OUTSIDE IN TAMPA

            AJ isn't with us any more. On a cold December Saturday night, a space heater in the utility shed where he lived started a fire. AJ burned to death. If his death made newspapers, his friends on the street didn't see it. No one paid for an obit. Instead, fellow homeless comrades lit candles and spilled beer at an impromptu memorial site.

            Kristin Taylor of T.H.O.R.N Ministries had fed AJ for eight years. A homeless man with a distinctive face and eyes, and a tall, attractive blond woman on a mission - they knew each other, and she shed tears for AJ. He wasn't the first homeless friend to die and bring her to tears. He won't be the last either. 

            The homeless who knew AJ called him "the reader." He read two or three books a week. Despite being in his fifties, he didn't need glasses. He read because he said he had nothing else to do. He told someone he was in the military then worked for the CIA in special ops. He regretted what he had done but was afraid they had a hit on him. Paranoia or truth, we will never know.

            Kristin told me AJ was a tunnel rat in Nam. Since I was a tunnel rat too, I asked his last name. We do not know AJ's last name, just his face. And that he is no longer homeless, but dead.      

                                                Feeding the Homeless

            On November 28, a Sunday a few days before AJ burned to death, I met photographer Jim Stem near Bracato's Sandwhich Shop near I-4 and Columbus Avenue in Tampa.

            A crowd gathered in a nearby vacant lot. A few men came in old, dented cars, others on rusting bicycles. Most came walking in worn tennis shoes or boots. They traveled busy streets and intersections. They hoped for their single meal of the day. While waiting for food, some squatted in small clusters and talked quietly, while others snoozed on the grass.

            "I need help to quit the alcohol," Bill said to photographer Jim Stem. "Can you help me?" Jim and I fumbled for answers, suggesting  contacting Metropolitan ministries.

            Several days unshaven, Bill's heavy clothes kept him warm on nights becoming increasing cold. Later in the food line, Bill staggered so much he almost dropped his day's one meal. "If I can just quit the alcohol, I can be a good man again," he said.

            A red truck arrived driven by Roy, a volunteer for T.H.O.R.N Ministries. It was the first of several vehicles coming, including a drink trailer and food trailer called "the chuck wagon."

            In Roy's truck bed were containers filled with gravy, potatoes and turkey. I tried lifting the gravy container of perhaps 100 pounds.

            Roy had spent three days preparing the food in his truck bed. A tall military man, gruff outside but warm within, Roy talked about the new chuck wagon, brought into existence with a grant from money the state obtained from a lawsuit against a vitamin company. There has been apparently no other government assistance; in fact for a while there was government resistance. Kristin, mother of 13, was almost arrested for feeding the hungry.

            A friendly man named Eric greeted Jim Stem then shook my hand. Eric, who is probably twenty something, lives by a lake in a tent. "My rent is five dollars a month for the candles," he said smiling. Eric wore a cap turned backwards and had a thin beard. There was a brightness in his eyes indicating obvious intelligence. "I bathe in the lake," he said. There were two alligators there, said by Eric to be 13 and 10 feet long. "I live alone. I don't want no partner." The last man he partnered with had stabbed him in the shoulder. "These people," he said of the T.H.O.R.N Ministries, "do good work. Without them, the people here would have nothing to eat."

            Men like Eric and Bill have stories. So do the gaunt couples who were in line for food. They will tell you their history if you respect them and are interested. They may not tell you the whole truth, though. Some are independent people, tired of society; they say they feel good about the way they live. Others are addicted to drugs or alcohol; their hands shake from ravaged bodies when they hold out their plate for food. Others are broken by crippling disease or incapacitating mental illness. There are ex-cons, who have skipped parole, and men and women who left families. Ten percent are veterans. All have this in common. They have gone outside. The world to them is divided into those inside and out. Most want back in, but the climb up from bottom looks pretty steep.

                                    Suburban Kids Meet the Homeless      

            The T.H.O.R.N Ministries drink truck arrived, manned by Kristin's husband David and some of their thirteen children, nine adopted former foster children.

            Wearing shades and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, David began serving sodas, water and coffee to a gathering line.

            Then came the chuck wagon, a trailer equipped with a stove, battery power,  compartments of utensils and more food. In the chuck wagon was Anita, called "German mom" by the men. Anita has volunteered for several years. Other volunteers include active and retired military from MacDill Air Force Base. Trucks and cars came, driven by volunteers, who unloaded food, clothing and small sacks of toilet articles. Serving tables were set down in line.

            Kids arrived from Tarpon Springs' St. Ignatius and took places behind the serving tables. Kristin said she didn't know they were coming. Volunteers just seem to show up as needed weekend to weekend. The kids were uniformly all-American middle-class kids. Their clothes were cool. They looked to be between 14 and 16 years old, very bright and serious, with very little horseplay.

            The vacant lot in front of Brocato's was the first of three Sunday feeding locations. It was there that I met Frank, a Vietnam veteran.

            "I live in a small camp with Earl," Frank explained. "Do you know Earl?" I said I didn't. "Earl loves cats. He's had as many as twenty." Frank's hair was long and brown, and he had a beard. He is 56 and came to The Nam the year I left. I tried to talk to him about Nam. "It was a bad 357 days," he said, and I thought I was there

366 bad days. "Charlie was real smart. He knew the land," he said. He added in a burst that if he talked about it any more it would ruin his day. Ten percent of the estimated 8,000 homeless in Hillsborough County are veterans.             

            Kristin, Eric, Frank and others joined hands while Eric offered a prayer of thanksgiving. His prayer thanked God for T.H.O.R.N Ministries. The crowd said, "Amen." It was time to eat.

                                                Bunkhouse and Greyhound

            The "bunkhouse" is a two-storied, block building across from Philip Shore School on 19th Street in Ybor City. It contrasts sharply with old restaurants like the Columbia and my favorite Tampa Bay Brewing Company.

            No one is dancing at the bunkhouse. No one is dining on fine Spanish cuisine. Some would call the bunkhouse a flophouse, a term from the Great Depression - a place to flop down and sleep. A glimpse inside revealed a man with a downcast look rolling a cigarette while he sat on rickety steps. The Bunkhouse and a lot near the Greyhound Station were the next two locations T.H.O.R.N Ministries fed.         

            In front of the bunkhouse, a line formed by men who knew the routine. The men included one riding a bicycle and wearing a hat lettered "Vietnam veteran." An elderly man I called Grand-dad pushed a shopping cart containing his possessions. He tried to ask me questions, but seemed incoherent, and I could not understand him. A husky young man in black pants and shirt sported a severe spike haircut, rendering his head a little like the Sputnik satellite; once in a while, he let out a scream or a yell. It was here that I met Earl, the cat lover and Frank's friend.

            We talked about cats. Earl, a Native American with sad dark eyes, presently has nine. I have four. One of his had died lately, Frank the Vietnam vet said. So had one of mine. Earl had taken it real hard. So had I. "It's like loosing children," I said. "How many sleep with you at night, Earl?" "A few, now that it's cold," he told me. I added that I thought cats could tell good people from bad. Earl seemed to agree. Earl and Frank bunk in a vacant lot in association with other men. I asked if I could visit them one evening. "You wouldn't want to come there at night," Frank chipped in.

            People from the T.H.O.R.N Ministries set up quickly and efficiently at the bunkhouse. David offered a prayer. This was the eight anniversary of their first feeding in 1996. The kids from St. Ignatius began to serve again. Whenever something was needed on line, Roy was the go-to guy. Kristin was called "blondie" by some of the men. One man fell on his knees to propose to Kristin, prompting other men to cat call to husband David, who was preoccupied at the drink wagon. At both locations so far morale was high, there was camaraderie and humor, but not near the Greyhound Station.

                                                Mission from God        

            Jim Stem and I arrived at the vacant lot beside the Greyhound Station before T.H.O.R.N Ministries. Jim had told me the crowd was different there. I felt it as soon as I arrived. There was tension in the air as if a mighty turbine was revving.

            "Are they really coming?" one anxious man asked. 

            Jim wanted to take a photo of a mother whose baby sat on top of a shopping cart. "Oh, no!" the woman roared. "You ain't taking no picture of my baby!"

            A pregnant dog wandered the crowd hoping for food. The dog was run off for fear it would succeed.

            I experienced the great disconnect in our society when a young woman with a child came and asked me if she could have a blanket. "It gets real cold at night on the street," she said. "I don't want it for me, I want it for my baby." On Friday I had visited the Belleview Biltmore Hotel in Belleaire, where rooms were $270 a night. On Tuesday, I was at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station where million-dollar missiles were boosted into space. Here was a woman who just wanted a blanket costing $15 at K-mart. And I didn't have one to give her. "I'm sorry, I don't think there are any blankets. Talk to Metropolitan Ministries," I suggested. 

            More waiting hungry asked if T.H.O.R.N Ministries was really coming. I assured them. "They're on their way."                

            This group was different. At the other feedings, the crowds were about equally black and white, with some Hispanics. People on the streets are about evenly divided between black and white. The  majority of this crowd was black. Here were those oppressed by prejudice and the long-term effects of discrimination. They were not the physically or mentally ill, nor was addiction their prime problem. This was no chosen lifestyle. Across the street was Perry Harvey Sr. Park, and behind it were apartments primarily of the poor underclass. A police helicopter was in the sky. Cruisers went by.

            Almost as soon as David arrived with the drink trailer, there was an altercation between two men. "Are you disrespecting me?" one man screamed. "I know who you are! I'll be looking for you!"

            David told the man to leave. "Go ahead and call the cops!" the man shouted at David.

            "No cops," David said. "Just get out of here."

            We had lost the servers from St. Ignatius who were headed home for suburbia. Now T.H.O.R.N Ministries was short servers. Because the crowd was unexpectedly large, three serving lines were formed by Kristin. The crowd had already formed itself into one line. Adjusting to three lines caused jostling as the waiting homeless rushed to be first fed or as close to first as they could get. There was an audible increase in the power of the turbine vibrating in the air.

            David offered a prayer. The crowd impatiently waited. With the shortage of servers, I found myself beside David in the serving line. I fed each man or woman turkey, stuffing and potatoes, while David put on their plates sweet potatoes and corn. I looked each man and woman in the eyes. Most said, "Thank you," to which I found myself saying, "No, thank you." I was being called "sir." "Don't call me sir," I'd say. "Call me Tim."

            A woman's voice shrieked high above the din. The woman had been trying to break in line ahead of others in Roy's serving line, and he had made her wait her turn. "I don't have to take this from you!" she screamed. She threw her plate of food at Roy, who had spent three days cooking part of it. Then she screamed, "You cracker m-----------!"

            David Taylor left the serving line, while Jim Stem took his place beside me. We continued serving while David told the woman to leave and threatened to close down the serving line if she didn't.   Roy called out indignantly, "I am not taking that from anyone, man or woman."

            Two male acquaintances held the woman back. The men dragged her away from the serving lines and out of sight.

            "Pay no mind," men and women said to me. "We thank you for coming here. If you weren't here, we wouldn't eat today."

            When every person was fed, Hector came up to me. It was becoming dark.

            "Thank you, Tim," he said, remembering my name.

            "Don't thank me, man," I said, explaining I was just a writer, pressed into service by a sudden shortage of servers.

            "It's hard," Hector said. "Some people say, 'Why don't you get a job.' But you got to have a place to get a shower, put on clean clothes, shave. It's hard, man."

            "It's OK, Hector," I said, putting an arm around him. "You'll make it all right."

            "I don't mean me," Hector said. "I'm going to California. I'm on a mission from God."