No Home for the Holidays

December 13, 2000

Ike goes wherever his size 9 1/2 sneakers take him.

Sometimes he heads for the hills. Fort Hill. Pleasant Hill. College Hill.

Other times, he wanders down by the river. Or gives his regards to Broadway.

"I'm always thinking about where I'm going to go next," Ike said. "I just don't know where I'm going to spend the night."

Nights are the toughest when you're homeless. That's when the cold jumps on you like white on rice. The nicotine and caffeine at your fingertips can't warm the chill, calm the fear or cure the loneliness.

"You get scared," he said. "You don't really sleep. You cat-nap. You have one eye closed and one eye open."

His name is Isaiah, like the prophet, but most folks just call him Ike. He is not a prophet. He doesn't always know where his next meal will come from or where he will rest his head for the night.

For 15 years, he has had no address. He has slept on front porches and in back alleys. He has sought refuge inside shelters at the Macon Rescue Mission and Salvation Army.

A friend or relative may take him in for a few days before he is back on the streets again. He once slept in a box. He has holed up in empty shotgun houses and crawled inside abandoned storefronts.

"See that broken window up there?" he said, pointing to the second floor of a ghost lounge on Third Street. "I've been up there in the dark. You may think you're the only one there, but you can hear other people moving around you."

Although Ike is 46 years old, the time lines on his face are worn. He has been unable to soften life's hard edges.

He was raised by his grandmother in rural Jones County. They buried her on his 14th birthday, and he went back to his mother. He never knew his daddy.

They moved to Macon. He quit school. Either he found the streets or the streets found him. Ike has been in and out of institutions and clinics for depression and alcoholism. He has been in jail for fighting, drinking and disorderly conduct.

The scrabbled details of his life make him shiver like a dip in the mercury. He has lost his share of jobs. "When you don't show up for work, you will find yourself out of a job," he said.

He once lived with a woman. They were not married. He still wears a wedding band on his left hand, but don't let that fool you. He was walking the streets and stepped on it. He has no idea whom it belongs to or where it came from -- just that it fits.

Sometimes, the police stop and ask him about the sack he is carrying, even if it is only some warm clothes from the Loaves and Fishes Ministry downtown.

People have thrown things out of car windows and hit him. Others yell obscenities. He doesn't know why. He carries a knife for protection.

"I'm not bothering anybody. I know people are tired of seeing me on the streets," he said. "I'm tired of seeing them, too."

Ike has been asked many times what it is like to be homeless. He said it is nothing like the description given by a man once interviewed on local TV, who was homeless by choice.

"He called himself a pioneer, like Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett," said Ike.

Although he carries a small watch in his pocket, he has no schedule to keep. His only upcoming social engagement is to attend the annual Christmas Party for the Homeless at Christ Church.

The season sometimes makes Ike sad. The downtown streets he walks at night are decorated with lights.

He has no Christmas tree waiting at home.

"Are there miracles?" he asked. "I don't know. I ain't ever had one. I haven't given up."

(From the book, "Smack Dab in Dog Crossing,'' by Ed Grisamore. Reprinted with permission from The Macon Telegraph.)