Best-laid plans to help the homeless go awry
Joe Galea knew when he saw his homeless friend's photo in the newspaper that he had to help. But could he?
By MEG LAUGHLIN, Times Staff Writer
Published October 22, 2007
The call came in a few days after a photo of a middle-aged homeless man appeared in the St. Petersburg Times in mid September. He was sitting on a Lakeland sidewalk, scowling.
The caller identified himself as Joe Galea from New York City. He and his wife had moved to a condo in St. Pete, he said. He'd seen the picture and was shocked. It was an old colleague and friend from New York.
His name was Ray Payne. He'd be 56 now. He had worked as an engineer at Estee Lauder cosmetics in Melville, Long Island, until the mid '90s, said Galea, who described him as "a very smart, middle-class guy with a family."
"Geez, I just can't imagine how this happened to Ray," he said. "I can't sleep thinking about it."
He wanted to find him, help him. Or, rather, he wanted me to find him so he could help him.
It was a task made more difficult by the routing of the homeless from the Lakeland sidewalk soon after the photo ran. Lakeland officials had previously allowed them to live in plain view. But, concerned the story and photo would bring more homeless, police had sent them scurrying to woods around town where they were virtually invisible. Out of sight, out of mind.
Galea recalled that Payne had been "a whiz at cooling and ventilation systems" at Estee Lauder, where they'd both worked. He had also been in the Navy, and had a wife and daughter. The family had a nice home on the Long Island shore and a summer home on a lake in upstate New York.
"I just know in my heart if we can find him and offer some help, he'll make a comeback," said Galea, his voice breaking.
I took the photo to Salvation Army and Talbot House shelters in Lakeland and asked workers to have Ray Payne call me if he came out of hiding for a meal.
It took a week.
He called from a borrowed cell phone. "No Kidding!" he shouted. "My old pal is down here looking for me? I'm not a religious guy but there must be a God!"
At this point, I have to admit I was seeing TOUCHING STORY: How a middle-class family man became homeless. How his old friend found him a decade later, thousands of miles away and reached out to him, restoring him to a place in society.
When I picked up Ray for lunch in Lakeland last week, I wasn't sure what to make of what he brought: a canvas backpack, a shaving kit, a large bed roll, blankets and three plastic bags of clothes.
For lunch?
"Take me to Joe Galea's place in St. Pete," he announced, without ever having spoken to Joe.
Let's go to lunch and talk about your life first, I said. Then, we'll call Joe.
No, said Payne, he had to get out of Lakeland. He was tired of it. Tired of living in the woods like "some disgusting insect under a rock." He had to leave immediately to keep his sanity.
"To Joe's or your house," he ordered, as I pulled into a Bennigan's parking lot.
Over a cheeseburger and a beer, which I paid for, he told me the summer home on the lake burned down in 1983, with his mother in it. His marriage fell apart a few years later, and he moved into an apartment alone. Estee Lauder sent him to counseling for drinking.
"Vodka with cranberry juice for lunch," he said.
When Estee Lauder finally "canned" him in 1996, he said he took off for Vegas.
"Like Nicolas Cage in the movie?" I asked.
"Exactly. I cashed in my 401K and had a big cocktail party."
Stars and cigarettes
Back in New York, with no savings left, he got a job with a refrigeration company. He shared an apartment with a roommate and managed to hold on for a few years. When he lost that job, he moved in with his brother in New York. Then, he came to Hudson, Fla., where his father had retired years before. From there, he got a job with a Lakeland band as a bass guitarist until his guitars got stolen. Then, he moved to the street.
Out of the blue, he got this dreamy look on his face and said, "One time, in the early '80s, we were on the lake at the summer house and dad and I were playing guitars and mom was singing A Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille. I think it was the happiest I've ever been in my life."
He paused and added, "I'm not that unhappy now. I like looking up at the stars at night. I manage to get cigarettes and a few beers most days."
All he needed, he said, was a regular job and a few nights inside "at Joe's or your place."
"No rehab," he said emphatically. "No AA."
After lunch, I called Joe for him.
"Yes, Joe, it's Ice Cube, the cooling expert," he shouted gleefully.
Then, his eyes got watery and his voice cracked.
"Joe, thanks so much for wanting to help me," he said.
He quickly outlined his plan: I'd drive him to Joe's for a few days, where he'd sleep in the condo with Joe and "the wife." Then, Joe would help him find a job and he'd get out on his own.
From 5 feet away, I could hear Joe saying "whoa" on the other end of the line. Ray couldn't crash at his place, he said. After all, they hadn't seen each other for a decade and needed to get reacquainted. Joe mentioned Navy benefits for Ray. He mentioned rehab. He said he'd like to come see Ray in Lakeland.
Ray said he needed to change his life immediately. He needed to go to Joe's or my place that afternoon. All this planning wasn't for him, he said, and hung up.
Then, he quickly made another call with my cell.
"No, I'm not calling for money," he told his ex-wife in Long Island.
We drove back to the sidewalk that was his home before the photo ran. I unloaded his stuff against his protests.
"If I get out of this car, you and Joe won't see me again," he warned.
"Please get out," I said.
"Drive me to St. Pete," he ordered.
Getting a little panicky, I told him he needed to be more patient and things would work out.
But it was only when a police car happened to pull up that he got out of the car.
I hit the gas pedal and didn't look back.
Sticking around
It wasn't till I got on Interstate 4 that I heard a rasping sound and saw a huge mottled cicada flecked with gold and silver on the seat where Ray had been. It had oversized eyes like Ray and was making a racket, like Ray.
Screaming, I pulled over, opened the door and tried to whisk it out. When I didn't see it, I drove off.
Later, I called Ray's ex-wife, Claudia Payne, in New York. She corroborated everything Ray had said. His story was true, she said. But she warned: "Don't let him in your house or car because he won't leave."
I also talked to his brother, Rob Payne, who said Ray had come for a night and stayed for two years. "It cost me my marriage and $2,000 in eviction fees to get him out of my basement," he said.
"I keep hoping he'll change," said Rob.
Where Ray Payne is now, I don't know. True to his word, he hasn't called Joe Galea or me, and we don't know if he left Lakeland.
Joe has called a few times to say it's hard to get his old pal out of his mind. He worries that he's scrounging around in some remote woods.
I know what Joe means - especially when I'm driving and hear the faint rasping of that cicada, which is still somewhere in my car.
Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it's not there.
Meg Laughlin can be reached at mlaughlin@sptimes.com.