The Time Capsule: Homeless in D.C., a cautionary tale

 The incident, totally unexpected, took place on a crisp autumn morning in 1988. It was over in seconds, and remains the most memorable of my limited experiences in Washington, D.C.    

While a student at the law enforcement academy in Quantico, Va., I had most weekends free and D.C. was a short drive. Traffic, a snarl during the week, was easy and parking abundant. One trip to the Capitol begged another and, over a three-month period, I went several times.   

Early one Saturday, a friend and I set out to visit Smithsonian displays. As remarkable as the area was, there were blemishes. Streets were often littered with trash, especially at night, and clean-up crews were apparently pared back on weekends. Demonstrators found the mall an attractive place to burn or defile American flags and to perform other acts showing their contempt. The homeless loitered and camped out. Some begged for money; others seemed to be just passing time and avoiding sobriety.

Steve had his camera. His wife was making a photo album and I took several pictures. Outside one of the buildings was a statue that impressed him and he struck a pose beside it. Directly in front of the statue was a bench. On it, stretched on his back, was a sleeping man in disheveled clothing. A wine bottle was under the bench. Another was upright, tucked between his arm and rib cage.  He was snoring, mouth gaping. His shirt had ridden up to expose an expansive belly.  

I was trying to take the picture without including the unsightly fellow. Camera to my eye, I backed to the curb and moved to one side. A car brushed by, stopped suddenly, backed up. The vehicle, a gleaming limo, was chauffer driven. A back door opened; an elegantly dressed woman emerged. She glared at me and said one word: ‘bastard.’ I don’t know, but suspect she thought I was taking pictures of the derelict. She stepped quickly to his side, took off her coat, put it over him, gave me a defiant look as she returned to the car, then was gone.  

The episode was over before I fully realized what happened. Steve was as speechless as I. The bench-warmer, perhaps disturbed by the presence of a coat, rolled to his side. The coat fell to the sidewalk, a half-full bottle of wine spilled onto it. He aroused, sat up, put his feet on the wine-spattered garment. He sat there for a few moments regarding the then-empty bottle, lurched to his feet and walked away.      

“The coat,” Steve said, “is cashmere.” I don’t know cashmere from calico, but it looked to be expensive.    

The event, once digested, brought to mind a story I heard long ago from an elderly woman. She had been a housewife living in a railroad town during the Depression. Hobos came regularly asking for handouts. She kept a broom on the front porch. She’d feed anyone who swept the porch. Some, she said, did. Others would not. The latter went away without eating.  

It was pointless, in her opinion, to help anyone who wasn’t willing to help themselves.  

Giving up her coat probably made the D.C. woman feel she’d performed a noble deed, but did it do anyone else any good?  

Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.