OPINION|
As the 30 or so homeless people shuffled in from the freezing cold into the church basement, I welcomed them and made the announcement — they were not allowed to leave the building once the doors closed.
And they were not allowed to smoke.
For several years, I was the coordinator of our church's volunteer team that once a month — for one season it was twice a month — took care of unsheltered people in the basement of a Catholic church in Mundelein, Illinois. My home church was in Lake Zurich, Illinois, where my wife was associate pastor.
Every night during winter, a different church team volunteered at the Catholic church.
This was 25 years ago. We had a crew that would make the meal and then a crew that would work in shifts from 6 p.m. to 7 a.m.
The program was called P.A.D.S. — Public Action to Deliver Shelter — and the guests slept on pads, with sheets, blankets and pillows.
The rule about smoking was set by the host church. If they were going to offer their building for this community service they wanted to ensure, as much as possible, that it didn't burn down.
All it would take was a fire, even a minor fire, to basically end the area's homeless shelter program.
People still smoked
No matter how menacing I tried to sound when delivering my smoking prohibition announcement, someone always smoked in the bathroom. You could smell it.
In response, at some point I escalated the language. I added to my warning that if you were caught smoking, you would have to leave.
But that was bluster. I would not be able to order someone to leave on a night so cold they could freeze to death. What if the smoker was a mother with children?
In other words, I was making a threat I couldn't back up.
It's not easy being a volunteer in charge of an overnight cold weather shelter. I was faced with decisions I could never have foreseen.
One person once asked me to spray with Lysol the feet of the person on the nearby pad.
Why?
“Because his feet smell.”
No, I said.
Before the guests would arrive, we would set up tables and chairs for dinner.
As the guests tried to sit down for dinner, I realized we had set the tables too close together.
A guest standing next to me made this very same observation at the very same moment.
“Who's the moron who set up the tables?” he asked.
“That would be me.”
One night I saw a young man with a Bible open on a table as he feverishly wrote in a notebook. I asked what he was doing.
He told me he was re-writing the Bible and taking out all the sex and all the “begetting.”
The role of a lifetime
As the nights grew colder over the winter months, the clandestine smoking continued.
To enforce the rule, I needed a way to back up my threat of expelling a smoker without really threatening anyone's life.
Here's what I did.
Most of the guests arrived on the same bus. But oftentimes someone would show up later in a car. Or police would drop someone off. These generally were people no one had seen before.
We had a theater group at my church. The pinnacle of my acting career, in fact, was the year I played Elwood P. Dowd, the man whose best friend was a large rabbit named Harvey.
My plan was to have one of my fellow thespians show up at the shelter late — disguised as an unsheltered person — and to catch him smoking. I would loudly and righteously throw him out into certain death.
The guests would then know I was heartless enough to do such a thing and, hopefully, this deception would decrease the chances someone would start a fire by smoking at the cold weather shelter.
I first tried to cast a friend named Jim, who also had been in “Harvey.” But he had a conflict.
Jeff was available. I did not tell Jeff he was my second choice for the role. Actors so easily have their feelings hurt.
He was downright ecstatic, as if I'd just picked him over De Niro for the lead in “The Deer Hunter.”
‘Do I look homeless?'
So, on a very cold night, Jeff arrived at the shelter late. I had notified the other volunteers.
There was a small storage room with the pads, sheets, pillows, a few toys, some socks and underwear and things to eat for breakfast in the morning.
Guests were not allowed in the storage room for various reasons. One was that if a woman was in there alone with a male volunteer, the woman's significant other — if he were with her in the shelter — could get jealous and angry. Another reason was that you didn't want a guest in there, for example, taking all the socks.
Jeff knew this. I had told him this. Being in the storage room with me might blow his cover.
But he couldn't help himself. He had visions of a “Best Actor” award nomination.
It's been a long time, but I'm confident I can quote the main parts of our exchange.
“I haven't shaved in four days. How does it look? Do I look homeless?”
Yes. But you need to stand outside the door.
“I've got Pall Malls. Is that what homeless people smoke?”
Yes. You nailed it. Pall Malls. Please stand by the door.
“Should I say something as you toss me out?”
Sure. How about, “I can't believe you're doing this just because I was smoking?” Now, please get out of the storage room. People are starting to look.
I busted into the bathroom like Eliot Ness
Lights went out at 10 p.m.
Shortly after, Jeff got up from his pad and went into the bathroom.
A minute or so later, I walked by the bathroom door and caught the first scent of cigarette smoke. The other volunteers couldn't wait for the action.
I busted in like Eliot Ness and caught Jeff red-handed. Smoking a Pall Mall.
I rushed him to his pad and told him to gather his stuff.
“If you start a fire you could kill everyone in here!” I told him. “I told you there was no smoking.”
Jeff said his line, “I can't believe you're doing this just because I was smoking!”
But he had a crazed look in his eye. For a second I thought he was going to ad lib with a punch to my face.
Thankfully, he did not.
I tossed his sorry butt out.
I later checked with the morning shift volunteers. They told me the guests were still talking about what a heartless badass I was.
To the best of my knowledge, no one ever again lit up on the nights our team was there and, I'm guessing, that night was the highlight of Jeff's acting career.
This is Pokin Around column No. 158.
