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MBC students sleep on Seattle streets

"When you live on the streets, you share what you got," the old man said, holding out a half-full bottle of vodka.

"No thanks," I replied. The two Multnomah Bible College students with me also declined.

He shrugged his shoulders and took a swig from the bottle. For Bob Robison, alcohol is a life necessity; he said he drinks two bottles of vodka a day "just to feel normal."

He placed the bottle next to the dirty yellow and blue sleeping bag he lay in and leaned against a concrete wall. A novel, a cigarette lighter and a few clothes lay next to him on a sheet of cardboard.

Bob lives on a sidewalk in downtown Seattle's industrial district. He sleeps under a doorway that protects him from the rain.

"I've lived here 18 months," he said, "ever since I got out of prison."

Bob pulled a blanket over his bag and peered out from under his bushy eyebrows. His thin gray hair curled at his shoulders. A mangy moustache drooped below his chin.

"I was in prison for pre-meditated murder," he said.

Bob reached for his vodka. "You sure you don't want any?" he asked a second time.

To Bob, we were street kids. Who else would roam Seattle's abandoned streets at midnight in ripped shoes, torn pants, oily hair and dirty faces?

In reality, we were disguised as homeless kids merely to investigate what homeless life was like. We wanted both to experience homelessness and gather information about life on the streets from the homeless themselves. My mission was to use the information to write an article for a journalism class.

And now, without an introduction, Bob had opened up to us.

"If you're looking for a place to stay, there's a great spot across the street," he said. Across the street, a staircase led down to an uncompleted 30-foot-long tunnel.

"That would be a great place for moles," he said. "Do you know what a mole is? A mole is someone who lives underground."

Bob used to live in the tunnel but moved out because he "can't stand being dirty.

"Also, recluse spiders are everywhere down there," he said, explaining that four or five bites from this spider could be fatal to a human.

For Bob, his new home is luxury. His cove protects him from rain, and police aren't authorized to apprehend him because of his letter from the property owner stating he is permitted to stay as long as he "protects" the area from burglary and graffiti.

After 20 years in prison, Bob doesn't mind living in the streets. "My worst day in the streets is better than the best day in prison," he said.

Bob said his worst day on the streets was when a single woman walked up to him in the middle of the night and yelled, "Wake up!" in his ear. She walked away laughing.

Bob is also peeved when people kick his feet to wake him up and offer a couple of dollars.

"I'd rather sleep than get spare change," he said.

Once awakened, Bob can't get back to sleep. And he doesn't want change at the cost of sleep, he said, because he can find free food, clothes and showers from homeless missions and local churches anytime.

But Bob would rather live on the streets than be institutionalized.

"I don't want the state's money."

Three swastika tattoos on his arm and stomach testify to his defiance toward the government.

"Only get tattoos if you're willing to fight for them," he said, the scars on his face bearing testimony. He was also a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

"I saw my first hanging when I was 5 years old," he said. "I remember it to this day." Bob is 49.

Now he refuses to join society.

When a homeless friend approached him later that night and told Bob he was applying for a job, Bob frowned.

"You don't want to do that," he said.

"Bob, I'll be able to fix my teeth," the friend said, smiling. He was missing about four teeth and drunk.

Two kids in patch-covered brown jackets arrived shortly after Bob's friend. One, a girl, in tall black leather boots, had hitch-hiked to Seattle with her boyfriend to catch a concert the next day. They were looking for a place to sleep that night.

Bob's friend volunteered to take them to a shelter. The two MBC students, weary from the long walk across Seattle, joined the group and headed off.

"Nice to meet you," the girl said, holding out her pinkie.

Bob looked at her and froze.

"The last time I shook pinkies was with my son," he said, half smiling. "It's a long story, but my son asked me if I'd be his dad and I said yes and we shook pinkies."

With tears in his eyes, Bob said his reconciliation with his son was one of the few times he had been happy. The girl kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm in love," he said, kissing her on the hand. The girl kissed him on his cheek again and left with the group, leaving me alone to talk with Bob.

I asked Bob about his murder.

"I murdered my best friend," he said. Bob told me his friend had drug-ged Bob's wife with LSD before beating and raping her. As a result, his nine-month-pregnant wife had a mis-carriage. Bob tracked down his friend, who had been hiding for two days.

"This is going to get graphic," he said. "I literally beat [him] to death. There was more blood on the ground than in his body."

Bob's eyes were wide with fury as he describing the murder. His upper lip twitched. Then he yanked his fist back to punch me.

As a reflex, I jumped back and threw my hands in front of my face to protect myself. I was trapped against the brick wall and couldn't run.

A man who had been observing us crossed the street and stood ready to protect me. Bob only intended to dem-onstrate how he had killed his friend.

"Oh no, man. I ain't gonna hurt ya," he said. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. If you did something to me, I would warn you first. Then I'd hit ya."

In spite of Bob's deep anger, he still demonstrated compassion. When he noticed I shivered from the 4:30 a.m. chill, he offered me his blanket, a thin, stained cotton fabric with cigarette burns. I refused the offer, not wanting to deprive Bob of heat.

"No, you need it," he said. "No, no, I sleep warm in this sleeping bag."

I covered myself with the blanket but still shivered.

Later, Bob lifted up some particle board beside him, revealing a pizza box.

"Help yourself," he said, opening the box as if to display jewelry. Six slices of meat pizza were stuck together in one lump.

"It's fresh," he said. "It was only made at noon."

I pulled off the top slice and began nibbling but turned down another piece.

I was hungry when I left Bob that morning. But not for long. After a casual, "See ya, man," I met up with the two MBC students and returned to a cozy home in Seattle's suburbs.

Hot, homemade pancakes welcomed me. I leaned back on a cushioned chair, a welcome change from the cold concrete.

In between sips of orange juice, I exchanged stories with the two MBC students. We had experienced being homeless. Or so we thought.

Later, I strolled across a soft, carpeted floor and headed upstairs to a well-furnished bedroom where I lay down on a mattress and covered my-self with thick blankets. Sheltered from outside noises and distractions, I soon fell asleep.

But Bob was still under the concrete doorway.