For the record, someone pays for this
place. They let me keep my stuff here, including my bloody carcass. I
don't have a rack; I'm allowed to sleep on someone else's bed. I
don't have a locker; it's permitted that I put my clothes in their
locker. I'm a guest in their house and chores are a way of me keeping
their house in good order while they're not here.
Daryl and the other case workers, as
much flak as a I give Daryl, are in charge of managing this place
that we are allowed to stay. None of us are honored guests; they're
trying to keep us from wrecking this place until more people can come
through here. None of that is predicated on the assumption that case workers craft perfect law.
I can leave here any time if I don't
like that. I'm completely free to leave. There are some consequences,
but that's not the same as being restrained here. No one's going to
tackle me as I head out of the door. No one is going to put out an
APB on me and have me arrested or sued for leaving.
Purgatory Shelter exists on the good
will of others. Donors. Administrators. Politicians. It exists
because it's perceived as a place where people are trying to move
forward. You damage that perception with a visitor who's passing
through, an inspecting admin person, or even another resident telling
a story about "that guy with the bong," and ever so
slightly, that good will shrinks.
As they used to say in The Navy,
"Perception is nine-tenths of reality."
I'm glad this place is here. It's a
compassionate place that gives me a lot of resources to get my life
back on track.
It functions because at the end of the
day, round stones sorted and shipped; square stones discarded.
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