Good Rich People(14)

DEMI



I wrangled an appointment at helping hands by pretending I was writing an article about their charity. I sit on a good chair across from a woman with a row of toys with bloated heads, still in their boxes on a shelf behind her, and I can tell she doesn’t get it. She is helping people she doesn’t believe exist.

“For a lot of people, it’s a lifestyle,” she informs me. “That’s one of the problems we face. Habitual drug users, alcoholics, hippies. Especially in California. People look at it as a way of life.”

“So, you’re saying they don’t want help?” Her office is big and bright, but there are two framed pictures on the floor unhung, as if she is afraid to get too comfortable here.

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t ask for it.”

I would not be surprised. I’d tried to get an appointment here myself, but moving through their website was like playing a video game with a looping glitch, every click leading you back to where you started. Only when I pretended to be a journalist, when I made it clear I didn’t need anything—in fact, I wanted to give them press—did they message me back.

“How do people get appointments here?”

“Mostly through referrals.”

“Who refers them?”

This stumps her. She runs her nails through the hair above her ear, making a glamorous scratching sound. I don’t think she expected specifics. She seems unhappy that I am asking questions at all. During an interview.

“And you house people?” I press on. “You have housed people?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“We connect people to our shelter network.”

“Shelters? But that’s not housing. Have you put anyone in a house?”

“A shelter is better than sleeping on the street.”

“But if you stay in a shelter, you lose everything you have.” I know I should leave it. My voice sounds sticky with self-righteousness. “They only let you bring a backpack. And you’re not guaranteed a stay beyond the night you’re there. The next day, there might not be room for you.” People don’t understand the time it takes, the effort, the mental strain, just to find a place to sleep. It’s the hardest job in the world, not having a job.

Her chair whines as she leans back. “Who are you writing this for? What’s the angle? Because I would like to talk about helping people. I thought we had an understanding that this would be a positive look at the homelessness crisis.”

I am triggered, but I have to swallow it. I have to swallow it because I need her to like me. I need her to help me. But if I had to define one of the biggest barriers I have encountered, all the times I have needed help, it’s this idea that I am being negative. That by being me, by being a person who has lived through and dealt with terrible things, I am “negative,” the rain on everybody’s parade.

This isn’t about me, I tell myself. Except it is.

“I’m sorry.” I bristle at the words. I’m so sick of being sorry. “I’m just trying to establish the specifics, exactly how you’re helping.”

She purses her lips. She is about to ask me to leave. It’s late, and she already moved this appointment twice.

Be likable, I order myself, but I don’t like myself. How can I? I have been taught all my life to hate people in need. “I like your toys.” I nod at the ballooned cartoon heads. “Do you collect them?”

“Oh, yes! I have over three hundred at home. I keep a rotating crew here. Keeps me busy.” She frowns suddenly, like I have tricked her into revealing something she didn’t want to reveal. She sits forward and I feel myself move back, hoping she won’t look too closely. Afraid of what might happen if she really sees me. “Are you implying that we’re not helping? That we’d be better off just doing nothing?”

Her expression drops. Her eyes drift down to my dirty sneakers, then up to my jeans with their naturally occurring holes in the knees, all the way up to my unwashed hair. Her nose pinches, as if sensing the six blasts of perfume I sprayed on in CVS with my eyes shut, like no one would see me if I couldn’t see them. Then her nostrils flare like she can smell the dirt, the urine, the sweat and the sunburned skin I can’t afford to clean away completely, that smell that people sense by instinct, that they avoid like death.

Human beings are animals and nature instructs them: Stay away from the poor and the struggling. They will drain your resources. They will bring you down. They’ll be first, and you’ll be next.

“No! Of course not!” My voice cracks. “I’m so impressed by what you’re doing.” What exactly are they doing? “I wish there were more people like you.” Virtue signaling by directing people to a false resolution that looks good on paper or confirms what all rich people secretly believe: They don’t want help. I’m not helping, because they don’t want it. When the number one question every person who suffers from homelessness asks is this: Where do you want me to go?

I have seen three people die in the past three years, in totally preventable ways. And every time I thought, This is the answer to that question.

Where do you want me to go? I want you not to exist.

“Aww, you’re so sweet to say that!” She beams, presses her hand against her cheek like I’ve blown her a kiss.