For his part, Freedman admits that he'd like to see the former Catholic high school property sold and redeveloped into housing. "I'd like to get the Catholic Church to sell that property," he says. "They could take the money and buy the Catholic Workers a facility. I think it would be a win-win situation."
So far, the Archdiocese hasn't decided what it wants to do with the suddenly valuable site. There has been talk about using the building as a school again, but no decisions have been made.
Mmm, good: Byron Plumley makes it chunky.
Brett Amole
Serving soup and God: Many homeless people rely on Byron Plumley and volunteer Mary Howard.
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"We're in the process of determining what the use could be," says Greg Kail, spokesman for the Archdiocese. "We're putting together a task force to look at it."
Kail says the Archdiocese leased the basement of the building to the Workers because "we feel we have a responsibility toward the most vulnerable of our population." He adds that the church made it clear the soup kitchen could only stay there temporarily while it looked for a permanent home. The Catholic Workers have been searching for an affordable location but have been unsuccessful so far.
While the future of the soup kitchen is up in the air, dozens of people still show up every evening, looking for a hot meal and a bit of companionship before heading back onto the streets. Sitting at a table inside the soup kitchen, all this talk of real estate development and zoning seems unreal. Simple survival is the daily special here.
Paul is a good-looking middle-aged man with flecks of grey in his dark hair; he could easily walk down 17th Street and be mistaken for an accountant. But Paul lives in his car. Intelligent and articulate, he worked as a property manager for a large company in Denver in the 1980s, then lost everything in the bust that brought down the company. His wife left him, the bank took back his house, and his life spiraled downhill. Unable to find a job, he sunk into depression. Since then, he's been homeless off and on. He's about to get a job working construction, but on this cold night, he'll be sleeping underneath a pile of blankets and a sleeping bag in his car.
"It's cold, but it's better than the street," Paul says with a shrug.
He showers at city recreation centers and takes meals here several times a week. Until September he was living in a duplex, but he got kicked out when he couldn't make the rent. "I screwed up," he says.
When Paul talks about his teenage son, whom he sees now and then, his eyes well up. "Do you have someone to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas with?" he asks. "That's nice."
According to Paul, half the people who come to the soup kitchen are crazy. He thinks the rest are divided between those who don't want to work and others whose lives have been ruined by alcohol or drugs.
Across the table, a young black man with a kind face moans as he eats his soup. "My name is Charles," he says, hunched over the bowl. He grew up in New Mexico, then came to Denver a couple of years ago when he heard there was work here. He had a good job, an apartment in Capitol Hill and a girlfriend.
Then one day his girlfriend introduced him to crack cocaine, and everything went to hell.
He's lost touch with his family. Charles says two of his brothers are already dead, and he doesn't seem to think the others would want to hear from him. He has a young daughter in California and says her mother is a good, kind woman, but he doesn't want to call them, either.
Nobody wants to be around a crackhead.
Now he spends his days walking the streets, trying to decide if his life is worth saving. If he could give up the crack, the Denver Rescue Mission has a program that helps people restart their lives. But he doesn't know if he can.
"Sometimes I wish the homeless killer would kill me while I'm sleeping," says Charles. "If I had sleeping pills, I'd take them."
Your daughter misses you. She wonders where you are, says the stranger across the table. Don't give up -- you still have something to give to the world.
Charles smiles wanly as he bundles up to head back to the streets. "Thank you for thinking about me," he says before disappearing into the dark.
