Merchandising the Helpless

Home is where the heart is, I thought. I had no heart any more, it had been broken; or not broken, it simply wasn't there any more. It had been scooped neatly out of me like the yolk from a hard-boiled egg, leaving the rest of me bloodless and hollow.
I'm heartless, I thought. Therefore I'm homeless.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

End of Endurance

Eddie Greenspan was down on his luck. He ran a landscaping business and ended up being robbed blind by Lou, his partner. Lou ran off to Mexico and lived in luxury and Eddie ended up in the psych ward with major depression—from there it was an easy route to the streets.

I’m Jerry Sachs. I’ve got a degree in social work, but it hasn’t helped me any in finding a job, so I’m out here on the streets too—working for the Good Shepherd Refuge and trying to make ends meet so I won’t be lining up at the soup kitchen myself.

I found Eddie sleeping under a bridge and brought him to the Refuge—that arrangement lasted a week during which time Eddie was robbed of the few bucks he had, beaten twice and harassed constantly. He’s now back under the bridge.

“It’s November Eddie and you can’t keep this up once the snow flies. Besides being windy, it gets cold in Chicago—you could end up freezing to death.”

Eddie looks at me. “I found a new place. I’ll be okay.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s real high class—near the Magnificent Mile—nice storefronts. I kinda like the place.”

“You’re talking about Lower Wacker aren’t you? Is that what you intend to do—try to find a heating vent grate and sleep on it? You’ll be even more vulnerable there.”

Eddie curls his lip and looks away. “I’ve run outa options at the Ritz and don’t have the cash to winter down in Houston.”

I know Lower Wacker Drive. It runs beside the river and it’s a maze of streets and loading docks. Sometimes dozens or even upwards of a hundred homeless try to do what Eddie’s planning—they may last a few weeks, but a whole winter? Not likely.

“Think it over Eddie,” I tell him and stuff ten bucks in his shirt.

“Hey man, you don’t need to do that—I know you’re kinda down on your luck too.”

I give him a playful punch in the shoulder. “Yeah, it’s hard, but I’m not out on the mean streets fighting the vermin—not yet, at least. You watch yourself, Eddie—drop by the Refuge for a hot meal.”

Eddie smiles and then ambles off to hunt for bottles he can cash for pocket change. He’s not a beggar and prefers to find his own ways to make ends meet.

A cold breeze makes me zip up my jacket. I’m thinking of the Alberta clippers that sweep in from the Prairies and drop temperatures with their wind chill—they’ll soon be a fact of life for Eddie and the other hapless denizens of Lower Wacker.

In sub-zero temperatures you can freeze to death in a matter of hours. The prospect unnerves me.

Gloria meets up with me back at the Refuge. She’s a reporter for the Tribune and is always upbeat about something. Today, it’s Virginia Mars.

“They want to meet with you, Jerry—this might be the break we were looking for.”

“I don’t know, Gloria—I’m no good with women’s clubs and society ladies—they make me nervous.”

“But you care about the homeless. C’mon Jerry—come with me to the luncheon—Meet the organizers and maybe they’ll fund your affordable housing project. Put aside your own concerns—do it for the street people you’re trying to help.”

I smile at her earnest face. Gloria’s all curly blonde hair and bright red lipstick—Me? I’m more a disheveled, mid-thirties Justin Timberlake. People think we make a good pair and maybe someday if I ever land a civil-service desk job, I’ll ask her out and see where it goes, but for now—looks like the women’s luncheon will have to double as a date.

Clare Cantrell, the Chairwoman of the women’s club, is a middle-aged woman who’s really charming.
Her husband’s a wealthy executive and she has a do-gooder streak in her that’s probably programmed into her genes.

I like her instantly and think she means well, but I’ve been down this road before and tend to be cynical.

“The Virga Foundation has promised to fund several of our projects, Jerry, and I believe in what you’re trying to do for the homeless.”

I smile at her, ignoring Gloria’s advice about being diplomatic and get right to the point.

“What is this Virga Foundation, Mrs. Cantrell? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”

She gives me a dazzling toothpaste ad smile that shows me just how beautiful she really is.

“You must know Virginia Mars, the pop-singing sensation. Well, her charity, Virga, named after her, is going to underwrite all our expenses.”

Gloria is behind the Chairwoman using her huge eyes like semaphore signals—even someone as dense as I know her pointed glance means, back off Jerry, but being the ass I am, I totally ignore the message.

“What I’m worried about, Mrs. Cantrell is that it’s November and sub-freezing temperatures will soon be here. A half dozen homeless people died of hypothermia last winter.”

“I can assure you, Virginia Mars has been apprised of the situation and has assured me she will act with the utmost expediency.”

I believe this woman—at least, I believe what she tells me. As for this Virginia Mars—I’m not so sure.

The luncheon’s being held in the Ritz Carlton high above North Michigan Avenue and the Magnificent Mile and I’m thinking the money spent on this meal would pay for a month’s expenses for my project.

The Chairwoman excuses herself and Gloria, smiling her phoniest smile, pinches my elbow so hard it hurts.

“Nice line Shakespeare,” she hisses through her toothy smile, “Don’t you think Clare Cantrell is aware winter’s approaching? What are you trying to do—ruin your chances before the project even gets off the ground?”

I try my version of her fake smile and hiss back, “I just want these people to know, we haven’t got all winter to meet over cocktails while people are freezing.”

“I think you got your point across,” she says frostily. Her look is so cold, it fills me with dread and makes me think it a harbinger of things to come.

The next week, the temperature’s below zero and Virginia Mars is still fiddling while Chicago freezes.

I see Eddie at the Refuge and beg him to come back, but he won’t. I even offer to put him up in my flat, but he’s too proud to take charity.

In mid-week, Gloria drops by the Refuge.

“So where’s the millions Virginia Mars is offering? I’ll take even a few thousand to get these people off the street.”

Gloria looks crest-fallen. “Maybe you were right about this Virga Foundation. Clare Cantrell phoned and said Virginia still wants to support us, but wants the announcement to coincide with the release of her new CD.”

I’m exasperated. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Latest word from her publicist is she wants to throw a benefit concert to raise the funds.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, don’t tell me—she wants to throw a charity concert so she doesn’t have to use any of her money and wants to feature her new songs so she gets free publicity.”

Gloria lowered her eyes. “Ya, that’s about it. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“When’s the concert planned?”

“She’s thinking of an outdoor concert in Lincoln Park in May.”

“May?” I practically shout, “Another half dozen homeless will die if we don’t get funds soon. What about the women’s club?”

“Clare says they’d like to help, but they were counting on The Virga Foundation to advance the funds. They’ve already spent their budget for the year on administrative costs, like publicity and so forth.”

“Spent it on useless things like that luncheon at the Ritz, you mean.”

Gloria’s huge eyes were a misty as Lower Wacker Drive in the rain. It wasn’t her fault. I knew she meant well. It was Eddie and the hundred or so street people I was worried about then and how they were going to make it through the winter.

I don’t know if you’ve ever looked closely at the pattern of frost on a window. It’s actually quite beautiful. Sometimes it looks like long silvery ferns.

On a particularly bitter morning, I grabbed a hot thermos of coffee and went looking for Eddie. I found him hunched against a wall just off Lower Wacker Drive. He had frozen to death. It seemed some other homeless guy kicked him off his heat vent and the wind chill did the rest.

I called 911 on my cell phone and sat waiting for them, cradling his lifeless body.

“Geez Jerry,” I spoke to his lifeless face. His eyes were closed and the hoar frost on his lashes had turned them silver. They were actually quite beautiful.

I watched the ambulance take him away. It left with no lights flashing or siren blaring.

I found out later what Virga means. It refers to snow falling from clouds on Mars that never reaches the ground.

Besides the fact it reminds me of Virginia, I think it’s ironic in another way. I see those Virga monies as the quality of mercy that drops like the gentle rain from heaven…only it never arrives.

The benefit concert was held in May and millions raised. Not much was donated to the Chicago homeless though, although the women’s club recouped their loss.

Some money came into my affordable housing project, but it was too little, too late. It was like that Martian precipitation that makes such pretty wispy shapes in the heavens, but never quite makes it to ground where it’s needed.

Oh, by the way…did I tell you Virginia’s CD went platinum?

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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