Challenge 45: Take a Homeless Man to Lunch

Giomo Yellowfeather

What if I told you that the blind Native American man begging for change on the corner of Rose and the Venice Boardwalk was a mostly sane, former technology salesperson? What if I also told you he’s a coffee snob with six kids (five living)?

I met the Sioux Native American on the boardwalk in Venice Beach in the midst of torrential rain. My friend Natascha and I had somewhat foolishly set out on our bikes in search of a homeless person with which to dine, and since the weather had sent most people running for cover, our pickings were slim.

We also ran into the slight problem of separating grungy from homeless. The Venice Beach boardwalk draws an eclectic bunch (especially those out in the rain), so we would cruise by groups of men, staring like we were at the zoo, figure they looked too clean, and ride on. I thought of asking, but then considered how I would respond to the question, “Are you homeless?”

We finally came upon a guy who appeared to have every possession he’d ever owned strapped to his bicycle and I thought, this is it! But upon inquiring if we could treat him to a meal, he responded, “Oh no, I’m ok. But you should ask those guys over there, they’re really poor.” Well done, sir. I guess money doesn’t have the monopoly on decency.

So we rode on and came upon a lanky, blind Native American begging for change.

“Hi there sir, can we take you to lunch?”

“Why, uh, sure, I guess so. I haven’t eaten yet today.” It was 3pm, cold and raining.

Natascha and I hopped off our bikes, introduced ourselves, and I offered my shoulder as we led him to the Sidewalk Cafe. Without hesitation he opened his life book and began chatting away, pausing only to wave and give a polite “hello” to the many boardwalk regulars we passed. Giomo was clearly a local institution along this stretch of concrete.

He started by telling us he hadn’t always been blind. Like Ray Charles, the doctors gave him too much oxygen at birth and this caused his degenerative eye disease to take his sight at 30 instead of 40. He grew up in South Dakota, swimming in the Missouri River, causing trouble the best way he knew how, and still has four children in the Midwest. His fifth child died of suffocation the day after she was born because her mother lit up a cigarette while she was in the bed.

“So I don’t care much for women who smoke.”

That’s perfectly understandable Mr. Yellowfeather.

And his sixth child, a four year old little girl, lives with her mother not far from where he stands on the boardwalk every day, begging for change.

“She’s the only reason I’m here. She made me promise to stay in Venice till she turns five. Then she said I can go.”

He calls his daughter every day and sometimes talks to her mother, if she’ll pick up the phone.

“She cleaned me out.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re inside the restaurant. I don’t want everyone out here knowing my business.”

The casual and enclosed patio was mostly empty except for a few scattered couples, and when we entered, I could feel the waitstaff bristle. Their smiles for Natascha and I were almost garish in their graciousness, but when Giomo passed, their eyes turned cold. A silent standoff ensued, Giomo vs. them. He may have been blind but their contempt was palpable and settled heavy in the air.

We sat, Natascha and I read him the menu, and we tried to answer his questions about the kind of coffee they served.

“It better not be bad coffee- you know that brown watered stuff. Ick! That, that just tastes like sewer water!”

He was impassioned and a little unstable and I was suddenly nervous about what he would do if he didn’t like what he ordered.

Our waiter approached, gave Natascha and I the same tight, toothy smile, and all but ignored Giomo.

“Can I get you started with drinks?”

“Water for me.”

“Me too.”

“What kind of coffee do you have?” Uh oh.

The waiter, barely concealing his revulsion, shot his eyes to the side and said, “Regular or decaf.”

“But what kind of coffee is it?”

“We have regular, or decaf,” this time he said it slow and deliberate, like he was talking to an idiot.

“But what kind-“

“Sir! I’m not sure what you are asking. Do you want to know the brand?” By this time his teeth were clenched so tight, I thought the veins in the side of his skull were going to pop.

“Yea, I guess that would be fine.”

With a huff our waiter stomped into the back to find out what kind of coffee they served. I gave Natascha a raised eyebrow and when the waiter came back, I braced myself for another terse exchange.

“It’s just a basic brand, nothing fancy.”

“But is it dark roast?” I had to stifle a giggle- the poor waiter clearly hated everything about our table, and Giomo had sensed this and was now pushing as many buttons as possible.

“Hey, Giomo, I think it’s just basic black coffee, do you want water?”

“Yes, water’s good for me.” More stomping. Oh well, at least I don’t come to this restaurant often.

Other than the waiter’s continued frustration and distaste for Giomo, the rest of the meal continued without incident.

Between bites of clam chowder and Philly Cheese steak, he told us his story. He was software salesman who had moved from South Dakota to California to Colorado to Texas. He had been pretty successful doing his “day job” and by the time he got to Texas, he was able to do freelance work on the side. Unfortunately, he didn’t claim all of his income, so he was arrested for tax fraud and sent to jail for 16 months.

While in jail, his wife had control of the bank accounts and set aside money in a separate account for Giomo to purchase essentials in prison (which apparently amounts to about $100/month). She used the rest for herself.

Four months before he was released, Giomo’s wife sent him a letter telling him that the marriage was over. She then took all of his money (approximately $25k), his daughter, and went to live with her wealthy mother in Venice Beach. And that’s how he came to stand on that particular spot of concrete. He sleeps where he can and sees his daughter when her mother will let him, and the day after her fifth birthday, he will take off in search of other opportunities in other cities.

He was incredibly grateful, for the company as much as the food, and when we were finished eating he invited us to come back and visit him.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, and you won’t even have to buy me lunch!”

Sounds good, Giomo. Hopefully my next trip to Venice will come before your daughter turns five.