a Riot and Public Array. I explained to the judge that I had no intention of inciting a riot, but he didn’t care. At one point he told me that I was “kicked out of Roswell for the rest of your life” and I laughed, which made him mad. He asked why I laughed and I told him that in our country to can’t kick someone out of a town for life and he said, “But I can keep you.” That shut me up.
Of course I was being expelled, and that saddened me, but I learned something that I was not expecting, that made me smile. The Center was in an uproar over my arrest and the way the police were called on us. The students showed their displeasure in the best way they knew…graffitti and most of it was against M. She was in the same jail house, but for her protection. She would be transferred immediately.

This incident made the local papers, but I bet they never new that it wasn’t a riot, or public array, but one angry young woman who was mourning the loss of a good friend to drugs.

The Roof
Honolulu, Hawaii 1984

At this time was there only one place on the island of Oahu that was expressly for the care of homeless people, the Institute for Human Services. While IHS was written on their door, we homeless knew them as the Peanut Butter Ministry, because often that was all that they had to offer. But I can tell you from experience, they were the best peanut butter sandwiches on this entire Earth.
They had a two-story building in Chinatown, on the edge of Honolulu, where they fed people twice a day, once in the morning and again in the evening. After the last meal they would put the tables and chairs on one side of the main room and allow people to sleep on the floor for the night. While they only had room for elderly and families inside of the building, anyone who wished it could sleep on the top of this building.
About fifty people could fit on this flat roof, and it was first come, first serve, though there were a couple of cardboard structures that clearly showed that some people claimed real estate up here. It was almost dark and my friend and I found a clear space and actually feel asleep pretty fast.
This was Mike, a platonic friend who I traveled with, starting back in Texas. We both had experienced sexual abuse and felt scarred by it and we found comfort, as well as safety, in pretending to married. We had walked miles and slept in mosquito filled jungles for days and so we were grateful for this space. We fell asleep well fed and hopeful for a fresh day in paradise.
Then, it must have been after midnight, we woke to the sounds of arguing. The people who grow up in Hawaii have a very colorful way of talking, and being new to the State, we did not understand right away just how serious the conversation was. We tried to go back to sleep.
Then we woke to yelling; clearly the argument was escalating. Now we could tell that the man who was yelling the loudest was called Kila. We had seen him before, true blood Hawaii and immensely large; he could have been a sumo wrestler. I never did know who he was yelling at, but it was clear that Kila blamed him for something. They were both obviously drunk, repeating words and cussing more than talking. Otherwise, no one else was stirring.
We considered leaving, maybe finding somewhere more quiet, but we were in what was probably the roughest part of Honolulu, in the middle of the night. Worse, we were that terrible combination of United States Caucasian and freshly arrived. We turned over and tried to go back to sleep. To our surprise, the argument seemed to slow down, and then, gratefully, end altogether. We fell asleep.
We were not the only people on the roof that night who jumped up, straight onto their feet, at the same moment. It was about ten seconds after we heard the man beg for his life and then hit the cement sidewalk below as Kila threw him off the ledge.
I never knew what happened to the man; the building was only two stories, but he had hit so hard, and he did not make another sound. I never saw him again, though Kila was around as usual. Moving in the dark, at least a dozen of us said nothing but quietly grabbed our belongings and left the building, some of us banding together on the nearest pier to wait for daylight, none of us able to sleep now. It was during this time that I learned a little more about Kila, and how he was alternately drug addled or in prison. And also that Kila was the Hawaiian pronunciation of the word, Killer.
Never again did I attempt to sleep at this shelter, but instead went back to the jungles and those mosquitoes.