On June 24, 2016, I decided to go fishing. It’s not fishing in the traditional sense, I'm searching for people to randomly interview. The ones I want to interview are homeless, and most people who aren’t homeless, the individuals who make money, won’t say yes to my requests. Usually, I find an individual that will take five dollars in exchange for their personal testimony. Before I found today’s friend, I pulled into a 7-Eleven to buy an Icee, my guilty vice. The man was pushing a shopping cart next to the convenience store, and it was filled with black trash bags.
“You want something to eat?”
He shakes his head no.
“Are you sure?” I ask, “It’s on me.” He shakes his head yes. The man wasn’t drunk and my stereotype was wrong this time. He pushes his gray shopping cart around an iron railing on a hill. He parks it, we go inside. He fetches a chicken sandwich and a large soft drink and I get an Icee, filled with every flavor; the only true way to drink one. I pay.
“What’s your name?” His answer is low. He has to enunciate several times, I can't understand the man. I pull out my iPhone, start taking notes.
Eventually, I find out the man’s name is Birl Kimmons. Homeless people's name are always unique. We converse, getting the basics out of the way.
Birl is 65 years old, was married before his wife filed for divorce, and has six kids by three different women. He has a Bachelor’s degree. This basic information was the hardest to extract. His family life was skewed, but who doesn’t have skeletons in a closet? He’s been homeless for 40 years, on and off, in different terms.
“Why aren’t you with your family?” I try to delve deeper with the closed off man. He mumbled some more, never venturing further than generalities.
“I see my cousin sometimes, but she never says hi. I have family, but I gotta take care of myself.”
This was one of his short simple answers.
Since age nine, Kimmons was on his own. His family wasn’t going to educate him; so, he left. Independently from family, he graduated high school. He graduated from the University of Tennessee, with an English degree.
“If you have a college degree, why live on the streets?”
“You have no choice when no one helps you." It’s saddening. At some point, his eyes start tearing, using an assumed-used napkin to dry his eyes. Again, I could never gain traction on his personal life. As we continued to converse he drifted into some religious topics.
“I was a minister,” Birl said, “for the Church of God in Christ.”
“Why didn’t you stay with them instead of living on the streets?” I asked. Kimmons elaborated some more.
“They send you to one place. You have to go. They tell you where to go.” They referring to the denomination. We ventured through different topics and I spoke about my life. He never really lit up about any of the topics. However, we ventured onto a unique story.
Birl has a steady income of 75 dollars about every nine days. His shopping cart served a specific purpose. The man surfs Oklahoma City, Oklahoma’s streets gathering aluminum cans, copper, and yellow brass.
Each metal per pound pays differently and for the last 13 years, this is what Birl has been doing. His gray metal plastic shopping cart is his faithful income. This man knew certain dumpsters produced certain metals on certain days and he has followed a specific route for 13 years, toting the same gray plastic metal shopping cart for the last 13 years too. He’s committed. He’s intelligent, knowing where and when to surf through certain trash.
"You really collect cans and live off the money?" I ask. Birl pulls out the receipt.
"Do they (recycling plant) know who you are?" I inquire. Kimmons nods his head.
"How much do you get for aluminum cans?"
"43 cents a pound."
"How long does it take to fill your cart?"
"About 3 days."
Birl knows the specifics. Copper is the golden calf, the money maker. He bends over, digs underneath a black bag on the front of his cart, pulling out a plastic bag of copper piping.
"A maintenance man gave me this. You don't come around this often. In five years, I haven't had it this good."
He speaks about how valuable copper is, bringing in the most money. Kimmons places the copper filled black bag back underneath his shopping cart, making sure the plastic blue ties are secure, and he allows the bag on the front of the shopping cart to hide the bottom bag. He's careful about the copper-gold being discovered, knowing another person would steal it. I noticed a broom, cleaner, metal wired brush in the cart too.
"What are those for?"
"It's for cleaning up the metal and any mess made."
"You don't just leave the dumpster a mess? You got etiquette. Why do clean up?"
"It's the way it is. Just the rules."
"The people let you dig through the dumpsters?"
"Yeah."
From my understanding, this man wasn't the stereotypical bum. The man had character. The man had etiquette. Birl stated he never left a mess. He did some upkeep; so, he could return to his regular dumpsters. Possibly, Kimmons has developed a rapport of being a well-mannered homeless individual. I'm not completely sure.
"What do you eat?"
"Sandwiches. I don't know how to cook."
"So you don't buy anything that is perishable?"
"No. Sandwiches. I can't cook."
Kimmons never learned how to cook. Sandwiches have been his diet for some long extent, anywhere from 13 years to 40 years. He never leaves the route. He may go a block north, south, east, or west, but he never abandons the route. His route ranges from Meridian to Martin Luther King Boulevard. Assuming Birl walked a straight line from NW 23rd and Meridian to NW 23rd and Martin Luther King, the distance, in a straight line, is 6.8 miles. I used Google maps and simple reasoning to determine the distance and time. It would take 2.8 hours to complete the trip one way while walking. Walking that much is hard on him and it's been his route for the last thirteen years, but Birl did indicate that he takes occasional detours.
"Where do you sleep?"
"I stop wherever I'm at and rest."
The city is his home. Any piece of concrete could be his bed. It was great talking to the man, and our conversation didn't drift much further after how he described his journey. I remember not having a car. Oklahoma City is spread out and not pedestrian friendly. To get from one place to another is difficult, but to walk is disheartening, especially if it's in the Oklahoma heat and humidity. Growing up and moving around all the time forced me to walk long miles to be with friends or ride the city buses for hours to see them. I was skinnier then too.
At the end of our time together, Birl pulls out some donuts, about 20 donuts. I eat a fritter. Some man from Arrow Tow Truck service gave Birl the donuts earlier in the day. It was awesome to see man who struggles to share his only food.
I dig around in my wallet. Pull out a business card. Scratch out the name on the card. I give him my personal number. Tell him if he needs help to call.
"You have a great story. I hope you can get off the street and are able to help others."
I shake Birl's hand. Say my goodbyes. Drive off. I don't know if I'll ever see Birl Kimmons again. But he kept mentioning, "I didn't have the help." He was referring to not having a network of friends growing up. The man believed if he had friends than he wouldn't be homeless.
Birl, I hope we meet again.
