The logic of survival

I’ve been hitting up my favorite spots in Las Vegas. The other day I went to Viva Las Arepas on the corner of Las Vegas and Oakey boulevards for lunch. As is often the case in this particular part of town, before I walked in, I passed a man on the sidewalk who asked me for a dollar for the bus. “Sorry, I’m on a card,” I said, which was true. He moved on and crouched next to his bundled-up belongings on the sidewalk. I shuffled past, trailing a family of tourists with kids.

None of this felt right. I’d just come from one of my other favorite places, the Guardian Angel Chapel nestled between the Wynn and a low-rent shopping plaza on the Strip. Sometimes I go to the chapel to meditate. As I was leaving, I made note of the other people arriving early for mass. In one of the pews towards the back I saw a woman, possibly without a home, probably making her way through the world turning tricks. She was falling asleep next to a few belongings. She had no shoes and a long disheveled wig. I stepped out the doors and into the bright sun. In the courtyard is a bronze sculpture of a park bench with a sleeping figure covered in a blanket. I usually don’t notice this art piece; my mind edits it out because I’m not a big fan. Too literal for my taste, it’s called Homeless Jesus, and you might have seen one yourself as there are more than 50 around the world.

But that’s the set up to my encounter with the man in front of the restaurant. And, as a result, I offered to buy him a sandwich.

He hollered at me as I was walking in, “Not too spicy!”

“What?” I had to loop back to understand him over the traffic.

When I got the counter to order, the man was suddenly standing beside me, asking if I’d also get him a Coke. He sat at a table near the entrance, where he could keep an eye on his belongings, now stashed on the patio, and I sat at a table where I could keep my eye on the to-go order counter. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the workers—who’d flirted with me moments before—trying to kick my new acquaintance out, so I went and joined him at his table.

I think the man grumbled to me that the worker was an asshole. I can’t remember the insult he used. He was ashamed though—he felt the stigma. As we sat across from each other I studied him, hunched in his seat, hands on the table. His hands were big, rough and dirty, and he was wearing two gold signet rings. He had on a cleanish white terry polo, and a red cotton handkerchief covering his head. It was tough to tell his age—the same as me? Older? Younger? The head covering was probably protecting his scalp from the sun.

“How long have you lived like this?” I asked him. Thirteen years, he said. “Excuse me.” He stepped outside to blow his nose then came back in.

He was lucid and direct. His family had written him off, he said. He had a hundred dollars a while ago, but someone stole from him. “I don’t do that,” he said emphatically. “I never steal.” “Look at my clothes—my clothes are clean. I’m clean.” “I do smoke meth,” he confessed. “It calms me down. It calms me down.” I believe that. “But I’m not on drugs now.” That was true too. I could tell he wasn’t tweaking. He told me he’d been living in a shelter in Utah, but got kicked out when he caught Covid during the pandemic. I’m filling in the gaps here, but I could imagine that’s what brought him to Vegas, Vegas being a warmer climate if you’re unhoused. Shelters are terrible, he told me. He told me which hospitals were decent and which were not. All he wanted was money for a bus pass. I asked if he’d heard about Shine A Light, about The Center, both places I know where he could get help. “What’s the catch?” he said. “There’s always a catch.” I asked if he wanted to go back to Utah. St. George would be alright, he said. But that didn’t seem a true objective, just an answer to my question.

Then I fetched our order from the counter. I gave him his chicken empanada. He’d already finished the Coke. The empanada looked smaller than I’d anticipated, so I gave him one of my arepas, too. He stayed in the restaurant to eat. I left.

I’ve thought about our conversation for a couple days now. His demeanor was intense and rational—someone you’d call a live wire. But it was the subtext of what he said that stayed with me. I still have a self. I’m not just my situation. People and institutions betray you. I manage myself the best way I know how.

I kept thinking he reminded me of someone. The guardian of his own story, the keeper of a logic of survival that had very little room for curiosity or learning. Then I got it. Our conversation felt like speaking with an executive. Their circumstances are extremely different, but the logic is strikingly similar. Each has a strong internal narrative and is quick to defend against outside advice. Each has a deep need to maintain autonomy, and hidden wounds that shaped that posture. The man drinking the Coke I’d bought him could’ve easily be sitting across from me in a boardroom.