Bums: A Short Story

Under the Rug One night Alan Johnson was sitting in his bright yellow banana chair. He looked over and noticed a big lump in the carpet. Alan, in his tall and skinny body, stood up and stomped all over the rug. He thought to himself, “what could this be?” Every time Alan stepped on the object it would bounce his foot away.

Outside, a deep silence fell over the neighborhood. This silence crept into every household. Members of the community had a guise of anger and pain expressed on their faces. Everyone locked themselves inside, to lament such a tragedy that has brought sorrow to a twelve years old’s family. Parents fell on their knees with tears in their eyes. This last murder represented the final straw. So many of their own had been murdered by the malicious, metallic, monsters that were supposed to be the defenders of their community. They felt insecure, threatened by the

A home health nurse knows that a 70-year-old male client who is convalescing at home following a hip replacement, is at risk for developing decubitus ulcers. Which physical characteristic of aging contributes to such a risk?

Eugene Dmitrii’s eyes were saloon doors as they swung open at five in the morning to the sound of his brand new window shattering to the floor like a beer bottle being thrown at a brick wall. As he heaves himself off the ground, his mom sighs. “The broom is in the closet.” He begins walking towards the closet with complete disregard to the razor like glass shards that now litter the floor. When he opens the closets, it begins screeching like nails on a chalkboard. When he finally hoists the door aside, his eye catches the bright glisten of their broom, still fresh from the almost daily cleaning of glass shards or whatever garbage the everyday passerby might happen to cast into their single window, which is almost guaranteed to be fragmented by the time they wake up. Eugene felt the jab of a needle in his calloused foot and raises it, only to find a massive gash with crimson sweet blood dripping to the floor. “You better clean that up too, Eugene”. Eugene bumbles around, scouring the ground for any painfully small pieces he might have glanced over. “I bet if Dad were still here he could scare those fuckers who keep busting down our shit.”

Santini boarded it behind a couple of up-and-coming young men, dressed alike in business suits. One was tall--Sgt. Santini estimated about six one--and athletic looking than other who was about five seven. They talked nonstop like just-out-of college graduates with all the answers. They lamented that they had to live so far from where they worked. Sgt. Santini heard the tall one say, “Every effort to fix income inequality failed.” Yeah, you middle class won’t pay higher taxes for urban renewal projects. So you fled the city, Sgt. Santini could not help thinking. But he felt a twinge of guilt for being critical of them and for thinking he was different. “Everyday we must ride this bus to the city to get to work and again after work to get away from the city,” shorter man said. Before evil night creatures stir. Uh? Is that it? Sgt. Santini continued to ruminate. You pay me to protect you from drug users, drug merchants, thieves, traders in flesh, pornography and a long lists of other sleazy

It was a seemingly ordinary California night—warm and peaceful— as I turned a corner and walked down a street of makeshift tents, the only place hundreds of men, women, and children could call their homes. The smell of alcohol and trash was overpowering. Used needles and garbage were everywhere. People picked through the trash searching for anything that could keep them alive. The street was eerily quiet as everyone kept to themselves. These people were suffering, and I could not bear to watch any longer.

Walking down the streets, I imagine everyone’s stories; I picture them around the campfire. It is so easy to blatantly ignore the world when I only think about myself. Just as with the cottage of hope, everyone deserves a chance to create and grow. Seeing people struggle on the street makes it impossible to turn a blind eye. However, nobody has enough money or power to eradicate the midnight nation or its problems which seep into the daylight

I dropped my paint roller into the paint tray, grabbed my backpack off the hook next to the window, and hurried up the concrete street with my group, past the corrugated metal shacks that made up the squatter community next to the Guatemala City Garbage Dump. Questions of “What’s going on” and “Is everything okay” were barely audible over the sound of my boots hitting the ground. People smashing bottles and tearing apart mattresses stared at us as we ran through the street.

A filthy, grotesque mound of bones and skin concealed with disheveled, ratty clothes. A matted tangle of knots sits atop its head, pleading eyes stare into the soul begging for help through an extended hand. A beggar, a hobo, a scavenger. A woman. Unbeknown to passers, she has a child and no one to help support her. From unequal opportunity and a loved burden thrown onto her, hoping others’ hearts will sway them to spare change. Change that will have to feed two mouths, provide for two. Yet the city council feels the need to impose regulations which will hinder many who have hopes of getting back on their feet. While some people see panhandling as a low, disgraceful way of taking advantage of the kind hearts of others, begging is only the

"Hart Street..." Gilbert thought out loud staring at the television. People were hurrying out onto the street from the convenience store.

A victim, Tina, was 12 when she had left her abusive household, realising the isolating nature of the streets. Tina explained, “When you’re living on the streets, you’re like an alien, you’re toxic. You have this anger and rage because you’re getting discriminated against, you haven’t got the resources and you haven’t got anyone to help you. So you’re angry because you’re saying “why me?”. Such violence eventually relates to homelessness, affecting woman of all ages, cultural, social and economic backgrounds. As a result, the dependence of acute services continues to rise.

Imagine having no safe place to return to, or to call home. You spend each night on a park bench with waste cardboard, which you call your bed. As you wake up every morning, you search for areas with public access to clean yourself. When you are hungry, you search the nearest garbage can to keep you from starving. For the rest of the day, you sit near the corner of a shopping centre, begging for spare change so you can purchase the bare necessities. You watch people walk past you, hoping they will notice you and help you out.

Those who don’t know any better come into our neighborhood scared. They think we’re dangerous. They think we will attack them with shiny knives. They are stupid people who are lost and got here by mistake. (28)

Rachel, we both have very similar background stories and I can definitely feel what you are going through! I have to say that although classes are hard, you overall have to accept that you are doing the best that you can and have the mindset of not focusing on the B’s, yet rather on becoming better each day and progressing into A’s; which can never happen if you stress yourself out about the B’s in the past, which you inevitably can’t change. Good luck!

Wende, I am with you on the concept that everyone has to move towards the common goal to succeed. A servant leader has a great role in this. The main concept of servant leadership is to serve the followers as and when needed. Thereby, these leaders aid in the development of their team members. Not only that, by doing this, the servant leaders change the culture of an organization. They make it favorable for the staff to work without stress. The servant leaders would put the needs of their followers first and help them achieve their goals. These leaders use their power, influence, and position to encourage and ensure cooperation and team spirit among their team members (Melchar & Bosco, 2010). The knowledge about the help that is available and