Miles used to push away the urge to swat the tiny camera drones out the air like mosquitos. He hardly noticed them now. Sometimes they’d get so close he thought the viewers could smell him on particularly ripe days. His year on the streets was almost up. He was about to get his big payoff.
The doors to the studio had a sign hanging over it. Welcome Homeless: the name of the show he was competing in. There had only been three other people to make it the full year. Some participants never had a goal of making it that far. They were content with the $100,000 prize after 60 days. Miles wanted it all.
It was like a carnival outside. Fans wearing t-shirts with a picture of Miles were roped to the sides of the parking lot. It was an image from a year ago when he was clean shaven and a good twenty-five pounds heavier. Now his hair was stringy, and he sported a full matted beard on his sunken face. A year older with a lifetime of fatigue.
“There he is!” One woman screamed with excitement. A swell of bodies pushed into the fences holding them back, and they cheered. Police guarding the barricade unholstered tasers and pulled out retractable batons. Miles flinched and almost ran. That’s what he was used to doing. They chanted his name and begged him for an autograph. He tried not to look. Some of the people he recognized, but he couldn’t remember from where. They might have been co-workers. They might have been family. They might have been someone he mugged. He couldn’t say. You only kept the memories you needed when survival was the issue.
The producers warned him that if he made it this far. he’d be a celebrity. The show did a great job of using AI and editing to mask where he was for the year he was “sheltered deprived”. That’s what they called it. Part of the game was completing the year without letting anyone know you were in it. In the early days, people scoured the internet for clues where contestants were with promises to help with food, clothes, etc. But after the network began digitally obscuring surroundings coupled with promises of the most heinous legal action for interference, it was enough to keep the public at bay.
A well-dressed page stood under the sign and smiled as he got out of the way and opened the door. Miles peered inside checking for threats. Seeing none, he stepped in. He flinched again when the door shut. It wasn’t loud. But noises didn’t have to be loud to represent a danger. He learned that the hard way.
“Miles!” A young woman in a beautifully crafted suit stuck her hand out. Her heels clacked on the tiled floor. Her welcoming smile had the opposite effect on him. He stepped back and collided with the door. “Congratulations on making it this far. I’m one of the producers.” She took his hand a shook it. Miles pulled it away. “We’re so excited you’re here.”
She didn’t shy away from his smell or appearance. That’s how he knew she didn’t really mean what she said. The only people that forced themselves to treat him the same as everyone else wanted something. Like those missionaries that will give you food if you sit through a sermon, or another street person who can share something with you but only if you do something for them. First rule Miles learned on the street: if they don’t avoid you, they want something. That’s why most homeless look the way they do. The tattered clothes and the stink aren’t because of mental illness or poverty (though it can be). It’s mainly to keep the normals away. The remaining people, the ones that want something, are super easy to spot. It’s easier to protect yourself that way. Then again, if you end up taking what they offer in exchange for what they ask, what’s the difference?
“Come in.” She said. “Can I get you anything?” She motioned to Miles to step away from the door, and he had to internally pinch himself as a reminder why he was there.
The first thing that crossed his mind was to ask for money. I just need three dollars for bus fair to see my mother in the hospital. OR, I’m not a bad guy or nothing, I just need some money for gas and I lost my wallet. Coming up with sob stories for money was kind of a specialty of his now. He didn’t have to ask for money anymore. He was about to be rich.
“When do I get my money?” Miles said in his cigarette smoke voice. He wasn’t a smoker before the show or a drug user. A year is an interesting amount of time. It goes by so quickly, but it’s filled with so many changes. Miles had done too many things while living on the street to be the same man. He wasn’t proud of any of it. He sucked his first dick for money three weeks in. The prospect of $100 million dollars made it easier to swallow.
“Right this way.” The smiling producer led Miles further into the studio. The winding corridors were packed with rooms of cubicles and a few private offices. Miles couldn’t exactly remember the last time he was in a place like this without being asked, or forced, to leave.
People in shiny new suits with scrubbed faces and soap perfumed skin waved as he passed. “Hello, Miles.” He kept his head down. No one offered congratulations. No one commented on how different his life would be. It was like they didn’t care. Miles guessed that made sense. He didn’t care about them either.
“We’ll get you into make up and have them freshen you up a little.” She explained that they wouldn’t make too many alterations to his appearance. The impact of his entire ordeal was lessened if he looked clean on camera. “We want the viewers to know how difficult it was for you. They need to know how much you’ve sacrificed.” Her words were spot on, but Miles had become a savant in reading intentions. Her shoulders were sideways. Her eyes flitted and avoided his. She spoke like she said this a thousand times. She was too clean, too rehearsed for anything she said to be sincere.
The woman led him to a small room with a swivel barber’s chair in the center. It was so bright Miles put his arm up to shade his eyes. A plump young woman turned to face the pair when they entered. Her cute grin plummeted into a look of complete disgust. Miles gave her an appreciative half-smile back. In contrast to the producer, the make-up lady’s reaction was 100% from the heart. Miles knew he could trust her.
“This is Miles Kellerman. He just completed a full year on the streets. I need you to clean him up a bit, but not too much. You know the drill.” She turned to Miles. “Ginger will bring you to the stage when she’s done. Congratulations again.” She squeezed his hand and click clacked on the tile out of the make-up room.
Miles sat in the chair and watched Ginger put on a pair of latex gloves. The kind you wear when you wash dishes. Neither spoke. He saw her eyes water as she moved a comb through his greasy ragged hair. She stopped every so often to cough or step away and take a few deep breaths.
Miles took the chance to close his eyes and relax. Unplugging from the onslaught of persistent nervous paranoia was rare and fleeting, so he took advantage of it whenever it came around. It hadn’t set in yet. The notion that his ordeal was all over. That his life was about to change. He promised the first thing he would do was get a hotel room in one of the fancy places that had the best leftovers in their dumpster. He’d order some champagne and buy some heroin, the expensive kind, and take a warm bubble bath masturbating with the door locked in his posh hotel room until the sun came up. Then he would keep all the promises he made to the people that helped him.
It’s hard to have the energy to care about anything out there by yourself, but just like in regular life, you find your people. Contrary to what the show runners promoted Welcome Homeless as, no one survives alone. The old lady, Harriet, that lived behind the gas station taught him about the pizza scam. “Call a pizza joint and order like six or seven weird pizzas: onion and anchovy, pineapple and black olive…order it for pick up. They can’t do nothin’ with that food, so they throw it away after a few hours. Then you go to the trash and eat like a teenager.” It worked. He wasn’t supposed to, but he let her in on his plan to win the money and he told her he’d give her part of the payoff. The Korean guy at the donut shop that spoke almost no English, but gave Miles a fresh cruller and coffee for sweeping the walkway. He told that guy too. They were others that let in on his secret that gave him something, and Miles used it all to keep going. The homeless are a selfish group. They have to be to stay alive. But Miles wasn’t so far gone into his own bullshit that he didn’t recognize who made it possible for him to be where he was. On the brink of wealth and superstardom, he wouldn’t leave his people behind. He was without shame and impervious to criticism, but he wasn’t without honor. It was the least he could do.
Ginger preened Miles as best she could while leaning her head as far away from Miles as she could. She whipped off the bib around his neck. “All done. This way.” She practically ran from the room and took a series of deep breaths like she had been underwater.
He followed her as the sounds from the stage got louder. All he had to do was suffer through this last part of the show. Recount his ordeals, relive the horrible momnets, shed some tears, say “thank you”, reiterate how bad the streets are and collect the bankroll that would set him, and anyone else he wanted, up forever. He wiped his hands on his dirty jacket to dry them.
Ginger opened the door to the stage and bade miles go inside. The crowd was listening to a warm-up comedian talk about how difficult the ordeal of homelessness was. His voice was soft and sympathetic and totally lacking any knowledge of what it was really like. The make-up artist, having completed her task, turned her head as Miles passed through the entryway and left without a word holding her hand over her nose and mouth. It may have been rude, but at least it was honest. Miles appreciated that.
A man wearing a headset walked to Miles, smiled and led him to a spot just off camera marked with a taped X on the floor. He told him to wait here until the cue to come out on stage. He followed up with a few tidbits and tips. “Look at the host, not the camera. Speak clearly. You’ll be great.” Then he started shouting instructions to other stage workers as he darted away.
It was a small audience of a little over a hundred people. They were grinning and bouncing in their seats at the anticipation of being part of a live television broadcast. Miles thought of himself in one of those seats soon enough. High on anything, everything, he could get his hands on. Clean. Well fed. The whole thing was a dream come true. A dream he’d changed himself to have. He put his body, his mental faculties, and his life on the line for the promise of riches. He deserved the money. It wasn’t that much different from being a pro athlete. Though, they usually had a bigger crowd.
The house lights dimmed, and the APPLAUSE sign blinked like a strobe. The people responded with a swell of whoops and clapping. Another sign lowered from above made out of stylized garbage, hypodermic needles, cigarette butts, and oily rags that said WELCOME HOMELESS. “Hard Knock Life (Ghetto Anthem)” by Jay Z played through studio speakers drowning out the adoring spectators. Miles fought the instinct to put his hood over his head and walk away. Attention was not a bum’s friend. The promise of money kept him strong.
The announcer blasted out the speaker even louder. “And now the host of Welcome Homeless; Sonrisa Hayes!” Her cheeks were pulled back in huge grin. The spotlight shone on the stage and the host stretched out her arms like she wanted to give the audience a heartfelt hug. When she was done shaking hands and kissing babies She addressed the cameras.
“Hello and thank you for being with us on Welcome Homeless. We have a very special show today.” She walked casually in a circle never unsquaring her shoulders to the cameras. “A year ago, Miles Kellerman took on the Welcome Homeless challenge to live as person residence deprived.” A picture of Miles graced the studio monitors. Square jawed. Shiny black hair. Gleaming white teeth. Broad shoulders. Bright eyes absent of a drop of alcohol or drugs. A different man.
They recapped his year in a montage playing “I Will Remember You” by Sarah Mclachlan. A video of him stealing food from a hot dog vendor in slow motion. The audience made a sympathetic groan. A still photo of Miles pooping in an alley. The audience laughed. Another video of Miles beating an old man for his shoes. The audience gave nods of understanding.
When the montage was finished, Sonrisa got back to controlling the crowd. “That’s something isn’t it?” The crowd wiped tears and agreed. “At Welcome Homeless, our contestants do what they have to do…” She paused, letting the somberness fill the studio. Then she broke it with an enthusiastic voice, “…To win 100 million dollars!” Flashing multicolored lights glittered around her. The crowd went bananas. She opened her mouth wide in mock surprise and waved her hands like she was Grand Marshall in a Thanksgiving Day parade.
“Enough stalling! Let’s get him out here: Miles Kellerman!” The spotlight shined just beyond Where Miles stood. Somehow the message from his brain didn’t reach his legs telling him to walk. He stood clutching his jacket like a life preserver. The stagehand that gave him instruction gave him a nudge with his arm, and Miles stumbled into the light.
Sonrisa was smiling and miming pulling a rope to get him to walk. The crowd was at a fever pitch chanting his name and cheering. He shuffled his feet forward through force of will until he stood next to the host. They could not have been more different. Miles in his garbage clothes that were either too big, in the case of his jacket, or too small in the case of his pants, and Sonrisa Hayes in a resplendent silver sequence suit complete with matching tie. His face was jaundiced and scarred. Hers was rosy and clean.
Miles was fixed on the audience, but all he saw was a sea of head and shoulder shapes due to the spotlight in his eyes. They murmured and giggled as he scanned the crowd. There was a collective laugh from the crowd and he felt a gripping hand tighten on his shoulder. He turned his head startled.
“I said ‘Is this your first time on TV?’” Sonrisa was smiling but her mouth looked more sinister up close threatening if Miles didn’t say the right thing, she might eat him. Miles felt her fingers dig further into his shoulder even through his thick jacket.
He cleared his throat and stammered. “Y…yes. Never been on TV.” Miles turned his head to the audience again, and Sonrisa’s hand clawed him harder, and he recalled the stagehand’s instruction to talk to her.
“Tell us a little about being homeless, Miles. We saw the videos and watched you for the past year, but what was it like?” She released his shoulder and put her hand on his bicep squeezing him closer to her like a parent does an unruly child.
“It…I can’t…” He stammered.
“Was it hard?” She led him.
He paused remembering one incident where he punched a young girl for her lunchbox. “Yeah.” He lowered his head in shame.
“You probably did things you’re not proud of.” Sonrisa mimed sucking something and the crowd howled with laughter. “Just joking.” She said when Miles looked at her with wet eyes. When he looked down again, she shook her head at the audience which uncorked another gout of laughter.
Miles pulled his arm back and Sonrisa grabbed him so hard he yelped. She held on to the soft flesh from the back of his arm.
“You got a lot of help from others in your…” She made a show of searching for the right word. “Predicament. Didn’t you?”
Miles opened his mouth when Sonrisa’s clenched hand told him to answer the question. The “or else” was implicit. “Yes.” He said in a meek voice. Just play the game. Do what they tell you, and get out of here with your money, he told himself.
“I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to survive without help. Is that true.”
This time, Miles didn’t need any prompting. “Yes. You can’t make it alone.”
Sonrisa’s eyes narrowed. Something the streets taught him was that people will tell you who they are if you give them enough rope to hang themselves. Miles’ face dropped as he realized he said something she was waiting for him to say. Caught, like a rat in a trap.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.” She cleared her throat in a fake attempt to sound condoling. The crowd fell for it leaning in. Miles wasn’t fooled for a second. “The good news is you made it. A year as one of the overlooked.” She turned to the crowd and from the blinking sign prompting them, they shouted “Welcome Homeless!” They cheered for a few seconds and Sonrisa held up her hands asking for quiet. “Unfortunately, revealing yourself as a contestant on the show in a violation of the rules you agreed with when you signed your contract.” She finally released his arm, but the clutching feeling engulfed his entire body though nothing had him.
The host took a couple steps away. “I’m afraid you’ve forfeited your winnings. Seeking assistance isn’t a blatant violation of the rules, but offering a bribe to those who do while alerting them to your involvement with the show is. Too bad, Miles.”
A giant “AWWWWWWW!” of condolence oozed from the crowd. Miles looked around more confused than his first day in the city. He was like a cat with thirty laser pointers flickering around him. His mind cracked and he held his hands to his head trying to keep it together.
He screamed. It wasn’t very loud. His throat was nearly destroyed from all the chemicals and smoke and exposure. He fell to his knees and lost control of his bowels and bladder. Sonrisa backed away a little more with a “Whoa!” And a smile.
“Let’s give him a round of applause for being a great contestant.” The crowd clapped. “We have some nice parting gifts for you. Thanks for playing Miles.” She looked at the camera and said “We’ll be right back.”
“We’re clear.” The stagehand said
“Get that dirty mother fucker off my set and clean the floor.” Sonrisa barked. Miles had pulled his hood over his head. He heard but didn’t register the host continuing to snap at stage workers as she walked away from the shivering thing that was her most recent contestant.
Miles heard voices around him, but it was muffled like Charlie Brown adults. He squeezed his head tighter with every syllable. Hands grasped his jacket and he felt himself being dragged across the floor.
The door opened and Miles flew threw the threshold and landed in a heap outside where he originally came in. A small bag with the Welcome Homeless logo hit him in the head. He slowly sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes. Through the blur of his confusion he watched workers dismantling the fence that held the outside onlookers back. The lot was empty now.
A shadow crossed over Miles accompanied by a voice. “Hey, Buddy.” Miles looked up and saw a police officer with a taser in his hand. His other hand was on his pistol. “This is private property. You gotta go.” Miles didn’t say anything. He got up and walked away as best he could with a pair of pant full of feces and urine.
He walked to an alley and squatted behind a dumpster. He cleaned himself with torn plastic from trash bags. They were best for wiping off shit because you could get it all off without getting any on your fingers. He looked in the bag and saw a $25 gift card to Moon Child Coffee, the main sponsor of the show, and a brand new Welcome Homeless t-shirt. He put the shirt on over his dirty one and shoved the gift card in his pocket wondering if he could make up a story and exchange it for cash.