Looking for Andrew (Journal 8)

Well, my resolution not to help Andrew didn't last very long: about 24 hours I should think.  He texted me - "are you not talking to me now?" and I managed to wait until the next day before responding, "I am talking to you, just not giving you money or running around after you."  

Otherwise, things have settled into a pattern of me trying to organise things for Andrew, such as doctor's appointments and forms to fill out, followed by him disappearing for a few days.  We're doing this less often now, as I've realised that Andrew cannot be project managed and have stepped back from that role.  I just let him do his own thing - he survived on the streets before he met me and seems to have a way of bouncing back from disappointments and disasters.

He has moved 'home' twice in the period since I last wrote and has gained and lost more possessions than I can keep track of. The stolen hospital blankets and my spare duvet are long gone, he now has a posh sleeping bag that his friend bought for him.  I am the Queen of Charity Shops and have procured cheap t-shirts and shorts, plus two baseball caps which he has managed to misplace.  It wouldn't be worth buying him anything new, as all of his clothes are adorned with cigarette burns - they're almost a decorative feature. I have to remember not to buy him synthetic fibres in case he goes up in flames.

Today I met him at the greasy spoon cafe and as he ate his quarter pounder (cheese grated, not sliced) I sat sewing my patchwork quilt and drinking a cup of tea.  He was interested in what I was making and I suggested that I could make a conceptual art project out of his clothes.  He was totally up for it, even though it would result in him walking round naked, as he only has one change of outfit: beige shorts with blue t-shirt or blue shorts with grey t-shirt.

We chatted about his friend who rents a room in a shared flat.  This mate has been homeless and now lives in one unfurnished room.  He doesn't have a bed and sleeps on the floor in his sleeping bag.  I've been in this situation, but was lucky enough have some furniture donated by friends, so I said I would look out on Freecycle for him and Andrew.  However, I struck gold before the day was over, as I found a fold up camping chair in a charity shop for two pounds. Andrew face looked like a child's on Christmas morning when I handed it to him.  I threatened to beat him up if he lost it, although I know it's inevitable.  It seems that possessions are too much of a burden for him.

I'm not sure if there's a word for my relationship with Andrew.  It's a friendship of sorts - I keep an eye out for him and try to help him, without being sucked into his lifestyle or being put upon too much.  I sometimes wonder if I'm rehearsing for when I'm made homeless myself, as I find keeping a roof over my head is becoming more of a struggle with each passing month.  I imagine there are more and more people in the same situation.  Those on the brink: Precariats.  

What I get out of it isn't what you might think at all - I don't feel smug and saintly - I just like him.  We do clash though, due to differences in attitude and personality. Andrew has no qualms about asking for things from other people and I therefore find him unbelievably demanding, but I am completely the opposite and will never ask for anything. You're the cheekiest person I've ever met, I say, and he's amazed by this.  He's so bossy that I suspect that in different circumstances he would make a good manager - he'd have no difficulty delegating.  

I have a problem with saying no to people, but I'm learning to do so with Andrew.
"Can I have an ice cream?  Just a little one, like a white chocolate Magnum?" 
- No.  

Last week we had the hottest day of the year so far and still Andrew insisted on a burger when we had lunch in the park. He craves cooked food and is always ravenously hungry.  His psychedelic blanket was spread out on the grass and he lay down on it, while I perched on a corner.  I'd brought a big bottle of water and accidentally put out three cups to drink from. "Are we expecting company?" he laughed.  It really tickled him for some reason.  I guess having a picnic in the park with a middle-aged woman is as bizarre for him, as having one with a homeless man, is for me.

He looks frighteningly gaunt nowadays and I'm worried about him.  The weight is falling off you, I said.  He just shrugged.  I teased him about growing a hipster beard, but didn't mention that the shower he claimed to have had at his mates house, hadn't made much difference.  Unsurprisingly, he is quite sensitive to me pointing out that he's dirty.  Today I confessed to him that I fantasise about scrubbing him with a scouring pad.  Fortunately he found this amusing, but then told me that he doesn't have any shower gel, a flannel or a towel.  So when he says he "had a shower", he just means that he got wet.

When our picnic was over, I said, well I'm going to love you and leave you, and he replied, "Pass my trainers." No, I'm not touching your horrible trainers.  You should go bare foot and let the air get to your ulcer.  "I can't walk with no shoes on."  You could be like The Shell Man, I suggested and he laughed.  Andrew calls The Shell Man "the richest man in the world", as he is homeless but doesn't buy his bottles of cola from Sainsbury's, but from fancy places like Carluccio's.  I think The Shell Man looks like Neptune, as he has a big bushy beard which cascades towards his rounded tummy and around his neck he wears a huge scallop shell on a string.  With his bare feet and rolled up trouser legs, he looks like he's just been for a paddle.

I'm learning that there are many different ways to be homeless.  The Shell Man has his own space in the doorway of an abandoned store.  It is recognisably his home - he has his cardboard bed, books and possessions, and various cardboard signs with strange religious or moral messages written on them.  There are other doorway sleepers who are less established; they may sleep in the same place each night, but they make no attempt to create a homely space, they leave litter, but otherwise don't put their mark on the place.  Less common in my town are tent dwellers, possibly because the council will throw their belongings away if they find their encampment. I know of one man who has been sleeping in the woods, but his tent is very well hidden - as he doesn't beg, there's no need for him to be near the town centre.  Then there are people like Andrew who bounce around from one place to another, sometimes getting lucky and sharing a mate's floor, other times making a makeshift bed wherever they can find shelter from the weather.  To them, begging is their livelihood, and so they jostle for prime location.