Brigit's Flame, Week 1: Proud Mary
When the economy bottomed out in ’09, Camp Shenanigans was born.
At the time, folks in the city were losing their homes and jobs by the dozen, and it wasn’t just the poor families, either. Dads and moms in suits and skirts found themselves parked on the curb outside of their dream, watching it go to the highest bidder.
With nowhere to go, they all packed up and started walking. It was easy to spot these freshly-streetbound families, especially the kids. Their hair was still clean, their eyes still wide and bright, unlike the matted hair and on those feral children whose cradle had been the cold street and whose eyes seem too old for their dirty, cherubic faces.
Along the way, these newly-nomadic tribes found one another and held on tight. Necessity replaced status and shame; former executives and donut shop workers could be seen feeding each other's children and picking through recycling bins together, looking for cans to cash in.
It would have been inspiring if it weren't so damned sad.
Some of these clans pooled their money and hatched a plan for survival. They bummed rides to Wal-Mart and bought as much food and as many tents and sleeping bags as they could. They took their supplies and set up shop under the on-ramp to 95 and have been there, and growing, ever since.
By December of ’09, Camp Shenanigans was a fully-operational tent city. They had a system of government that rotated officials every few weeks. Hell, even the Governor knew about them and tried every so often to shut them down. But the Camp, united, always won. They’d even gotten the support of the locals, who dropped by every now and then with new blankets and hot meals.
Shenanigans citizens knew each other more intimately than most families do; a tent flap doesn’t offer much privacy, and showers were but a distant memory to most residents. That’s why they all took notice on a clear day near Christmas when an unfamiliar woman showed up on the grounds.
She was tall, broad and jittery, her skin was pale and blotchy. She wore what looked to be jeans that had been slept-in for a week and a gray, baggy “Newport” sweatshirt. On her feet were ratty old house slippers, and over her shoulder a large canvas bag, filled to busting. She crossed her arms and moved her big brown eyes back and forth across the camp the way the locals did when they dropped off supplies: no eye contact.
Jack Monahan, the Camp Shenanigans mayor at the time, was one of the first to spot the woman as she stood fidgeting at the outskirts of the tents. Earlier that day, a priest from the nearby Episcopal church had dropped off some leftovers from the soup kitchen, and the camp was having an early Christmas feast around the trash can bonfire. Jack made the new woman a plate of meatloaf and potatoes and headed over to her. She jumped as he stuck out his hand.
"Jack Monahan, mayor of Camp Shenanigans,” he said. He withdrew his hand after a while when he saw she had no intention of uncrossing her arms. “Welcome to our city!”
The woman’s eyes were red and the skin around them puffy, as if she’d been crying for days. Several times, she opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. Jack jovially thrust the plate of steaming food towards her.
“I know you’re feeling ashamed, but don't be. We're all just like you. Here in Tent City, we try to make the best of a bad situation. Let’s get you settled.”
The woman took a deep breath and crossed her arms tighter.
“I am not ashamed, and I don’t want your charity food or one of those tents,” she said. Her voice was powerful but wavered as she spoke. Her presence resonated with Jack. He imagined she had been someone pretty important until her life was turned on its head.
“I have everything I need in this bag. I saw the fire and just wanted to warm my hands.”
She pushed past him. Jack turned and watched her stride toward the fire without stopping to introduce herself or lend a hand to anyone. He’d seen this all before. As a longtime Camp member, he had watched many a man’s pride disintegrate when the nights got cold and the options thin. He himself had shunned the hand of charity, until his children began crying with hunger and his wife left with them to live in a shelter. From then on, pride was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Everyone’s got a limit, he always said. It’s just a matter of when you hit it. He was willing to wait for this woman to come around.
Over the next few weeks, the woman passed through every couple of days, always looking worse for it. The holes in her jeans grew into gaping mouths at her knees and the Newport sweatshirt was soon dark as tar in spots. She never spoke to anyone or accepted anything. She would push through people as if they weren’t there in order to get a bit of warmth from the trash can bonfire that burned through the night. Any eye contact she gave was filled with disdain and condescension. Camp members took to calling her "Proud Mary" and would clear out when they saw her coming. Except Jack. Every time she showed up, Jack was there to offer her food and conversation, both of which went unclaimed. The camp would all sit in their tents, shaking their heads at their mayor and his lost cause.
February roared into Camp Shenanigans with harsh winds and bitter nights. The camp elections came and went; Lisa Berger, a former school teacher, was the new mayor. It was around election time that the camp members noticed Proud Mary hadn’t been seen for longer than she normally stayed away. Jack wanted to organize a search party.
“What for?” Louise Martin said at the weekly camp meeting. “It’s not like Proud Mary ever bothered with us.” A murmur of support rose from the tents surrounding the trash can fire where Jack stood, alone. Mayor Berger looked on, waiting for his argument, her teeth chattering under her hood.
"Make it quick, Monahan,” she said through a locked jaw. “The wind is picking up and the sun is down now. No one should be out in this.”
“Exactly!” Jack shot back. “We need to find Proud Ma-this woman. She’s out there alone in this, probably on the street. You remember how that is, don't you? So she’s got a bad attitude; that’ll change eventually. We have to do all we can.”
“But why?” Louise asked.
“Because,” Jack cried over a gust of icy wind. “She’s one of us. And we stick together.”
Silence fell over Camp Shenanigans for a minute. Rustling and shifting then mounted inside the tents and Jack saw fathers and mothers tucking in their children and grabbing flashlights. Adrenaline shot through him as he mentally reviewed the usual haunts of the homeless near their camp. He hoped it wasn’t too late.