25 days, 25 stories: Dungeons

Each day from October 5 to October 29, 2009 we will be posting a new story in celebration of Habitat for Humanity of Omaha’s 25th anniversary. These stories have come to us from people who have been involved with Habitat Omaha in a variety of ways at some point in the past 25 years. We hope that you enjoy these reflections, some old and some new, about Habitat Omaha and that they inspire or renew the spirit of service in you. If you have a story of your own that you would like to share please send it to us at buildinghope.omaha@gmail.com.
 

Dungeons
 

“Where is it?” I mutter to myself, as my truck coasts slowly along the broken blacktop of North 25th Street. It is August. It is hot. A judicious, but persistent rain drops from the dark dreary sky, and has done so all morning. Storm water flows angrily in the gutters, and the potholes that litter the street are overflowing. The saturated air condenses on the inside of the truck’s windows distorting my view of the abandoned houses and vacant lots that line the street; they seem to be waiting for a parade to celebrate the insurrection that has yet to materialize. I slide my hand across the driver’s side window, wipe the water on my jeans, and glance at the notebook on the seat beside me, checking the address again. Yes, it should be here. After a second pass, I realize that there is a house behind a wild mass of trees and bushes that crowd nearly to the curb. The green tangled growth successfully obscures the sidewalk, the entire front, and most of the sides of the dilapidated two-story structure; trees climb up the sides until only the gable peak and roof are visible. It’s here, hidden behind the leafy wall and embraced by thick crooked arms, protected from public eyes, as if ashamed to reveal an embarrassing disfigurement.

The soft wet ground yields quietly beneath my tentative steps as I circle the house in the steady rain. The front entrance is impassable, blocked by thick tangled bushes. Plywood seals the first floor windows and front door. A small fruit tree has successfully grown through the center of the front porch, its limbs pushing against the curled paint and rusting iron railings, as it desperately leans outward in search of more light—its feeble branches deformed and bearing strange fruit. Nature is not prejudiced and willingly accepts what society has fearfully condemned and shackled with neglect.

At the rear, trash and discarded appliances litter the green weedy yard. A broken screen door hangs grotesquely from its top hinge; it leads onto a small walled porch encircled with glassless windows. I grip the crooked door to steady myself and absurdly scrape the mud from the soles of my wet shoes. Debris is scattered everywhere, a large console style television, dating from perhaps the 70s, lies on its side like a dead beast, its short stubby legs pointing sideways, as if in rigor mortis. I pause on the threshold before entering the main house and shout into the stillness, “Anyone here?” No answer. Again, “Is anyone here?” The house groans mournfully in response to the wind that suddenly accompanies an increase in the tempo of the rain.

The kitchen is wrecked, cabinets gape, the sink is gone, household items are everywhere on the floor and heaped upon the countertops. “Crip” is spray painted in large white letters on the wall facing the backdoor. As I move through the kitchen and into the darkness toward the front of the house, I switch on my flashlight. The flashlight’s beam bounces around the dark rooms, pausing on broken furniture, tables, chairs, lamps, boxes overflowing or with split sides, the contents spilling out, books, papers, cups—the remnants of a vanquished family. Someone has gutted the bathroom; only bare broken walls remain where copper water pipes once supplied a now missing basin, toilet, and bathtub. The cruelty and violence is unmistakable, palpable by the large jagged holes torn into the plaster and alabaster tiles, as desperate hands ripped the pipes back and forth, back and forth, exposing the house’s wooden bones like a vulture-eaten corpse.

The basement is equally devastated. Access from the main level is by a narrow staircase that pitches steeply, twisted and unsteady; it reluctantly bears my weight, crying out with a high-pitched whine as I follow the flashlight’s beam into the dank gloom. The air is heavy. It is difficult to find a place to walk through the garbage and junk that fills the cellar. The concrete blocks that make the foundation are stained shades of black, gray and white from decades of water oozing through their aged joints. The west wall leans inward, broken at mid-height by relentless outside earthly pressures. In the corner, closest to the feeble stairs, a row of woman’s clothes neatly hangs from a rusty gas pipe, colorful coats, blouses, and dresses, patiently waiting in the darkness for the owner who will never return.

Bedrooms occupy the upper floor; they are separate, but not equal. Dark-stained mattresses lie on the floors, broken chairs, mirrors, and dressers, and shoes and clothes strewn everywhere. In the smallest, a child’s bedroom, drug paraphernalia, needles and syringes, lurk in a closet next to the mattress. Stained and torn butterfly covered wallpaper hangs in short and long and narrow and wide strips, like burnt peeling skin, exposing the wall’s true raw color, as if pulled by idle hands with no purpose other than to feel momentary satisfaction at divulging an unpleasant truth.

As I turn to leave the bedroom, words scrawled on the inside of the closet wall catch my eye:

I was born with the G code,
Embedded in my blood.
No not hood rich,
A gangsta and
I’m kinda a big deal,
Talkin with the fist stick knife gun.
I’ll mourn myself cause
Nobody else will.

Slowly walking down the stairs, I feel the house tremble beneath my feet. Perhaps it senses that it may not have long to live. Spirits of the forgotten family seem to follow me out, a door creaks, a spider web wobbles, bouncing the creator uncontrollably. Shadows shudder at the corner of my eye. A young girl, smiling wistfully from the 1950s, watches me with her large oval eyes, looking out from the black and white photograph lying on the broken counter. I share her shame and sorrow at what she now must witness. And what will become of the boys who live here now? Will they move to another of the 1,700 condemned houses in North Omaha to continue their sentence, or will something or someone spark the fire of hope. This is not another country; where is “the change we need?”

As I step out into backyard, the rain has stopped and the clouds are pushing each other apart. It is brighter and the house shines wet. Maybe there is hope for salvation after all—a new roof, siding, shore the foundation, and rework its heart. I start to climb into my truck and notice two young men, boys, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old are approaching me, walking leisurely along the street, clothes billowing in the wind. They glance at the condemned house and then the at the green, blue, and white “Habitat for Humanity” sign on the truck’s door; we exchange silent nods as they continue down the street. I pause and look up at the house once more, shut the door, and drive off. Author James Baldwin once wrote, The very time I thought I was lost, / My dungeon shook and my chains fell off.

Dan Brewer
Construction Manager
Habitat for Humanity of Omaha

 

 
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