With the assistance of Howard the Dragon Slayer, we got a ten-year lease on the old VA outpatient clinic at 17 Court Street and set up our shelter for homeless veterans.
When you walk in the front door there is a large first-floor meeting room. Lunch and dinner was served in this room, and there also were some alcoves on the first floor that were part of the original building when it was a bank a hundred years ago. The building is actually on the spot of Ben Franklin’s original printing press and is an historic landmark building and the area in downtown Boston is known as the Financial District.
At the time of this particular event it was in the early 1990s and we had been in the building for maybe a year, and it was a rough ride. The building had twelve floors, including basements and sub-basements, and each of the first four or five floors was ten to twelve thousand square feet. It was large. The windows on the first floor had holes where snow and rain came in and there was no AC and the fluorescent lights blinked on and off sometimes with no warning.
At the time I allowed smoking in the building as I thought it helped generate some calm from the chaos that was happening every day. Most of the vets who presented themselves at the shelter were former or current drug or alcohol addicted and smoking was something I also did, so I condoned it.
As you entered the building you were met by a security crew culled from the actual homeless vets who lived in the building and their job was to insure no drugs or alcohol or weapons came into the building. This crew was known as Vet Guards and there will be a story or two about them too. At that time we had an area near the front door we called the Penalty Box where anyone who came into the shelter intoxicated was sent to wait for one of the substance abuse counselors (SAC), who were other homeless vets in alcohol or drug recovery. Intoxicated vets were required to sit in the penalty box to be evaluated for possible transport to a detox facility. If you refused, you were told to leave. Those were the choices you were given at intake.
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It’s hard to explain the smell of the shelter, but a lot of time was spent cleaning and the most prevalent smell I remember was the smell of antiseptic. One member of our crewhis name is Ron Masse but I called him “Ronnie, Rickey and Louie” as he was actually three different people all wrapped into oneand his crew were responsible for keeping the place clean and his staff was also tasked with the general maintenance of the building. Sounds simple, but there were heating issues, power issues, plumbing issues, and construction issues, and RR&L and his crew, including all the volunteers of the shelter assigned to his department, were responsible for many of the improvements. I remember that many visitors often commented to me that the shelter was not what they expected.
It was clean.
At the time of this incident we had maybe two hundred veterans who slept at the shelter overnight and another three hundred who came in during the day for lunch or just to get out of the weather.
The place was busy.
One day an older veteran arrived via taxi and I took an immediate interest in his needs.
He was a WWII vet who was in his late eighties or early nineties and he had discharge paperwork from the hospital. He had been cared for by his wife for the last fifteen years, and now he was homeless. His wife had recently passed away and he had no other relatives, not one. It didn’t take long for someone at the local hospital to tell him to go to the
“vet shelter” and when he arrived I just happened to be at the front desk.
This vet was at Omaha Beach on D-Day and spent the war as an infantry soldier all through Europe. When he came in that first day he had the look of a deer in the headlights in Maine and I could see immediately he was confused and somewhat anxious. Periodically I helped the staff with the intake forms for new arrivals and at the time that this vet showed up we had a three-bed sick bay where we would hold someone on the way to a medical facility or if someone had just come back from the VA hospital. I thought we could find this guy some nursing home care and I would attempt to get him placed with the Veterans Soldier’s Home at the very least, so I pulled some rank and had him placed in this medical unit within the shelter on the first floor right after he arrived. It carried no duty assignments and a “no work” profile, and we had a medic assigned to the sick bay 24/7.
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After intake of this vet, and because it was a Monday, we also had our weekly town meetings and at this particular town meeting that night I let everyone attending know that I expected them to assist me with the care of this older vet.
At the time it was known to me that there was an underground barter system in place that was well known to anyone who was homeless. “You give me one of your smokes and I will let you have one of my smokes” was the rule, and when I have something or when I get my check we do a payback. As I remember, this old guy smoked Camel non-filters and when he arrived that day he had a full cartoncompliments of someone at the hospital, I would imagine. Anyway, it didn’t take long for the vultures of the shelter to volunteer to sit with him and smoke his smokes. When I saw this happening I got furious and set the rule. You smoke one of this guy’s smokes and you’re out of the shelter for a week. That stopped the free lunch with this guy’s only commodity.
After a few days, I got to talking to this guy and he was a character who had a keen memory. I asked him what brought him to the shelter and he teared up. He told me about how his wife was the love of his life, how he regretted having no kids, and how he missed his wife.
I told him I was trying to make arrangements to have him sent to the Soldiers’ Home and he seemed grateful
A few more days went by and I was notified that this vet had been approved for a bed at the Soldiers’ Home run by the state, but it would take a few weeks to get him a slot.
One day melded into another and soon other events had my attention.
At 3am on a warm night I got a call from the duty officer, Dick Fox, who watched the shelter from 11pm to 7am. He told me that the old guy had passed away about an hour ago.
I asked what happened and Dick told me that the old vet just stopped breathing.
The overnight medic had found him when he was making his rounds. An ambulance was called and the vet was taken to the emergency room and the duty officer had just got a call from the hospital that the old guy didn’t make it.
I was sad and said thanks and told Dick I would see to some of the details when I went into work.
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As usual, events happened and I lost track of everything and about four or five days later I got a call from the hospital. They said, look, this old guy who was brought into the ER
last week has no relatives and his last address was the shelter. What do you want to do with the body?
Whatta ya mean? What do I want to do with the body?
If you don’t come and collect the body this guy will go to the pauper’s cemetery, where all homeless people go.
I then called a meeting of senior staff and wheels went into motion.
We called a bunch of funeral parlors and they all said that it would cost somewhere north of $3,000 for the basic funeral service and a box.
Jesus Christ, I thought, we were eating cheese sandwiches for lunch and we had little to no money, so three thousand was like three hundred thousand.
Then one of the funeral directors, a veteran, said, you know Ken, in Boston, you can have a wake in your home and since the shelter is your home, you can have him waked at the shelter.
I thought about that for like two seconds and then asked how would that happen.
The director said, “We’ll provide the casket. We’ll use one of the demo caskets that the casket company gives us to showcase and we will pick him up at the hospital and we can have him embalmed and then brought to the shelter in a hearse. If you cover the costs of the embalming and the costs of the hearse, it will be less than a thousand.”
Well, next thing I know, the wake at the shelter for the WWII guy was in full swing.
“We’ll have him ready tomorrow and deliver him around 2pm,” said the funeral director.
I called RR&L and said I needed to have a chapel built in one of the alcoves on the first floor.
“Really?” said RR&L. “Like an alter and a cross type of thing?”
“Yes, like an alter and a cross type thing and a kneeler if you can do that too.”
In what seemed like less than an hour, there were ships’ carpenters (homeless Navy vets) and a crew from RR&L’s department (including one guy named Sully who was a few cards short of a deck) all at work with power saws and nails banging and all kinds of construction noise and pretty soon there was an actual chapel. I was impressed.
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The next day, right on time, the hearse shows up at 2pm and they wheel the borrowed casket into the building and put the casket onto the saw horses that were made to hold the deceased at eye level. Just like at a real funeral home, I said to myself. At the time, we also had an honor guard and I posted a guard at either end of the casket and there was a plan initiated to have this vet guarded all thru the night. The next day he was to be taken to the Massachusetts National Cemetery for veterans on Cape Cod and arrangements were made to have our donated bus take forty volunteers to the burial.
All seemed to be in order.
I sent out the word that we would have our own internal memorial town meeting for the deceased that night at 7pm, and I went to my office to work.
About an hour later RR&L came into my office and asked me if I had a minute.
I asked what the issue was and he said he would prefer to speak to me downstairs and I went with him not knowing what the hell I was walking into.
We went to the first floor and he took me to the alcove chapel and it was a work of art. It looked like a real church and I was impressed and said so.
Then RR&L said, “You want to look?”
“Look at what?”
“You know, you want to take a peek? You know, in the casket?”
I was bullshit. Jesus, don’t be so disrespectful.
Then RR&L said, “What do you think he’s wearing?”
We figured that the hospital or funeral home might have left him in his old pajamas. We went to the casket and RR&L opened it up.
There was the old man, naked as a jaybird.
“Jesus Christ, he’s got nothing on,” said RR&L.
We closed the lid and I asked for some volunteers to go to our in-house thrift store (we called it Filene’s Basement) to see if there was anything we could fit this vet into so he wouldn’t be buried naked.
The only volunteers who responded were elements of the Rump Rangers. These were guys who were known homosexuals. They stayed to themselves and never gave any problems to anyone.
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I was grateful and within an hour, the old vet was dressed in what looked like an old Army Class A uniform. No rank, no nametag, no hat, no shoes, but a uniform nonetheless.
I was pleased.
At 6:30 I went to the first floor again and saw all the preparations for the memorial ceremony.
Tables and chairs had been moved and there were maybe a hundred vets in attendance already.
I saw that there was a speaker’s podium placed in front of the casket and I made my way there to prepare myself for the eulogy.
I then looked at the casket and was not sure what the hell I was seeing. Coming out of the end of the casket was a bright yellow extension cord.
I turned to the honor guard at that end and said, “What’s that?”
The honor guard said, “Not sureyou need to see Sully.”
I then out of the corner of my eye saw RR&L standing with his worker, Sully.
“What the hell is the extension cord coming out of the casket?” I said.
Right then and there I saw this guy Sully go white.
“RR&L told me to do it,” he stammered. “I didn’t want to do it, but he insisted.”
“He told you to do what?”
“He told me to bare the wires at one end of the extension cord and wrap them around this guy’s ankles.”
I was stunned and not sure what the hell to think. I said, “Now, show me!”
We went to the casket, and sure enough when we lifted the end of the casket we saw wires wound around the skinny ankles of the old WWII vet.
“What the heck is this?” I yelled.
“Calm down,” said RR&L. “We only wanted to make this memorial service special.”
“Special, whatta ya mean special?
“Well, we were going to wait till you gave your order for everyone to stand and salute the guy and we were going to open the casket and plug him in. We think the jolt of electricity will make him sit up.”
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“Sweet mother of Jesus, are you insane? Get those wires off of him right now. Jesus Christ, what the hell were you two thinking?”
And so our venerable old vet was given a nice wake and was allowed to rest in eternal peace.
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Chapter 3: Town Meeting and the Fight
Every Monday night, regardless of who you were, if you slept in the shelter, you were required to attend town meeting. Town meeting was established to flush out the gripes and groans of the homeless veterans who lived at the shelter and to open the floor to anyone who lived in the shelter for suggestions and ideas. Some of the best ideas about running the operation of the shelter came from town meeting. It was raucous at times and one particular meeting stands out in my mind.
To get an idea on how this town meeting worked, imagine two to three hundred veterans in a room, most of them smoking, all sitting and listening to whoever was the designated speaker. To get the “floor” you had to be recognized by the facilitator and most of the times it was either Mark Helberg or me. No profanity by any speaker was allowed, or if you did swear, you had to pay a twenty-five cent fine per cuss.
This particular meeting came after a visit from Larry Holmes and Evander Holyfield to the shelter. That week they were in town promoting their fight and they both stopped by the shelter at different times and they each gave us a signed set of boxing gloves.
Now, this town meeting at times could get a little crazy. Vets would gripe about the food, about no hot water in the showers, and about almost anything else, and the intent of the meetings was to let some of the steam out of the population. It worked.
Attending these meetings were mothers of veterans who had been killed in combat.
Known as Gold Star Moms they acted like everyone’s mom. They listened to personal problems and they prodded and they cajoled each vet to get back on his feet.
It was this group of a dozen Gold Star Moms at each town meeting that collected the
“swear pot” monies, and on this night, like every other town meeting, I started the meeting off by placing a twenty-dollar bill at the table of the Gold Star Moms.
“Thank you, Ken,” said Nicky Likely, whose son had been killed in Vietnam. Each mom knew I could swear like a truck driver at a rest stop.
Attending the meeting was everyone who lived in the building and most of the staff also attended as it would be a time for a vet to complain about any staff member, me included.
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This particular meeting was going along fine with the reading of the usual announcements when a particular vetI will call him Jimmystood up to take the floor.
This vet was a classic case of drug and alcohol addiction in recovery, somewhat of a loner but he was smart as a whip. He was very educated and the kind of guy who made tons of friends quickly.
After he was recognized to take the floor he screamed out, “Pay attention, everyone!”
And he then proceeded to outline a major gripe about me. Mostly the gripe was around a friend of his that I had barred from the facility for a month after his third violation for alcohol.
Then he delivered the punchline: “Ken Smith, I challenge you to a boxing match!”
The place erupted. He was playing the crowd well.
“You and me,” he ranted. “Next Monday night. Right here in town meeting in front of everyone. I’m going to kick your ass!”
Again, the place went nuts.
He then sat down but only after what seemed to me to be half the vets coming over and slapping him on the back. “Yeah, Jimmy, you tell him, yeah.”
That’s how the Great Fight Night started.
The rest of the meeting was soon over and everyone was in groups and I remember Mark coming over to me and saying, “Whattaya gonna do?”
“I guess I have to fight him,” I said.
“Jesus. You sure?”
Well, as I saw it, I had no option other than to fight him.
We were about the same height and weight, and he may have had an inch or two on reach. Anyway, I saw no way out of it.
The rest of the week all I saw was one vet after another coaching this guy. “Here’s how you do a rabbit punch, Jimmy.” “Here’s how you do an uppercut, Jimmy.” “Here’s how you do a one-two.” It went on like that all week long.
I had no coach other than my friend Mark repeating, “So, whattaya gonna do?”
The more I thought about it, the more I thought I could talk some sense into Jimmy on the night of the fight. I waited for that time to come.
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I was amazed again by RR&L on the night of the fight no shithis team built a friggen boxing ring on the first floor of the shelter, as close to a professional ring as you can see at any boxing gym. How he did it, where he got the stuff, I don’t know, but on the night of that town meeting, we had a ring. Including the bell.
Usually we had maybe two hundred vets in attendance at any town meeting and we let other vets from other shelters attend the meeting too if they could get permission to come, but this night, with the space the ring took and what seemed like triple the crowd, I swear it was close to five hundred guys, all packed in like sardines, all smoking and all talking at the same time.
Like usual we started the meeting and all everyone wanted was the fight.
Now, when I saw Jimmy I had to laugh.
He was in black satin boxing trunks, had a black satin robe, a black towel around his neck like a scarf and was wearing the set of autographed Larry Holmes gloves.
“Jesus, Christ, this guy is drop dead serious,” is all Mark could say to me.
Mark was in my corner and he helped me get the other set of Holyfield gloves on, and I stayed in my blue jeans and just took off my shirt.
There was a guy at the shelter who I swear was right from Las Vegas and he had gone down into the thrift store in the basement and put on a tuxedo. He was the ring announcer.
“Let’s get ready to rummmmmmble!” he bellowed.
I can’t even begin to explain the atmosphere. The place was electric. You could feel the vibes and the smoke was thick.
We went into the center of the ring with the designated referee (one of the Rump Rangers) and this was the time when I thought I could talk some sense into Jimmy.
“Now, Jimmy,” I said, “You know, we can put on a little show here, and this can end as a draw, and we both can look like heroes.”
His eyes were as large as dinner plates and he was looking right through me. He put his face right next to mine, like an inch away, and all I could think of was that this guy was possessed.
We went back to our corners and Mark put the mouthpiece into my mouth and said go get ‘em.
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The bell rang and all hell broke loose.
The crowd was screaming loudly and as soon as I started out to the center of the ring, like a bull on fire Jimmy ran from his corner straight at me.
I stepped to the side and he ran right by me.
The crowd was screaming “Get ‘em Jimmy! Kick his ass Jimmy! Hit ‘em, Jimmy!” and other things to encourage my opponent.
Nobody was rooting for me.
Jimmy turned around quickly and came at me with haymakers and he was off-balance and I swear he was foaming at the mouth.
We took a few shots at each other, but Jimmy’s glanced off my gloves and nothing was to the head.
The crowd now was going into a lather.
“Get ‘em Jimmy! Kick his ass!” the vets were screaming, and all I remember was trying to stay away from the poorly thrown punches that Jimmy was trying to deliver.
It was chaos, and it seemed to last forever.
Finally a bell rang and I went to the corner.
Mark did the shit you see on TV. He poured water on my head and he had a towel wiping the sweat from my shoulders and head, and there was a spit cup and I was sloshing water in my mouth and spitting just like the other corner was doing.
“Whattaya gonna do?” said Mark.
“I’m gonna knock him out.”
The bell rung.
Now I went to work.
This round started a little bit slower and Jimmy came at me less like a bull and more like a possessed man on a mission.
I stepped to the right, stepped to the left, and threw a right haymaker that connected with his left temple.
He dropped to the mat.
The crowd went silent.
The ref started a count and I was sent to my corner and slowly Jimmy got up.
He was hurt but not knocked out.
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After a standing eight count I was called back into the ring, we touched gloves, we were in close to each other and Jimmy tried to throw an uppercut.
I stepped back and his glove caught nothing but air.
I sent a left jab that connected square on his nose.
It was a hard jab and I knew it when it landed.
It was all in slow motion.
I could see his face turn and his mouthpiece popped out and again he went to the floor.
But no shitagain, after an eight count, he got up.
Now I knew the only way to end this was to get serious and while I didn’t want to hurt him, by now I was ready to end this stupid charade.
I waited till the count was done and we tapped gloves. Then I went crazy.
I went right at him and threw a combo of punches. I wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing but it was a hard body punch to his left kidney that did the trick.
I could hear the air leave his body when it happened.
Again everything slowed down and it seemed like I was somewhere else.
Jimmy went down to the canvas and this time the count went to ten. The medics were using smelling salts to get him to his feet.
The bell rang and I was declared the undisputed champ.
I retired right there on the spot. Never again did I fight any of the clients.
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Chapter 4: Cable TV and the FBI
Nowadays we all have cable TV but back in the early 1990s cable TV was a treat, and not many people in the Financial District of Boston had cable TV.
The mayor of Boston was a fan of the shelter in his public appearances but not a happy camper when we were in private. Developers were still stinging about losing out on getting the old VA clinic and they could give the mayor more money than we could give goodwill.
I met with the mayor a few months before the annual Army-Navy game and asked, “Can you help us get cable TV? The cable company is telling us that we can’t have it installed and it will be two more years before they can service our building. What’s odd is that some other buildings around us have cable TV but the cable company insists we’re not going to get cable for two years.”
The mayor said he would try to help, but the end result was no cable TV.
Then RR&L came along with an idea that I had to think about.
“You know,” he said, “we have experts here in the shelter that could splice into the main cable trunk in the street. Nobody would know and we could do this simply.”
“How?” I a