‍ ‍1. Lion began sleeping at the church warming station in late February, the height of Ohio’s gray slush season. He was tall, rail-thin, and bearded with locs that reached his chest. He always wore the same khaki cargo pants and zipped up brown sweatshirt, hood pulled forward to conceal his bald pate.

Most of our guests asked us to stash a backpack or a trash bag of belongings during the day, but Lion was a minimalist. His only possessions were a lighter and a crumpled sandwich bag of roach weed, butt tobacco, and rolling papers, from which he crafted the neatest, nastiest spliffs.

2. Lion's girlfriend Jada was heavy-set, diabetic, and soft-spoken. He asked if I had clothes for her—Jada soiled hers nightly due to incontinence. I offered her cozy sweats and some too-big fisher stripe coveralls (a good fit with cuffed wrists and ankles) and stashed a pack of dollar store Depends under the bathroom sink for her.

One night, a volunteer walked in on Lion and Jada in the greenhouse. Everyone was embarrassed, but I was glad they had each other.

The next week, Jada said she was dizzy and nauseated; someone drove them to the hospital. I didn’t see her again. Lion returned alone a few days later, saying she moved in with her aunt.

3. Lion walked with an unsteady, tottering gait. Frostbite claimed all his toes the previous winter, so he stuffed his size ten boots with old socks. Soaking his stubby feet in hot water and epsom salts somewhat eased the phantom pain, as did cannabis. 

4. Lion came along when the warming station was shuttered and Camp Shameless was founded that March. He manned the fire barrel all spring—shuffling around the lot's perimeter to gather tinder—always ensuring there were enough seats. He slept there regularly, resting easier bundled in a camp chair than in his tent, so low to the ground.

5. Lion's court followed the sun's orbit to the shadiest spots in camp that summer, entertaining guests with weed, stories, and movie reviews. The stories often began “I had this girlfriend once, she was so sweet.” When he asked if you’d seen a particular movie, regardless of your answer, he meticulously described the plot and rated it ten out of ten. Favorites included Dumbo and Boyz n the Hood.

6. Lion was gifted black leather Doc Martens boots, size 7, by a nonprofit in early June. He treasured those boots. People asked why he wouldn’t change out of his crusty khaki cargo pants or ragged brown sweatshirt, and why he wouldn’t shower when a volunteer with a nearby apartment let folks wash up.

7. Lion was the primary scapegoat of camp bullies. Deprivation makes some people more compassionate and others more ruthless. They deflected criticism of their behavior with criticism of his, calling him "smelly" or "lazy" or "mooch.” Volunteers arguing he did what he was able were accused of coddling.

8. Lion was afraid to admit he feared falling in the bathroom. We bought him a shower chair and clean clothes in late June and with coaxing, he cleaned up.

9. Lion left in July when the volunteer with the apartment was ousted from camp, living with him until that volunteer was evicted by his landlord the next month. We invited Lion back but he wasn’t interested—too much factionalism and bad blood.

10. Lion was staying on the south side, last I heard. I saw him once a couple years ago and stopped to give him a hug and the rest of my pack of cigarettes.

Lessons From Jesus

1. Jesus wore women’s skinny jeans. Fussiness is a luxury not afforded to homeless people; besides, they flattered his figure. Long-haired, bearded, and shirtless all summer, he showed off the hatchetman forearm tattoo that marked him as Juggalo—a dedicated fan of the Insane Clown Posse.

2. Jesus was an alcoholic storyteller. He told me he rapped with ICP and was the masked figure in one of their old videos. I remain skeptical.

“I have a particular set of skills,” he’d slur, attributing this to William Neeson. I argued it was “Liam, actually,” unaware we were both correct.

For my birthday, he made me a dream catcher decorated with owl feathers. He told everyone he was Native American, including his brother. His brother asked if he knew who he was talking to.

“I believe that you believe that,” I’d say. Sometimes it was enough.

3. Jesus said he’d been to prison. His incarceration stories were believable; his improv cooking was economical. He crafted elaborate Prison Breaks—commissary casseroles traditionally served in a trash bag—using overlooked pantry items and whatever he panhandled.

The camp ate great when he returned pushing his cargo wheelchair, seat loaded with shelf-stable chicken and hot chips. He used Takis as seasoning (I still do), crushed en bag and sprinkled onto mac and cheese. Dusty cans of lima beans added texture to ramen delicacies constructed in the spare coffee pot over a fire barrel.

4. Jesus drank hand sanitizer gel transubstantiated into hooch. The camp gave him constant, concerned shit for this.

One day, he spread blankets under the walnut tree and gathered us in a semicircle. He filled a water bottle from his gel stash, a volunteer establishing its viscosity. “This is a binding agent,” he declared, producing a packet of Eno fruit salts (an antacid). Demonstrating all the showmanship of a homeless Bill Nye the Science Guy, Jesus dumped in half the powder and shook. The contents became creamy orange. Irregular pinkish clumps of glycerin formed and sank to the bottom; we oohed and aahed. He filtered all but the gummy lumps into a second bottle with a piece of unworn sock secured by rubber bands. A flavor pouch turned it fruit punch red; we clapped.

Nobody sampled his potion but we hassled him less, the magic working as intended.

5. Jesus and company were swept into a motel by city officials, resettled into the shadow of a concrete fortress that manufactured livestock feed. We slept two to a room with views of a rusty shipping container the color of American butter where management stashed 1-ply toilet paper and unwanted desk chairs. The place smelled like rubber and Red Lobster.

6. Jesus bummed a cigarette and asked if I liked his pineapple, eyebrows waggling. It was in his window, upside-down on its leaf skirt and cockeyed against the frame. His roommate Luke snorted.

“Why is it like that?” I lit a menthol.

“It means we’re swingers,” he elbowed me. “Swingers are-”

“I know what swingers are,” I said. Luke coughed.

7. Jesus tried to teach me Prison Chess, where your opponent talks shit while you’re thinking. He learned to play in lockup. I learned notation by recording our games; he was my most patient opponent. 

He drank fruity booze brewed in an Ocean Spray bottle with a condom airlock while we played next to the sidewalk trash can. He won the first three games, I won the rest.

8. Jesus slipped me an origami note before I left the motel. Outside, he drew a sun, a moon, and our initials. Inside, in careful cursive:

You,

Even if you don’t know what the answer is, you strive for what is not only right, but correct. You have faith, and I have faith in you. Never let them take the light behind your eyes.

-Jesus

9. Jesus, 40, died 18 months later. I heard he got his own apartment and hung drywall with his dad. He cut his hair and looked happy in the photos on his memorial page. 

I mourned by replaying our games and rereading his notes, learning I was terrible at Prison Chess and that “never let them take the light behind your eyes” was from a pretty good My Chemical Romance song. I listen to it sometimes.

Roses for Justin

1. Justin arrived at the church warming station after a homeless friend told him Jonah, the handyman, sometimes paid $20 to haul junk; Jonah drove them to an empty lot to clear brush.

Justin wasn’t invited back for subsequent under-the-table labor—something about power tools and not following directions.

2. Justin’s face might have sold L.L.Bean sweaters had it not been weathered by cigarettes and sun damage. The Life made his age a mystery, maybe 30 or 45. His blonde curls, cornflower eyes, and puckish smile were made more charming by absurdist self-assurance.

“Heaven is an ugly place,” he said, holding the dustpan as I swept years of debris from the Fellowship Hall’s decaying balcony. “Is it any wonder jealous angels cast me out?”

3. Justin was a founding resident of Camp Shameless, often riding shotgun in my Honda Fit for Walmart runs or St. John’s meal pickups. We’d split a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a cigarette, both declaring our intention to quit. He was great company, offering a hand and a childish frivolity that raised my stress tolerance.

4. Justin had hallmarks of schizophrenia, his poetical word salad sprinkled with the divine madness of an ancient oracle. It scared onlookers when he loudly denounced the yellow mustard on his sandwich as a pungent affront to the sanctity of cold cuts.

5. Justin was an easy target for camp bullies who nicknamed him “Chestnuts” after he overturned the fire barrel where he had been reportedly warming his. It wasn’t clear what compelled him to move the fire, but his efforts sent embers flying and coals skittering over frozen earth. From then on, the bullies barked at him when he came close to an open flame.

6. Justin talked about his Mom's land in Hocking Hills, a scenic destination on the edge of Appalachian Ohio. He wanted to move home, but was afraid of the requisite medication that "dimmed his light" and hollowed him out—lithium, perhaps.

Justin relented when a volunteer offered to ferry him the 50 miles. While packing, he bequeathed me his marigold velvet comforter with the faux-silk back; a rare bit of big box luxury he knew I coveted.

7. Justin texted after a week:

Just sitting here enduring a bit of couch. I hope all is well.

One month later, he asked to visit for a weekend. The same volunteer agreed to pick him up, bringing along two residents who they thought needed a break from camp tension.

This was a mistake; methamphetamine was as available in Justin’s small town as it was in Columbus. While the volunteer purchased a picnic lunch for four, his passengers bought meth from a man at the park.

8. Justin confessed previously to dabbling in harder drugs, but I’d never seen him on anything stronger than cannabis. He arrived at camp that evening wild-eyed, white-knuckled, and more dysregulated than ever. He gritted his teeth and chattered, making less sense than usual.

I paid a friend $60 to drive him back the next morning. Later he texted:

THANKS FOR CONSIDERATION LAST NUEVA  -JUSTIN ‘THE ONE’

9. Justin’s phone messaged me in September:

Have u heard from Justin? This is his mom

I promised to let her know if we did. Justin was spotted only once more that summer while I was off-site. The volunteer he spoke to reported he was with three strangers; they made a series of bizarre threats, then left. I texted his mom as soon as I heard. She replied:

Please tell him to call home

I want to go get him but don’t know where he is

The camp moved to the motel three days later. I never found out if Justin made it back to Hocking Hills; it’s been years now and I confess I'm afraid to ask.

10. Justin’s marigold comforter is on my bed, one size too small and increasingly tattered. Whenever a hole appears in its velvet top, I cut out and stitch down another fabric patch—blonde roses with cornflower leaves.