I decided at twenty I would hitch-hike over to Paris Illinois from Bloomington Indiana to see my father who I had only seen once (at my high school graduation) since I was twelve. My mother had put a restraining order on him because she feared he would try to kill her. (Which he might of- but that's another story. I wrote a book about all of that "It Knows You By No Other Name" available at Amazon) Anyhow, I got as far as Terra Haute Indiana and the sun was going down, so I went to a Salvation Army Flop House for the night. It was late when I checked in and they lead me back to a large room filled with bunk beds and a lot of men snoring. I was given a bunk and told I couldn't sleep in my shoes. (I was afraid someone would steal them in the night- I had heard stories) In the morning there was a long line to the one bathroom and you had 15 minutes to pee and wash up and then a long line at breakfast. I skipped the breakfast part, I had money to buy my own. One night is probably enough for a lifetime. I'd rather sleep out beside a highway. You understand why the homeless don't want to go to a shelter.
There's a story by Flannery O'Conner where a crazy girl goes to the line of guys waiting to get into the flophouse in the evening and calls out Papa and they all break ranks to come to her. I'm glad I missed the line going in.
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