TASTE OF HOMELESS
I was born Francine Fabre in Biloxi, Mississippi, to Creole parents. They called me Frankie. Maybe they wanted a boy and ended up with a loud-mouthed girl. I couldn’t shut up. My parents thought it was cute at first, but when I turned five, they were ecstatic to get me out of the house and into school.
Entering school is traumatic for kids, but most settle into the routine and teacher-expected behavior by the second grade, but not me. I couldn’t sit still or be quiet. My mind was constantly full of ideas, and I couldn’t contain them. I would spew them out whenever my head got full. I continually interrupted the teachers and my classmates. My teachers were tolerant but would send me to the counselor’s office at least once daily. My parents got called every week. They scolded me into keeping my mouth shut. They used the carrot and stick approach, and I learned to cool it if the reward was good.
The school psychologist finally diagnosed me with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and started treating me with Ritalin, which helped a little. High school wasn’t much better. I was still distracted and couldn’t focus on anything in class. The teachers would send me to detention which ultimately led to getting my ass kicked out of high school despite testing with a high IQ. I couldn’t concentrate, I was impulsive, I couldn’t complete tasks, all that mental shit. My mom was able to score an endless supply of Adderal and Ritalin from an online dispensary, which helped me focus. But, soon as I got out on the street with that shit, which is speed, I started to sell it. I had the speed and could trade with my new friends for weed, heroin, cocaine, and LSD.
I was able to get into a trade school that was mostly for high school dropouts like me. I signed up for the culinary program that promised you a job in a restaurant once you got your certificate. Hey, everyone’s got to eat, and you got to eat all the shit that you cook in the classes. I fit right in. Most of the kids in the program were on drugs. I liked the cooking classes, especially when they let me cook my recipes. I got good at it! I got a fucking A in the class. That’s where I met Skylar.
Skylar and I are houseless, though we share a 27-foot travel trailer parked on the street. We first met in the cooking classes, then came together a couple of months later at a group counseling center for drug addiction. Skylar is a single mom who lost custody of her twelve-year-old son, Chris. He’s now in County social services’ care. She has supervised visitation with Chris and his counselor, Mattie, once a week. Mattie tries to help us, but Chris has anger management issues and sometimes takes it out on her. The counselor believes Chris’s father abused him and then abandoned him a year ago.
Besides my roommate, Skylar’s my street buddy. We cruise the restaurant kitchens for work and spend it on dope. Then there is my boyfriend Carl, who’s on the brink due to drugs. He’s attempted suicide twice. Carl’s addiction to opioids, meth, weed, and heroin has a tight grip on me, as he’s my enabler.
Our days revolve around survival, especially finding good meals. Despite our circumstances, we love good food. We scavenge for gourmet leftovers from rich people leaving fancy restaurants, often knowing the kitchen staff who sometimes hire us for prep work. Some even let us bring in our recipes as appetizers for the customers.
We love to eat great food. We hang out in front of popular restaurants and ask patrons leaving the restaurant for their gourmet leftovers. But rich people leaving great restaurants resist giving their leftovers to street people. They say, “It’s for our dog.”
Skylar and I know the kitchen crew at all the best restaurants. We sometimes get hired as temporary help when the restaurants are too busy to do prep work. Sometimes, we bring recipes we create to the restaurants, and the chef lets us prepare them as appetizers for customers.
(To be continued)