For me, part of the fun of writing is learning about new stuff. Setting, character, even dialog has to be researched so that it’s believable. It has to be right.

The Internet is a perfect tool. Anything you want to know is out there in cyberspace. And libraries have been providing curious writers with answers for centuries. But I like to take my research a step further. I need to observe and study the people, places and things that I write about firsthand. I want to experience it – to feel it. 

Not long ago I was working on a new project. My idea was to rewrite the story of Robin Hood. I would change the characters to a merry band of homeless people who steal from drug dealers, then distribute the loot among poor families who want to buy homes and take back their neighborhoods.

There was a time when I was homeless, but that was almost a lifetime ago. I had to re-experience that existence to make my writing real. It was time to go back – maybe for a day.

After a few days without shaving, I pulled a stocking cap over my head, put on a few layers of old clothes and drove downtown. I had already canvassed the area where I would sit, and parked three blocks from my sidewalk observatory. I arrived there with my stuffed plastic bags a short time later and set up shop.

It didn’t take long for the cold concrete to penetrate three layers of pants. I lost all feeling in my butt while I sat there rattling a few coins in a plastic cup and shaking a “Vet needs to eat” sign at passing, well-dressed commuters. They liked me. Business wasn’t bad.

I didn’t make a full day on the street – just a little more than an hour. But I did come back with some good character studies and some true-to-life dialog that I’ll share with you.

Picture the biggest, meanest black man to ever walk the Earth. Use your imagination. Big. Real big and mean – with rotten teeth, bloodshot eyes and a head full of dusty Rastafarian dreadlocks. He’s wearing an oversized tweed coat with a ragged wool scarf coiled around his thick neck. His shoes don’t match. He holds a wine bottle by its long neck and bounces it against his thigh. He glowers down and says:

“Yo, White Bread. Yo. Yo. Get off my corner. Yo. You deaf? You pasty-assed … You ain’t gonna be nothin but a paint spot on this here sidewalk. Dis is a black man’s corner. Let’s see dat money. What you got in there? Gimme dat cup. Now get the hell outa here.”

From only one hour of research, I learned that it’s difficult to run down a crowded sidewalk with a paralytic butt in three pairs of pants – especially when you’re looking backwards. More importantly, I found out that there’s nothing merry about being homeless. Looking after yourself becomes more important than concern for others when you’re alone on the streets. And the injustice of homelessness will take more than a Robin Hood to resolve.

I gave thanks when I scurried into my car and locked the doors. I dumped my shopping bags, my “vet needs to eat” sign, and the story idea.

(Originally published July 18, 2003)