Kip Yost: The Road Home, from sorrows to dust

The large brick building had a concrete apron that ended at a ramp that sloped up to the steel entry door. Beyond the door were stairs that led to the men’s lobby. I walked up the stairs feeling as dejected and depressed as I had ever been. I was homeless, and all I had now was the shelter.

Or so I thought.

“What do you mean you’re out of beds?” I said, “Where do I go?”

The woman at the desk looked at me like I was slow. “You go to the overflow!”

After I learned where the overflow was, I carried my two small backpacks back down the stairs and went to the St. Vincent center, a kitchen and dining room across the street. I was given a small mat, a thin blanket and told to pick a spot on the floor.

At 6 a.m. we were kicked out into the cold. I walked back around the block to see if my luck had improved any. This time I was allowed in.

There was one bathroom. For over 500 men. The single shower room had four poles with spouts on them. Two worked. There were zero hand dryers. I used to joke that staying clean in the shelter was like trying to stay dry in a pool.

I learned that toilet paper was precious. It was hoarded by everyone. I also learned to keep an empty Gatorade bottle. The single bathroom was closed and locked…