derek

Derek texts me as I’m on my way to pick him up at Walmart that he’s out front with his shopping cart and could use a hand. I text him back a thumbs up and a smile. Of course. All the world is out in front of Walmart with a shopping cart and could use a hand.

When I arrive, I see a slim man with blond hair and a beard wearing faded denim jeans and a fleece-lined denim jacket over a hoodie. He leans on a shopping cart looking at his phone, then up toward the parking lot. I pull up in front of the cart, put on my hazards and hop out of the car, coming around to him. 

“Derek? I’m Santiago.”

“Hello.”

“Can I help you with that stuff?”

“Yes, thank you.” Derek is polite and seems to be measuring his words.

I load a new tent, a sleeping bag, and a cookstove into the back of my CRV, along with a battered backpack and a couple of plastic bags with some canned food. I’m already imagining the conversation I can have with Derek, obviously a person who enjoys camping like myself. I’m eager to learn his plans, get tips about good spots in the area, and share some of my road trip stories. We’re supposed to get some snow tonight, but maybe he’s got a weekend trip planned and is just gearing up.

Once he’s in the car, he thanks me for coming to pick him up and again for loading his things. I find his eyes in the rearview mirror and hold them momentarily. His blonde hair and beard are dirty and tangled, and his eyes are red and drawn. He is probably not over 30, but I assumed he was in his late 40s.

“Of course! No problem. Thank you for asking for the ride and for being so polite. So, how’s your day going today, Derek?”

“Not good, honestly. It’s terrible. But I’m hoping it’s about to get better. It really can’t get any worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Looks like you’re getting ready to get out of town for some camping, though, huh? Maybe that’ll help. It always seems to help me.”

“No. I picked that up because of the snow forecast tonight.” I do not catch the implications of what he has just said. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d been crashing at this house for the past couple of weeks, but the friend whose place it was just got evicted, so I got no place to go again. We’re just going back to that place to pick up a cart and a few other things.”

“Oh man, Derek. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“No, no. It’s okay. Why would you?” I ask him where he thinks he’ll stay. He explains that there are some dense woods on the edge of a nearby urban park. He likes the spot because, especially at this time of year, nobody comes in there, plus the tree cover keeps the ground from getting too cold and damp. He adds that he wanted a little extra shelter and warmth with the heavy snow forecast for this evening. He’d been collecting cans and panhandling for a few days to augment his meager savings to where he could afford it.

Shame surges at my sheltered ignorance, my bloated privilege. My delight in the outdoors suddenly seems an obscene luxury; my solo camping adventure, so spiritually transformative in my memory, becomes a gaudy Rolex. The shame washes through me, then drains away, replaced quickly by an anxious urge to provide some sort of practical solution or, failing that, a nugget of spiritual wisdom. I come up with nothing. I blink away the tears flooding my eyes. 

“Still…” is all I can say before trailing off.

Derek continues, generously filling my awkward silence with his story. He explains that he’s been on and off the streets for about eight years since turning 21. He doesn’t like the shelters because of the drugs and the threat of violence. I wonder if that has something to do with the limp I noticed. But I don’t ask. It’s hard to keep the story straight. It’s not that Derek is not clear or articulate. It’s that the adversity that has hit him is so manifold and varied that it overwhelms my cognitive capacities. Somewhere in there is a violent father, a once-ailing and now-dead mother, a wealthy sister, a debilitating illness (explaining the limp): the fabric of a torn life, further shredded by any number of fruitless, not to say traumatic encounters with agents of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

“God, Derek. That’s just so much. I can’t even quite process it. But I’m so very sorry. I wish there were something I could do for you.”

“Thank you. It’s a lot. That’s for sure. I appreciate the ride.”

“Of course, that goes without saying. But man, how are you so calm? You don’t sound bitter at all.”

“How would that help me?”

“Right, of course. You’re right. But still, I’ve had some very well-off people in this car who don’t let that keep them from bitter complaints.”

“Well, maybe that helps them. I don’t know. I just know I’ve learned that it doesn’t help me. It helps me to be as positive as I can.”

“I admire that. It’s a humbling perspective. Thank you.” 

“Sure, man. Of course.”

Just before we turn down his dead-end street, I say to him that I don’t mean to offend him, but only to try to help in some way, but would it be helpful if I gave him some cash? I mention that I also have some bottled water and power bars.

“Yeah! All that would be great if it’s no trouble.”

“No, not at all. Of course, no trouble. I wish I could do more.”

 We pull up to the house, and before he gets out, I look in my wallet and take out what cash I have: $5. Then we both get out. I go around to the back of the car and pop the hatch. Derek asks me if I mind waiting a second while he gets his cart and loads it up. I tell him whatever he needs. He goes up to the porch and assembles a collapsible roller cart, which some people use for neighborhood errands. He also grabs a cane. He has more things on the porch, so I go up the steps and ask if I can help bring them down. 

“That would help. Thank you.” I move the small collection of totes and trash bags down to the car, where he waits with his cart and cane. I give him the $5 and reach into the back for the power bars and some bottled water. He begins loading his cart, but with the tent, sleeping bag, and other things from Walmart, it’s not working, despite his obvious experience with this endeavor. 

“I’m not using these bungee cords. Would they help? You’re welcome to them.”

“I think they would, yes. Thank you.”

“No problem. Take whatever you need.” The bungee cords do help. With them, he can get everything situated either in or strapped to his backpack or in or strapped to his little cart. I close the hatch.

We stand there looking at each other. I don’t know how he feels, but I feel awkward. This cannot be how this ends. 

“Can I take you somewhere else? I mean, for free?”

“No, no. I’m okay. Really. I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Of course. I wonder if my earnest concern and desire to help has somehow burdened him further, if only with an obligation to make me feel less ashamed and impotent.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I appreciate the ride and the help. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” I say. “I hear you.” I shake his hand. Then I dash to the back seat, fish out my little driver’s business card, and press it into his hand. “Please take this. If you need a ride, please just text or call me.”

“Okay. I will. Thanks, Santiago.” I shake his hand again and move to the driver’s side door. This is so hard. I don’t know how to do this. Derek does, though. He turns and starts pushing his cart, limping, back down the dead-end street.

I get in the car and end the ride on the app. I hit “pause ride requests.” I watch in the mirror as Derek turns the corner. Then I put the car in gear, use a driveway to turn around and start heading to the intersection. I look both ways. Derek is limping down the sidewalk to my left, wrangling his wobbling, overloaded cart across the cracked and uneven pavement.

It’s early in the day, but I swipe up on the phone screen and press the red rectangle that shows the words “Go Offline.”

The app then displays a little box with a stylized icon of a graph, a jagged line with an arrow shooting up from the lower left to the upper right and beyond the boundary of the graph. Growth! Uncontainable opportunity!

Below the icon, this question is posed: “Are you sure you want to go offline? Demand in your area is high right now.” Below that question are two rectangles. The white one says, “Go back online.” The black one says, “Stay offline.”

Before I can decide, a pop-up notification appears: “You just received a $5 tip!”

Derek. 

What is this world?

I press the black rectangle.  

---