I continued walking unnoticed through the crowds, listening to their chatter about their lives. Like many of my homeless kin, I am transparent, without substance. People see through me. Some turn their heads, not wanting to acknowledge I exist, others step out of my way. Yet there are those good-hearted folks like Mrs. Twiggs, more than not. Folks who offer tender mercies. They share their supper or a warm smile.
I arrived at my favorite haunt, the Fillmore Hotel, one of the last remnants of the Golden Age of Asheville located on the fringe of town. Scaffolds surrounded its exterior, masons working late into early evening. I love to watch the elegantly dressed people come and go. The women in their beautiful gowns, the men dressed in their finest suits, speaking of pleasantries and fine things. It had been longer than I remembered since I wore such fine clothing. The concierge, Wesley, greeted me. His slender frame adorned with navy blue vestments, brass epaulets and buttons polished to perfection, his gray hair neatly cropped and brushed back with pomade. Unlike his gray hair, his pencil thin moustache is kept black as night from the occasional dye, the only vanity he allows himself. He stands straight as a board as guests come and go. The sign of a proper concierge to be always ready, blending into the background never to be seen. With age comes tenure, allowing him certain privileges such as letting me in after hours to sit in the beautiful marble lobby to warm myself by the fire on cold nights. More of a reason to call Asheville home, people like Wesley who are always so kind and helpful. Even the well-heeled patrons of the hotel treat me kindly. Homeless? I’m not homeless. How can you be homeless when a town embraces you?
“There you are, Miss,” Wesley greeted me. “I was hoping you’d stop by tonight. I’ll fetch you a bit of dinner.”
“Thank you, Wesley, it is good to see you,” I replied.
“You’ll have to eat it around back. Too many guests, and they’re already bothered by the construction. I hope you understand. I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” he said, nodding to a couple as they passed through the grand entrance.
It was nearly 6 p.m. and I had not eaten since this morning at Mrs. Twiggs. Sometimes I forget to eat. Other times a meal is hard to come by. I tapped on the servants’ entrance. The solid wood door contrasted with its rough limestone exterior. The same masons who had transported the stones for the Biltmore Estate built this hotel. Wesley opened the door, holding an empty plate. “Miss, I regret I could not scrounge a single morsel for you.” Wesley stared at the plate, bewildered and apologetic.
“Wesley, no bother. I could not eat a thing, stuffed I am. I dropped by on my way. It’s just nice to see you.” I glanced up to watch the sun setting over the distant mountains. I had to make it to the park before dark otherwise he’d be gone and I’d have no place to sleep. I hugged Wesley and then turned out of the alleyway down the main street past the brewpubs coming to life and the strains of music spilling out onto the street. Small boutiques, artisan shops and record stores flipped their signs to closed. Streetlights flickered on, giving a yellow glow to the darkening street. A line grew down the sidewalk for the Orange Peel as hipsters adorned with man buns and porkpie hats appeared like apparitions coming out of gangways and doorsteps. I hurried past them. Their conversations held little interest to me.
I hurried along the crooked streets into the Montford neighborhood. Of all the nooks and crannies of Asheville, this neighborhood was my favorite. The air was thick with the smell of moss and memories. A canopy of old-growth oaks wrapped their branches over the street. The houses teetered at the top of the hills, barely visible from the sidewalk hidden by lush green shrubs. Wraparound porches under high-pitched roofs and above heavy stone foundations held the weight of the hundred-year-old bungalows, Victorians and Craftsmen homes. Like many of the older sections in Asheville, this neighborhood was the vision of the architect Richard Sharp Smith; the supervising architect of the Biltmore Estate. It’s not possible to live in Asheville and not feel the presence of the Vanderbilts. I’ve heard all the stories, some true, some less than true.
Avoiding the man walking his pitbull, I entered the park. I meandered to where Lionel sat with his companions, playing chess. His grizzled white hair and beard lit up the dark skin of his face. He had told me how as a young man how he walked for civil rights with the king. Now he walked with a cane. Old age hunts us all.
Lionel’s companions were all about his age, 70 years young, he liked to say. They spent their days here challenging each other to chess and retelling stories of their youth. Each one topping the other. I listened until the sun was completely extinguished. Lionel pulled his torn and weathered overcoat close under his chin. “Ok, young miss, I think we better find a warm spot for the night. What do you think?”
“It’s going to be a cold one, Lionel,” I said with a little shiver.
I felt a kinship with Lionel. A kinship that living on the streets entitled me to. We walked past the boarded-up buildings, their broken windows stared like empty eye sockets. This part of town was not yet scheduled for regentrification. The bushes rustled with the night creatures scavenging for food. Lionel kept walking seeming not to care, he knew these neighborhoods better than anyone. The streetlights and glowing neon from the bars lit our path. The sound of live bluegrass coming from one of the taverns followed us as we walked. I enjoyed country music, the twang of the fiddle, and the yodel in the voice. Lionel joked that the music in Asheville was not real country music. Real country music, according to him, came from the Deep South and wasn’t called country. It was called blues, Delta blues.
Apart from chess, Lionel’s other love was his guitar. Besides the coat on his back, his guitar was his only other possession. “I think this will be fine, first in line for Mrs. Twiggs,” he said as he stopped in the alley behind the Leaf & Page. This side of the street was quiet but I could still make out some chatter from the local wine bar across the street. I gave a shudder.
Lionel found us a warm spot between two dumpsters. Earlier in the day he had laid aside some comfortable cardboard and had rummaged for some blankets, well moving blankets actually. Probably left over from one of the out-of-towners moving to Asheville. They had been flocking to the mountains over the past several years, and an Asheville native was becoming an endangered species. I lay down against the wall, nestling through the blankets while Lionel pulled his guitar out of its gig bag. It was worn and weathered but came to life with the magic in Lionel’s fingertips. “Young miss, this song is about a crossroads. Do you know what a crossroads is? That’s a turning point in your life. Asheville is my crossroads, little miss.” Lionel played his song for me, the same song I’d heard maybe a couple hundred times since the day I met Lionel. It always sounded slightly different depending on how he felt. Maybe it was the cold of the approaching winter but tonight the song held a sadness to it that I had never heard before. An aching in Lionel’s heart came through his fingers and out the guitar. I yawned. “I’m not keeping you up, am I, Young Miss?”
I shook my head no, too tired to answer and then sleep found me.
The Alley
I woke up as the sun rose over the bluish smoke-filled mountains. I stretched and yawned. I glanced around for Lionel but didn’t see him. Red and blue flashing police lights competed with the piercing sunlight for my attention. I went over to see what was going on. Two officers were questioning a young girl. I stayed in the shadows, eavesdropping. “I need to see your identification, your insurance,” the older officer said to her.