Benjamin Carter

Eloquent Stranger


The foyer of the Doubletree was just another victim of December’s uncompassionate cold. But his smile, a lonely ember, needed no fanning to ignite the room in a blaze of warmth.

A lobby of weary travelers looked upon the man with eyes of disparagement. He was different than them. He held himself tall and proud, further elevating his already imposing, but yet undaunting, figure. His skin was dark, like the night that enveloped the city, contrasted by streetlights of graying hair. Round glasses rested upon his nose, gentle eyes peering through. He was graced with a somewhat scholarly disposition, a quality unbefitting of his oversized coat and densely bulked throws.

In a single glance, the stranger was studied with lidless eyes, judged, stripped down to his core, and re-clothed in false presumptions.

An introduction, unneeded, validated onlookers’ suspicions. The man was homeless.

Hotel goers shifted in their seats.

Patience dwindled in the room as this evening’s particularly edgy gathering of young men and women desired nothing more than free HBO, viewed from the comfort of sheets tucked too tight.

A painfully slow speaker, the stranger only added to the room’s distress, dragging his words along in a display that consumed all liveliness. A flawless word choice, however, was a lucid reflection of a brilliant intellect that undoubtedly lay beneath a blanket of long pauses and irrelevant tangents.

Nevertheless, an exhausted crowd was quick to be lulled to sleep, and the outsider’s intriguing genius did not present exception. Minds quickly began to stray from the fraying leashes that bound them within the confines of the room. The alert minority, however, was grasped by their silk collars and pulled to the edge of their seats, at the mercy of words that resonated throughout their subconscious and awakened unfamiliar emotions.

“I was born in Maryland, and grew up outside of the city, living with my parents in a great yellow house in an archetypal suburban town; each family had three cars and twice as many TVs. Throughout my school years, I never failed to make my parents proud, maintaining a position on the honor roll. As my interests progressed over time, I became a steady contributor to my high school’s newspaper and literary magazine. My writing ventures quickly matured into aspirations of a career in journalism. The University of Maryland was vying for my application and paving my way to their pristine program with scholarships.

Imprudent decisions in junior year, however, put ambitions on hold. Nine months later, I was working the Capitol Diner’s booths, not the Washington Post’s political. No regrets.

The end of my sweetheart’s pregnancy regrettably marked the end of our relationship as well. By the time she was released from St. Elizabeth’s, I too, had to depart for home. Wherever that may be.

Putting food on the table was quite an undertaking in itself; paying the rent for my new quarters, on the other hand, was impossible. Three part time jobs provided just enough cash to squeak by on, but financial breathing room was an unaffordable luxury.

Independent living turned into routine, the quality of which was by no means luxurious; however, there is something to be said for moderate living. Every Sunday I would browse the Post’s classifieds, in which resided a host of listings. But, even so, finding a suitable job with my limited resume presented itself as a hopeless task. My skills in onion ring preparation and chicken strip crisping afforded little merit from those in the high-rises. But in face of obstinate employers, my stubborn pride gleamed with smugness for my artisanship in the craft of deep-frying, a rare commodity in the Metro-D.C. area. I would catch a break soon enough.

A break, unfortunately, was nowhere in my immediate future, as America’s healthcare issues, once just an argument that raged on the TV before my idle eyes, transcribed itself into reality as heart difficulties were made evident.

After a slew of appointments, and a countless number of referrals, I couldn’t even begin to make a dent in medical debts, let alone pay rent or afford meals. And just like that, I was sleeping on a park bench and eating out of dumpsters – out of place, out of luck, but thankfully, not out of faith; after all, the Lord watches over his creations with merciful eyes and gentle hands.”

Back in the hotel’s harsh realities of 2004, the crowd hugged themselves for warmth, with mouths agape and countenances softened. The clock has ticked the years away, and the man is still waiting for the Lord’s gentle hand to bring him back home. This stranger at the front of the room is simply that – a stranger. He is just a face, no different than thousands of other faces that crowd themselves onto a list that will surely redeem all of whom are accepted and give them a new life. Public housing is a rare commodity though. It lacks funding, public support, but most importantly, it lacks attention from the immutable who sit in their glass cabinets up on top of Capitol Hill.

To those without one, a home is so much more than an escape from the cruel elements of city streets. Outweighing all previously unattainable physical necessities that a home would satisfy is a burning desire that is felt by all who have lowered themselves to their peers, swallowing their pride in return for the dull splendor of spare change. A home is a passport back into society from a previous life spent in the bowels of the street where, in the eyes of the passerby, those without residence are second-class citizens and second-rate people.

Day after day, the stranger, cradled in the arms of the indigo night, waits for a herald to bear news of an opening on the list. There he sits, at 15th Street and Hayes. His undiminished spirit warms soup in the kitchens and cots in the shelters. His faith shines perpetually and unconditionally. He lingers there, under the dim, yellow glow of the sodium lamps. He waits.

The man’s name is David Harris, and he is a poet. Eloquent stranger, I will carry your words with me forever.

“Blue House (Wisconsin and Chesapeake)”

On a hill above my city
sits a small blue house;
through my years of winter,
I’d walk past now & then,
oblivious to what could be found within.

Friends and strangers
would find me shivering on park benches;
some would weep for me; others
walked by, oblivious
to what could be found within me;
I was just a character in a scene,
a daily urban play
held in a globe of snow.

One friend spoke to me
and pointed to the blue house, saying
“Within, a clear cool spring,
leads to a river flowing

home.”

Home was a foreign place to me, but still,
I walked to the blue house,
and opened the door, hand in hand
with the ghost
of three years winter.

There, I met
the brunette and tiny
would-be
manager of my life;

we fenced and sparred throughout our morning hours,
she pleading, “Please come

home.”

Yet I couldn’t let go of winter,
held in flat clear vodka bottles;
in the evenings of those mornings,
I’d sip my life away
to the song of frigid breezes.

A day came
when I stopped
struggling against the current
of that river
flowing home;
my foe became my partner
as we built a bridge for home
with paper and patience,

and hope came in weekly envelopes, all addressed to me.

Today,
I sit among my own four walls
and gaze out my window at autumn trees
whose colors no longer signal
months of chills.

The river flowing home
reaches the sea on this day,
its source, one mile north
in the warm room of a blue house.

When I go there now, I see
ghosts of my three-year winter
sipping coffee, munching sandwiches, and I hope

each one finds the river
flowing homeward.

-David Harris


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Copyright © 2002-2006 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose © 2002-2006 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. Contents photo from LHS Yearbook Staff. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.