The Do’s and Don’ts of Opening Your Home to the Homeless  

What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of a homeless drug abuser? Invite him in to your home to live, or that he is filthy and unkempt, with a long scraggily beard? Fifty-two year old “Joseph” did not fit any of the stereotypes; he was clean-shaven, well-spoken, and proper gentleman who I picked up at a community meal to live with us. After my dad met him and talked for a while he said, “He seems like a good guy or a really good liar.”  He had a charming demeanor which had me fooled. Looks can be deceiving, especially when one is dealing with a psychopath.

Joseph had been living with me and my brother for a month. The adventure began with my suspicion when Joseph casually told me, “By the way, I lent a jack to a man that works at the Mel Trotter Ministries.” This seemed odd because the night before I saw him and a frightening large man covered in tattoos with a Pit Bull leave my garage, which contained none of his possessions. A few days later, my brother had some money disappear. The day the money was stolen, Joseph claimed his wallet was also stolen, which, again, I contemplated with suspicion.   

 It was 10:30 PM; my brother and I had just gotten home exhausted from a 14-hour day at school. As I turned the key in the lock of my one hundred year old house and pushed the door open, I was greeted with a plume of smoke that enveloped my face. This was a shock because I thought I told Joseph that this was a non-smoking area. But this was not the only rule that he would break that night.

My brother and I entered with an eerie feeling, not knowing what to expect. As soon as we got to the top of the stairs, I saw my large 80 pound miter saw in the kitchen. Joseph immediately told us, “Someone has entry to this house, and you need to find out who it is.”

I thought to myself, indeed, someone has entry, and I would love to find out whom. Someone had hauled the saw up the winding stairs of the basement into the kitchen. What an odd place! I thought to myself, had I left it there? I could not have because it takes two able-bodied men and a boy to get it out of the basement. I looked up, and there he was: the man for the job with the perfect look of a thief. I could scarcely make out the shape of his dark complexion in my dimly lit living room. He was hunched over with his hoodie pulled over his head and was breathing heavily while puffing on a cancer stick. His face was scarred, and I could make out a few tattoos on his weathered arms.

Who wants lights when one does not want people to see what he is doing? Joseph the – things-going-missing-man, – said, “This is Mack. He and I go to church together.” I thought, by the looks of old Mack I do not believe he has ever stepped foot into a church. My senses picked up the overpowering smell of alcohol mixed with the smoke. Then, I noticed sweat rolling down Joseph’s dark face as though he had just carried something vaguely saw-shaped up some stairs.

My mind was whirling like a top spun precariously by a small child. What should I do? How do I play this smart? Do I call the police right away or not? I had a hunch I was up against some bad dudes, and they were right in my house moving our belonging out – out and away. But who was I to judge? Maybe he did not know what was his? Yet, all of the valuables were placed right in front of the door, and that is when it hit me. Would these respectable gentlemen be stealing from a poor college student who works and studies 14-hours a day? No, it could not be. But the truth was coming forth. These men were not your “good old Joe” type fellows.

I went upstairs to see what all was missing and secretly called the police. I took a glance in my room only to see my brother’s $1,200 IMac missing. The computer must have gone with the first load; I say this because later after I searched the house for missing belongings I came up with a total of $3,000 worth of tools, money, and electronics. But we gained a crack pipe which the police pointed out to me later that night after they arrived. Mack said he needed to go to do something “very important,” so we said our farewells as he walked away with his pants hanging low and his hoody hiding his face.

Soon the police arrived and investigated the situation. Joseph went on with a long story that was considerably different than the one my brother and I were told moments before. He did all of this in such a cunning and sly way. Psychopaths are typically thought as ragingly insane, but many are incredible manipulators, and he was one of them. After the police kicked him out of our house, he sat on the ground crying and telling us, “I was so close”

My brother said, “So close to what?”

He replied, “So close to getting my life back together, and now I have lost it all”  He was pouring on the tears and using his tactics of manipulation to put the blame on us. But my brother and I did not fall for it. We put his stuff outside and screwed the doors to the frame because I did not know if he had made an extra key.

Looking back on the situation, I can laugh, and I hope you will too. However, in the moment, fear and apprehension gripped my heart. I learned three important principles. Rule number one: looks are deceiving, so do a background check. Rule number two: insure your home if you invite a crack-head to live with you. Rule number three: nail down anything that has a potential to walk away.