"Broke," The Man Without the Dime

by Edwin A. Brown

With an amused expression, eyeing closely my blue jeans, he said, “You vas not a lawyer.”

“No,” I answered, “I am not a lawyer, but tell me your name, and what is your trouble, and perhaps I can find you one.”

“My name is Steve Goebel. Vell, I dell you, I go there,” pointing to the employment office near at hand, “seven days ago, und I pay two tollars for a job at lumber camp Rainier, fifty, maybe seventy, mile avay. I pay my fare out there. I vork six days und six hours for vun seventy-five a day, ten hour a day, den dey dell me dey no vant me no more. I work so hard in rain und vet, und I vear mein clothes out, und I pay five tollars a veek board. Vhen dey dell me dey no vant me no more dey offer me dhree tollars for my six days und six hours’ work. I owe the commis, vhat you call it, fifteen cents for leedle tobac. Den dey take from me vun tollar hospital fee und dhree tollar poll tax, they say, or road tax, und offer me dhree tollar. I not take dot dhree tollar,—somevun dey rob me. I hafe leedle money. I come back part vay on boat, as far as my leedle money bring me, den I valk back here. I dell the office how I get treated und dey says nefer mind, ve get you anoder job, but I say I valk all night, I am hungry, den dey give me den cents for breakfast.”

I took this man to the office of the City Attorney and left him there to tell his story. I afterwards repeated the story to one of the leading newspaper writers of the city. He looked at me very earnestly, and said, “Do you think there will be a thing done about it?” I looked at him without reply, and he continued, “There won’t be a thing done. There is no law for the poor man here.”

MUNICIPAL Lodging House, New York City
Women’s and Children’s Dining Room

The man had been robbed in as low and cowardly a manner as only a most depraved degenerate could be guilty of. Portland had helped to make that man destitute, and now he is forced to beg, steal or starve, until he finds another job, or perhaps, through desperation takes his life. Similar experiences in Portland have forced a great many to do that very thing. Several men have been found dead in a pretty green square in the heart of Portland’s breathing spot, called the Plaza, and postmortem examinations have revealed nothing in their stomachs. And these tragedies have taken place almost within a stone’s throw of the Associated Charities.

A great pile of water and pitch-soaked blocks of kindling wood was piled in front of No. 10 North Second Street, a Jap restaurant. Some of the blocks were so heavy it was with difficulty they could be carried even singly. The wood belonged to the Japs. An old man, an American, some sixty odd years of age, was carrying it in. I asked him if he did not want a helper. He said, “I would like a helper but there is so little in it and there is not enough for two. I am carrying this all in for thirty cents and it will take me, I think, three hours.”

This old man had a good, kind face, and his clothes, though worn, were clean. He continued, “I have been playing in a little hard luck of late and must get all out of my work possible.” I then asked him if he had breakfasted. He had not. I said, “I have a little money, come and have some breakfast and carry in the wood afterward.” He said, “No, I won’t take your money, I will soon be through here and get my pay.”