MREs

The absolute worst bathrooms in the world are along the undeveloped coastline of Washington state, they are emptied semi-annually via helicopter.  The second worst bathrooms in the world are at the Seattle ferry terminal.  The room smells of crusty, decade-old urine sprayed wildly by a blind person enduring seizures.  Outhouse flies reside in the dark black cracks of the porcelain, and dine upon the ammonia-laden filth with an utterly alien and insectual glee.

I was walking earlier this week to the ferry terminal, and on the way I saw a homeless person asking for change.  I don't give money to the homeless, but I did pack an MRE for just such an occasion.  It had been a while since I'd been approached by a homeless person, and I was lugging around this large military-grade meal in my already overstuffed backpack for days.  When you are camping, MREs are a delight.  They are not a delight to carry into the wild, nor is the ample trash footprint a delight to carry out.  But as far as the variety of textures and flavors they provided, as well as the sheer volume of food they contained, they were blissful in the wild.  I concluded that they must be blissful to the homeless as well, since it's kind of like camping.

The first person I gave an MRE to was an elderly guy who was pulling a half-eaten burger in a styrofoam container out of the trash.  His eyes glinted with a mad lust at its warm, fresh contents.  His ancient, weathered fingers ever so lovingly stroked the half-gnawed bun, nary disburbing a sesame seed.  I physically wretched at the idea of a human being eating out of the trash.  We are not insects.  I gave him my first homeless-bound MRE.  He looked at the MRE in a very confused manner, as if I had just handed him an alien computer embossed with sanskrit symbols and LED lights.  I was late for my ferry, so I continued on, trusting that he either figure it out or someone would help him out.

A few days later I packed my second homeless MRE.  Combined with running shoes, a coat, a computer, lunch, breakfast, a kindle and 2 other books for the hell of it, my backpack looked like a pregnant belly filled with twins bursting out of my spine.  This time on the way home I was encountered by a homeless person who was asking for money because he wanted to buy a $5 footlong from Subway.  He said he's only eaten half a bag of chips that day.  You hear that often from
the homeless, and I'm not sure if it's because there are insufficient services and shelters, or if it just helps their sell. Excited at the chance I pulled out my MRE and handed it to him, feeling proud of my humaniarian accomplishment. 

"What the heck is that?" he asked.
"It's an MRE."
"A what?"
"A military ration."
"...Ok..."

He took it, with a frustrated kind of look, and set it on the ground next to him as I hustled towards my boat, which I wasn't quite sure I was going to hit.  I suppose he saved it for backup in case his meatball marinara didn't work out.  I felt really akward about this encounter. "People should be grateful," I told myself.  But there was something else to it.  I know how delicious MREs are, but most people don't, and admittedly it is an acquired taste.  An MRE is delivered in a square, brown, plastic recepticle.  In addition to "MRE," two words are printed on the front of this standardized military-grade ration.  These words will give the eater some kind of clue as to what kind of entree they are about to dine upon.  It's usually something like "BEEF STROGANOFF" or "MAC CHEESE."  From his shoes, I imagine it was kind of dehumanizing.  Imagine you're a poor tramp on the street, and you smell delicious Subway smells hang on the air in a crisp, Seattle afternoon.  Your stomach is demanding satisfaction, and is lured onward by a 12" meaty mirage.  If you beg just enough, if you get just enough
quarters, you might be able to have a brief, warm piece of satisfaction in an otherwise cold existence.  Now along comes self-righteous Mr. Orange Coat, clearly well fed, with his smug smile.  He's got just what you need: a brown plastic box with "COLD OATMEAL - STANDARD UNIT" written on the side.  Awesome.

I'm trying to change my heart in how I deal with homeless people.  Mostly I just pretend they're not there, whimpering ghosts begging for crack-money.  I don't know how to fix the world, but maybe what these people need isn't a standard, heartless, military-issue package of survival calories, but something much deeper and more essential: to be treated like a human.