Writing An Interview With The Homeless.

[Charles]

Langston Hughes once wrote ?What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore and then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over, like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?? Dreams never explode, they linger and corrode--like a forgotten piece of molded bread. They?re like a friendship gone dead.

We still vaguely recognize old dreams, deriving from them fond memories that keep us warm during chilly nights, keep us afloat when the tides of life become too choppy. But, as time goes by, we call upon them less frequently. Eventually, dreams, our former best friends, become faceless passersby?s on a road called life.

Days of unattended stubble stealthily hide thin lines that sprawl across a forgotten man's hallow cheeks. Spider web wrinkles peek cautiously from the corners of his gray eyes. George Alvalle, 48, is the father of two children, Lucy, 14, and Phillip, 6. He last saw his son two years ago and never intends to see either of his children again. ?It?s better that way,? he says, ?I can?t have them, so why try? They won?t miss me, and I won?t miss them.? Alvalle doesn?t know how to be a father, because he can?t take care of himself. His life was reduced to a perpetual state of pleading and imploring as a street beggar nearly a decade ago.

?Help me out papa,? Alvalle asks gripping a crumbling Styrofoam cup in his outstretched palm. His voice carries the optimism of a child in a candy store--enthusiastic, but uncertain. Sitting on the cold November pavement, amongst ash, glass and garbage, his curly gray hair is matted and entangled. He?s invisible underneath the morning vapor. The man walks along briskly, never looking Alvalle?s way. What was visible, was isolated, not the image of a man, but of a jigsaw piece in life that refused to fit.

Alvalle, born at Flower Hospital in New York, moved to Camden at the age of six; he once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, but never learned to read or write due to mental retardation. ?That was my dream, being a lawyer?I wanted to be Perry Mason,? said Alvalle. Now, like his dreams, he?s tucked away in a dark crevice, living underneath the streets of Philadelphia in a subway that he describes as extremely dangerous, gloomy tunnels and frightened darkness stalked by drawn faces. ?It?s a hard life papa,? said Alvalle.

The clothing sheathing his back, derived from a homeless shelter, is brushed with layers of filth, yellow, brown and tan, in the vein of oiled rags. They are a lot like their owner, once new, now weathered by the tides of time, like a dilapidated ruin. Alvalle?s shoes are worn thin with age, the soles smooth, the toes tattered.

At his side, rests a petite ?Victoria?s Secret? bag given to him by a nearby vendor. Nestled within, are the remaining remnants of his possessions: a hat, ripped gloves, and a shirt. They?re his only companions--mere garbage to most, invaluable on a street corner with no heat, no safe retreat. After all, Alvalle?s dreams don?t keep him warm anymore, they don?t stop the wind from cutting through him like a crescent blade.

?My mother?s dead, my father?s dead. I?m all alone,? said Alvalle. He echoed the words, staring into bustling streets, ?That?s the truth, I?m all alone.? The turning point in his life was when his mother died. Alvalle had never been alone before. He leaned on the wrong shoulders, shoulders that became crutches. Alcohol and coke further damaged the future of a man whose limited [second grade] education had already cut him off at the knees.

?Can you spare a smoke,? he asks a stranger, who mocks him with a false Latino accent. Minutes later, Arvalle finally acquires a cigarette from a passing woman. ?Thanks my lady,? he says, exhaling a thin stream of blue smoke. The pungent odor of tobacco and filth mingle with one another. People looking down on Arvalle don?t bother him because he has grown accustomed to such treatment. It becomes a fact of life when he spends his time looking up to everyone.

Arvalle wishes that he had stayed in school, when he returns to his labyrinth dwelling at night, hearing the wails of fellow lost souls. Hunched over, his knees buried into his chest, he still manages to dream. Fleeting images of a better life, one with his children in a safe home, permeate his unsound existence of beggary. ?It?s most frustrating, when you can?t rely on yourself to put clothes on your own back and food in your mouth,? he said.

So, it is with time that Arvalle will fade away, like his own dreams or dry up like a raisin in the sun. One must wonder, if his final words will be similar to that of the crucified: Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani (My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me)?

[Sara]

[size=1]That was...very well written. And upsetting. And I have a nagging feeling that it'll stay on my mind for quite a while.
















Damn you, Charles, stories are supposed to have happy endings....[/size]

[Raiha]

[COLOr=royalblue]Who says stories have to have happy endings? Did you read Romeo and Juliet? So...your name is Charles? *snicker* Oh well, could be worse.[/COLOR]

[Charles]

Charles is a cool name. All the cool people have it. It's better than a boring male name like "Rob."

Anyway, yeah, sorry for the bad ending. But, that guy's still on the street. Hopefully, he'll dig himself out of the situation he's in someday so I can do a happy update or something.

[The Vampire: Ed]

As usual your writing is superb. The way detail everything is great, and you always manage to keep your writing interesting. Every last line is classic the way it's written, and it shows a lot of class...

Sadly your personality does not. How dare you put down such a great name as Rob. You should be ashamed of yourself!

[Raiha]

[COLOR=royalblue]He's shameless. If he wasn't, he wouldn't write stories without happy endings.[/COLOR]

[Mitch]

[color=red] Sorry I didn't check this out earlier; I've been quite busy. This is one of my favorite pieces of yours thus far.

It was so wonderfully written, it kept me enthralled the entire time. It was really quite sad, and I could just get a mental picture of what this man might look like. I loved the beginning, and how you tied it in at the end. It made it even that much more powerful.

Erm, was this for journalism?[/color]

[Roxie Faye]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Crazy White Boy [/i]
[B]Charles is a cool name. All the cool people have it. It's better than a boring male name like "Rob."

Anyway, yeah, sorry for the bad ending. But, that guy's still on the street. Hopefully, he'll dig himself out of the situation he's in someday so I can do a happy update or something. [/B][/QUOTE]

[color=#9933ff]You do know, if you wanted to have a happy ending, you could always help him. Can't you tke him back to the homeless shelter, or help him get a job or something, even if it's just at the local Dunkin' Donuts.

I suppose not, seeing as you're very busy. No time for anything compassonate.[/color]

[Mitch]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by MistressRoxie [/i]
[B][color=#9933ff]You do know, if you wanted to have a happy ending, you could always help him. Can't you tke him back to the homeless shelter, or help him get a job or something, even if it's just at the local Dunkin' Donuts.

I suppose not, seeing as you're very busy. No time for anything compassonate.[/color] [/B][/QUOTE]


[color=red] Well, as I see it, that's the way that man wants to be. If he'd want to, he'd get a job, get back the hole he's dug, and start anew.

You see, you can't help people [i]unless[/i] they want to be helped.

But, I could be wrong. Only CWB would know the true answer to that from his interview with this man.[/color]

[Charles]

I gave him ten dollars for the interview even though I give him change everyday. I thought that was [I]very[/I] compassionate, even bordering on foolish of me.

Anyway, he knows where the shelters are at and it's up to him to get a job and work. There are certain things in life that we have to do by ourselves, without relying on others to hold our hands for us.

Mitch is one-hundred percent correct. People can only help themselves when they want to be helped.

Today I learned that my article will, in fact, be printed in the school newspaper under the features section. I like to believe that I did my part in demonstrating that the homeless are people too, people with stories.

By the way, I got an A- on the paper. Not bad.

[Roxie Faye]

[color=#9933ff]I read over what I said. I apologize for my outburst, Charles. I didn't mean it like that. I get almost distraught, though, when I hear about someone like this. I agree you were very compassionate. :) Once again, I apologize.[/color]

[Sara]

[size=1]Sorry 'bout that. I've been upset. I guess I shouldn't try for that sort of humor when I'm not level-headed.

Yes, that was humor.

Actually, I like the ending. It fits. Ya, I've read Romeo and Juliet. I've read all sorts of stuff without happy endings and liked a lot of it.[/size]

[Spikey]

That made me kind of sad. It was very good. Not a lot of stuff makes me said.

If you got an A- on that paper, then you my sir, are good. It has perfect meaning, greatly written. Just amazing.

I have a couple of question. Have you seen the person since you wrote this? Did he cry when you asked him questions and stuff? I amagined he would.

[Charles]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Spikey [/i]
[B]That made me kind of sad. It was very good. Not a lot of stuff makes me said.

If you got an A- on that paper, then you my sir, are good. It has perfect meaning, greatly written. Just amazing.

I have a couple of question. Have you seen the person since you wrote this? Did he cry when you asked him questions and stuff? I amagined he would. [/B][/QUOTE]

I'm glad you liked it Spikey.

I see George almost everyday. It's quite amazing too, considering how much colder the weather has become. I figured that he would have seeked out some kind of shelter by now.

He didn't cry when I asked the questions though. I believe that he's pretty much accepted what he is. Although, when I tried to dig into the story behind his mother's death, he told me that it was too painful to talk about. Also, he was visibly upset when talking about his children...

[Spikey]

That's very sad. Can you tell him I give all my dedication to him?

[vegeta rocker]

That is so sad. I once read a rasin in the sun where that little poem was featured. Your story is a million times better.