The Bed by Sylvester Lawrence Jackson II

Bentley Cat enjoys The Bed

Dedicated to:
Professor Joni Schwartz, John Proctor, and Carolina Soto  

Prior to moving into my present residence, I couldn't remember when I last slept in a real bed.

Growing up in Long Island and having lived on the Lower East side of Manhattan, I've slept in train stations, state parks, on picnic benches, in the woods, and anywhere else where I could lay my head as long as I was tired enough.

Getting that tired required a lot of work when I sleep in the State Park on a picnic table out of sight of everyone else trying to enjoy the park. I locked my bike up to the table so that it wouldn't be taken while I slept. When I no longer had a bike available I'd find myself walking around town endlessly until I was exhausted enough that I didn't care where I lay down. For instance, in an open train station or on some random person's backyard furniture. Fortunately for me, on the latter occasions, the owners of the house were kind enough to just wake me up and ask me to leave. Thinking back, that whole scenario could have ended in an entirely different way, i.e. handcuffs, jail, etc.

The town where I spent my childhood had a riding stable for horses, horse trails, a huge wooded area, and a reservoir where, as a child, my friends and I spent a lot of time playing. The only disadvantage was these woods came with a pack of wild dogs, the leader of which was a three-legged German Shepherd. So sleeping or hanging out in the woods at night came at great personal risk. Luckily for me, I never got chased by these dogs.

Prior to moving into my present residence, I couldn't remember when I last slept in a real bed.

At the beginning of the pandemic — late March, early May — I was homeless once again sleeping in my son's 4x4 truck in his grandmother's driveway, a short time after her passing.  I'd recently been released from prison after a parole violation. I have stage 4 prostate cancer and being homeless was not a good place to be at the beginning of a worldwide pandemic.

Luckily for me, I had many friends and family members who loved me: my ex-wife, of course; my son; and a very special group of people who entered my life in 2017. My college professors, John Proctor, Joni Schwartz, Jackie Watterson; plus my classmates Marvin,  Ken,  Carolina,  Mike C., Mazian, Channing, Sammie, Govinda, and Nahndi, to name a few.

John and Carolina worked diligently to find a place for me. Oh, did I fail to mention that even though I was homeless, I continued to attend creative writing classes with Re/Creation? So, it was my Re/Creation family that got me off the streets and into my present residence.

I wasn't always homeless. I had a number of apartments where I lived for years at a time. I stayed in the basement apartment of a childhood friend until they moved to Florida. I also lived with my ex-mother-in-law until she passed away.

The childhood friends who took me in were Donnie and Barbara R. They lived in the town where I grew up. I'd been hanging out with them for a while. One evening my friend's wife, Barbara, offered to drive me to my niece's house. Chablee had recently moved out with her four children, my grandnieces and -nephews because the house we were living in had mold and it had been a couple of weeks since they left so there was no electricity or running water. Still, I'd just got out of prison, and in my mind, it was a roof over my head.

Barbara saw the conditions I was living in and broke down in tears. She immediately called her husband and informed Donnie of how I was subjected to living and they both agreed to take me in that day. I lived with them for the next four years until they moved to Florida. And soon after, Barbara passed away from asthma.

My ex convinced her mother, my former mother-in-law, to allow me to move into the basement apartment of her house. That was down the block from where I was living. I was amazed and surprised when she said yes. There'd been many years of dislike between the two of us, but years of changing the person I used to be to the person that I'd become had proved to be paramount in her decision to allow me to move in,  I lived with her for the next three years,  in which time we became the best of friends. Thanks to my ex, my son, and her siblings, I became a member of the family.

Barbara saw the conditions I was living in and broke down in tears.

 Shortly after I contracted Stage 4 cancer so did my mother-in-law. Unfortunately, she passed away after a short time and I'd be homeless yet again.

Just as the pandemic began I'd end up sleeping in my son's truck in the driveway until John and Carolina found a place for me to live here in Queens, New York, and a program called Exodus.

I'd arrive at this four-star hotel on a Saturday morning around 7:00 a.m. with the help of a friend, Darren. He knew Queens better than I and we found a place, no problem. We pulled up to the front door. I was supposed to meet someone named Brian, but he hadn't arrived yet. I spoke to the desk clerk who called Brian on my behalf. The clerk was told to let me go to my room and Brian would see me later.  I was given a room key for the ninth floor and headed to my room expecting to have to share it with someone else. I didn't and was grateful for that. There was a private bathroom and a king-size bed — a real bed! Yep, there it was and it was all mine.

If you've ever lost your home, been evicted, or became homeless and had to couch surf, and by the stroke of Good Fortune, you found a place to live then you'll know how good it feels to have a place of your own. But more importantly, you know how good it feels to lay in a real bed.

Sylvester Lawrence “Sonny” Jackson II is a writer and retired Marine. As many of you know, Sonny is one of the most important members of our writing workshop for people returning from incarceration.