Florine

Copyright © 2017 Anita Fontana

Florine

            When I’m driving, and I encounter a person holding a sign or a cup, asking for money, my heart hurts and I feel helpless. I think to myself, “How much help am I to this person if I give them a handful of change? Could it really mean the difference between eating and starving?”

            About a year ago, I was walking to the subway at Chicago and State when I stopped to talk to a man who was begging for money. His clothes were tattered, his hair wildly frizzy and his beard unkempt. But he had kind eyes and, when my gut notified me that he wasn’t a threat, I approached him, keeping my distance.

            “Are you hungry?” I asked warily. “Do you want something to eat?”

            He looked at me stunned and nodded his head. I took him to a nearby McDonald’s, ordered lunch for myself and told him to order whatever he wanted. I paid for lunch and, with him following close behind, I found an empty table. We sat down, unwrapping our meals in silence. I tried a few times to start up a conversation but got no reply. He ate quickly, never making eye contact and, when he was done, mumbled a brief “thank you” and hurried away.

I never would have had the courage to approach this man and share a meal with him if I had not worked at St. Paul’s United Church of Christ where, on a daily basis, I was actually able to do some good for people in need.

In my job as receptionist/secretary, I was usually the first person to welcome visitors to the church; some who had an appointment with one of the pastors, some who dropped by just to say hello, and many in need of food or services. A security camera outside the front door with a monitor mounted over my desk allowed me to see who was ringing the bell. If it was someone familiar, I buzzed them in. If not, I would page one of the maintenance men to check them out.

Every Wednesday, Pastor Carol and a few volunteers gathered in the church basement to make lunches for the homeless, making extra for anyone dropping by during the week.

Interacting with the homeless was a new experience for me, but my job put me in a position where it became a daily routine. Weekdays, there were few staff around and most of the time I felt safe in the nearly empty building. But, my first encounter with a homeless man, face to face, alone in the hallway, made me feel vulnerable. “If I felt threatened, would anyone hear me if I screamed? How quickly could I run back into the office and lock the door?”

I asked him to wait on the bench in the hallway and he did so willingly. Returning from downstairs, I found him sitting quietly with his hands folded in his lap and, when I handed him his lunch he stood up, bowed slightly and said “Thank you ma’am. God bless you.” His behavior surprised and delighted me, and I soon learned that, with a few exceptions, most of the people who came through our doors were polite and appreciative. My apprehension lessened as I eased into the job.

One of our regular visitors was Florine. I was warned by the staff that she would act hostile or crazy if she was approached, that she wanted to be left alone to sit on the stairs, stay for about 15-30 minutes, then leave. So, the first few times she came around, I buzzed her in and went back to work.

She had no regular schedule; she would simply show up at random times on random days and just sit, occasionally mumbling something I couldn’t hear. She never came into to the office, never asked for anything. She merely climbed up to the fifth step, always the fifth step, so wearily that I just knew her knees ached and that her dark, grizzled fingers, sporting chipped nail polish, throbbed as she gripped the handrail.

I would watch her through the window that overlooked the stairs while the staff, the nursery school teacher herding her charges—“Careful, watch out for the lady”—and other visitors navigated their way around her in their comings and goings up and down the stairs. The staff always said hello as they passed by, receiving only silence or an occasional grunt in return, but most everyone else ignored her and she ignored them.

Over the weeks and months, as I watched her on the other side of the glass, I began to feel a growing fondness for this woman who demanded nothing from us as many others did. I wanted to know her better. When I was satisfied that she wasn’t a threat, I made it a point to come out from the safety of my office and introduce myself.

At first, I stood at the top of the steps and said, “Hi Florine, I’m Anita. How are you doing today?” to which she would respond by staring at me suspiciously or mumbling something under her breath. Being that she wasn’t a frequent visitor, I was never sure if she remembered me from visit to visit. But I persevered. Each time she came by I ventured down one more step, saying a few words to her, until eventually she recognized me, and I decided she was comfortable enough to let me sit next to her.

She didn’t speak much, so I did most of the talking while she listened. I would tell her about my life, events at the church, things in the news, or just talk about the weather. I would ask her if she needed anything and she always shook her head no. Every so often, after we got to know each other better, she would allow me to hold her hand or put my arm around her. She seemed generally sad, so I tried hard to make her laugh and, once in a while we shared a chuckle or two.

When she did talk, most of her conversation was incoherent ramblings or unintelligible mumbling but sometimes, throughout this disjointed exchange, a few details peeked through the confusion. I never learned much about her except that she had a daughter who had been murdered by her boyfriend.  

I was a few years into my relationship with my husband, Paco, and very much in love, so I talked to her about him often. She would listen intently and sometimes mumble some piece of wisdom about love or relationships, but mostly she just nodded her head.

One day, sprinkled throughout my ramblings about how wonderful and adorable he is, I mentioned that he was from South America. I was interrupted in my soliloquy when she suddenly drew back, alternately staring at me and turning away in what appeared to be a combination of fear and disgust. She began spitting out the word “Spanish,” while looking at me sideways with a distrustful stare, hissing again and again, “sssspanissshhh, ssssphanissshhh, he a sssspanissshhh? You mixed up with a ssssssssspanissshhh? How could you be with a sssssssspanissshhh?”

I had learned not to be surprised by much of anything that came out of her mouth, but this stunned me stupid. I asked her several times what the problem was but she moved away from me continuing to repeat the word, and pushed me away when I touched her. I tried to calm her down and explain that he was a wonderful, loving, honest man, to no avail. This offhanded comment had thrown up a barrier between us that I couldn’t understand or remove. I decided to let it go and she got up and left soon after.

I worried that this incident had damaged our relationship and watched the monitor daily for her return. Eventually she came back and acted as if nothing had happened. I was relieved that either she forgot or decided to forgive me for my sin. I continued to weave information about him into my conversation and occasionally she would have a similar, but not so violent, reaction to the fact that he was “a Spanish.” I asked her many times what her problem was with “the Spanish,” but she merely mumbled, sprinkling the word throughout her ramblings. I never did get an answer out of her. I just accepted that someone who was of Spanish descent had probably wronged her in a way she could neither forget nor accept.

One day, Paco dropped by the church while Florine was visiting. I was thrilled and apprehensive at their meeting. I, of course, had told him everything about her, including her fear and loathing of “the Spanish.” I introduced them, and her reaction was to rear back and alternately stare sideways at him, look away, then stare sideways at me.

Paco is a charming, handsome man who smiled and spoke softly to her: “Florine, Anita has told me all about you. I’m very happy to meet you after all this time. May I shake your hand?”

She pulled away, stood up, and turned her back, ignoring him. After much coaxing and assurance from me that he wouldn’t harm her, she finally allowed her body to relax as she sat back down. Deciding that we had pushed her to her limits, we left her alone on the steps and went about our business.

I continued to sprinkle my conversation with stories about Paco and her reactions got less and less severe until, one day, she nodded her head and said, “Good man. He a nice man.” From that day on he was no longer “the Spanish” with whom I was involved.

One of our Board members and my favorite parishioner, Kevin, frequently dropped by on church business, always stopping into the office to exchange witticisms and stories with me.

One day, Florine was sitting on her step when I buzzed Kevin in. He came into the office uncharacteristically slowly, ashen, wide-eyed.

“Hey, Kev, what’s wrong with you?” I asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

His voice shaking, he said, “Florine just showed me her breasts.”

The horror and disgust on his face deepened, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Swallowing hard, he uttered tremulously, “Don’t look at me like that!”

I almost felt sorry for him pacing in front of my desk, wringing his hands as I howled with laughter.

“Come on, Kev,” I said, getting up and heading for the door. “You know she’s probably not even aware that she’s exposing herself. Stay here, I’ll go talk to her. And, take a couple of deep breaths; you look like you’re gonna pass out.”

He sat in my chair as I hurried to the fifth step and sat down beside her, noticing that her blouse was unbuttoned to the waist.

“Florine, button your blouse, that man who just came in saw your boobs.” I said, gently rubbing her shoulder.

She looked down and grabbed her blouse, muttering something about her fingers. I helped her button up, patted her on the back and returned to my office.

I found Kevin still sitting in my chair; the color had returned to his cheeks and he was breathing normally.

“It’s okay Kev, you can go back out into the hallway now. She told me she flashed you because you’re so cute, but I told her you were married.”

He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and amusement as he tiptoed warily to the pastor’s office.

I developed a deep affection for this woman who showed no weakness and asked for nothing except a safe place to sit and warm up in the winter or cool down in the summer before she went on her way.

I always offered her something to eat or drink which she always refused. The only food she talked about with fondness was the chicken soup at a nearby restaurant that she frequented. Although she never asked for money, the staff had told me that it was okay to give her five or ten dollars from petty cash. She would accept it wordlessly then shuffle off to eat her favorite soup.

One day, as I was extending my usual offer she mumbled something about a cookie.

“Do you like cookies? I asked. “Would you like me to see if we have something sweet in the office?”

She smiled weakly and nodded her head. From then on, whenever we had any sweets anywhere in the building, I’d offer, and she would gratefully accept, slowly savoring the sugary confection.

I found myself looking forward to Florine’s visits. Being with her gave me a respite from the constantly ringing phones and volumes of typing and photocopying that comprised my job. It was peaceful, sitting on the steps with this woman who listened to me ramble, whose life was a mystery and so different from mine. I would coax her to talk about herself often to no avail.

I don’t think she was actually homeless because her clothing was relatively clean, I never detected an odor, and she traveled unburdened by bags or a shopping cart. From what I could gather, she occasionally lived with another daughter, but I got the impression that it was a less than positive arrangement for them both.

However, it was obvious to me that she spent a good deal of time exposed to the elements. She wore sandals even in winter, revealing long, gnarled, yellow toenails and her black skin was powdery white, cracked and dry. I decided to buy her a bottle of Aloe Vera lotion and, at her next visit, showed her how to apply it to her arms and legs. She seemed pleased with the result and commented on the nice smell, tucking the bottle under her arm as she headed back to her enigmatic world.

After a few years, I decided to leave my job at the church and watched the monitor daily in the hope that I would see her before I left. But I never got to say goodbye to this woman who, through her silent strength and dignity, had taught me to never make assumptions about anyone’s life, no matter how they appear.

Years later I learned from Pastor Tom that she also used to go to a nearby high school and just sit on the steps in much the same way. One of the teachers eventually found out that Florine had a granddaughter who attended the school, but didn’t want her to know she was there. Once the girl graduated they never saw her again.

One day, I was walking downtown when I saw a woman sitting on the sidewalk, propped up against a building, shouting and cursing at passersby. Mostly people ignored her but some threw her disapproving or angry looks.

At first, I thought she was just another homeless woman, but something about her looked familiar. As I got closer, my heart leapt; I was thrilled and surprised to see my friend Florine. Seeing her there seemed out of context. In my naïveté, I had never imagined her having a life outside of her visits to the church.

I approached her cautiously and called her name. She looked at me puzzled; it had been a few years. I bent closer to her and said, “Florine, it’s me, Anita, from St. Paul’s. Do you remember me?”

She glanced at me a few more times, a faint smile crossing her lips. I sat down beside her and we began talking just like the old days at the church. After a while, when I thought she was comfortable with me again, I took her hand and she accepted my gesture of affection without comment or acknowledgement.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Okay, okay, I guess.”

“Why are you yelling and cursing at people?”

“Don’t nobody gimme no money. You bastards don’t gimme no money,” she shouted at the crowd, followed by a succession of curses and insults.

“Florine,” I began carefully. “People aren’t going to want to give you money if you’re shouting and cursing at them. Maybe you should try a different tactic. You could probably catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

She threw me slightly confused look, as if this idea had never occurred to her. I pushed a little harder.

“You know, you probably scare people when you yell and curse at them like that. It makes it difficult for them to respond to you in a positive way. They just want to run away or ignore you.”

She listened, nodding her head and muttering.

I must admit I felt a bit superior sitting on the ground, talking to and holding the hand of this woman, while the steady stream of people hurrying by cast looks of confusion, disbelief, disgust, or downright horror in our direction. Not once did I observe anyone reacting positively to us. My reaction to their reactions was amusement mixed with sadness.

“So, will you promise me that you’ll be nicer to people? Ask nicely, say please and thank you,” I urged.

“They don’t care nothin’ ‘bout me.” She snorted.

“Well, maybe they don’t care about you. But maybe someone who does care will come along and, if you’re nice to them, they might give you some money or food.”

She turned away, muttering to herself. I didn’t know if I had gotten through.

I sat with her silently a while longer then turned to her and said, “Florine, I have to leave now.”

She looked at me as if she didn’t know who I was or why I was sitting next to her.

I hugged her, took both her hands in mine, and looked her in the eye.

“Goodbye, Florine. You’ve been a good friend and I will miss you.”

She nodded and waved me away. I never saw her again.

I still think of her and smile whenever anyone makes a reference to anything or anyone “Spanish.”