Mr. Bojangles' dog
A night at Durango's Emergency Warming Center

It’s 6:15 in the morning; the temperature outside is 11 degrees Fahrenheit. Our “guests” are stirring inside the warming center, stuffing leftover sandwiches into their backpacks and plastic bags, opening packets of cocoa into Styrofoam cups. Some arrived when it opened at 5 p.m. last night – the temperature was predicted to reach the threshold of 15 degrees overnight, so the warming center was open. Regulations also require the guests vacate by 6:30 a.m., often the coldest hours of a cold night. This night we have had about 11 guests, all in various stages of despair and disrepair. 

One woman, tall and slender, came in around 2 in the morning after sitting in her car most of the night. She looked to be in her 40s though guessing ages of the guests is often complicated by the hardscrabble lives they have lived … some for many, many years. The woman who came in from the cold said she was passing through on her way to California where one of her daughters lives. She was from New Hampshire, and her car’s battery had conked out. She was uncertain if the warming center would accept her as a transient, but she couldn’t heat her car, and at 2 in the morning, she was cold. She was clearly a woman with education; she was polite, soft-spoken, articulate and asked if she might have some cocoa and hot soup that was available. 

A number of our guests were strung out this night; some wound up from drugs and others living inside their mentally anguished minds. Our warming center is low-barrier, but by city regulation, it is a “no sleep” warming center. Guests can sit on plastic chairs, but they cannot sleep; even after negotiating the cold winter day in our town, sitting on warm grates near our boutiques and restaurants, in the back of the post office, at the bus station, inside the coffee houses or at the library. They are not welcome in our town. It is illegal for them to put up a tent. There is no shelter. They have nowhere to keep their meager belongings safe, nowhere to take a shower or go to the bathroom. 

Then there is “Mr. Bojangles” and Mr. Bojangles’ dog, both happy in our warming center, which accepts leashed dogs. There is water and dog food, and Mr. Bojangles’ dog can sleep as much as he wants, curled up or stretched out under a table while Mr. Bojangles sits on a hard plastic chair. He rests his head on his tattered backpack and listens to other guests as they chatter quietly or in loud and agitated voices, to the voices haunting them deep within their tortured psyches. 

Our transient lady, meanwhile, wraps her hands around a Styrofoam cup steaming with hot rehydrated noodle soup and stares straight ahead, somehow embarrassed by her very existence at this moment … homeless, on the road to somewhere else, with a broken-down car. 

Mr. Bojangles is also quiet, his haunted life buried somewhere deep within. He is old – or at least looks old. His hair is unkempt and beard in disarray; his cane is leaning against the table along with his jacket, a neck scarf and a cap. He unpacked various electronics when he arrived, and now, after being on chargers during the night, he repacks them in his jacket and backpack.

Mr. Bojangles’ dog scarfs up dog food provided by the warming center and drinks copiously. Mr. Bojangles opens two packets of instant oatmeal topped off by a packet of cocoa and a dollop of hot water. He sits quietly on his plastic chair, eating his breakfast and perhaps planning his day on the streets; maybe he’ll start off walking to the library, about a mile from here, or stop off at one of the coffee shops, the transit center or the soup kitchen that provides take-out meals. He is not one of the regulars sitting outside the supermarkets with a sign; he blends into the shadows. He has learned the ways of living on the soft underbelly of our overabundant town. 

Our other guests, those whose nighttime-haunts have receded somewhere deep inside with the dawning of a new day, begin to gather their belongings; one asks for some socks. Another woman who showed up at 5 in the morning in a mini skirt and flip flops asks if we have any boots; she and her “husband” both appear to be coming down from some substance, and their agitation is still raw. 

Mr. Bojangles has put on his parka, wrapped the scarf around his neck and face, and donned his cap. His dog is eager to be outside. I ask if he will be back tonight, and he smiles and nods. His backpack is so heavy; he puts it on the table and slides the shoulder straps up and over his arms. He has his cane in one hand and his dog leash in the other. He has a strange aura of gratitude around him; his dog is happy, he was warm last night, the sun is out, it is 11 degrees, but there is no wind.

And I, with a few colleagues, begin to sweep up, empty the remaining coffee into the sink, mop the floor, arrange the chairs, and pick up the registration forms. I go to my warm home and curl up in bed for a nap. I dream of Mr. Bojangles and his dog, that he is taking a nap in a field of wildflowers while his dog chases butterflies. When I awaken to my overabundance for reasons quite mysterious to me, I also feel deep gratitude for last night. Mr. Bojangles’ resilience represents a better part of us – of me. We are overwhelmed by transactionalism. I feel utterly disempowered at many levels. I live in a nation that was once dominated by reciprocity and yet, here we are, having drunk the kool-aid of individualism. We are who we are. What is our medicine?

– Linda Barnes

Linda Barnes, a retired midwife, has lived in Durango for 25 years and was involved in the ad-hoc group that was instrumental in initiating a warming center in Durango this winter. One of her favorite songs is Nina Simone version of “Mr. Bojangles.”