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This left Neko to fend for herself. Her husband had made their money by selling frankfurters and snacks at a stall in front of the park shrine on the weekends, but Neko had no income of her own. Nor could she, with her arthritis, easily raise and lower her tent daily as the park management required, not to mention complete the more strenuous "special clean-ups" each month. Even changing her clothes, doing laundry, and cooking became difficult chores. In other words, she could no longer do for herself. She had no one to take care of her and little money to pay someone to do it. She was living mostly from church handouts, which marked her desperation.
Most people of the mountain refused to eat at soup lines because they felt the church insulted them by making them listen to long sermons, feeding them soupy rice (that they called cat food), and, worst of all, by giving to everyone anonymously, thereby denying homeless people's humanity, which the people of the mountain located in their abilities to maintain mutually reciprocating human relationships. In true human relationships, they insisted, food is mutually exchanged and given with words of acknowledgment such as "you must have had a hard day" (otsukaresama deshita). But the church makes you sit, orates a long sermon, and gives to anyone who will listen. Thus, those on the mountain view those who line up, who merely receive without giving back anything and who do so in anonymity, as void of humanity, perseverance, and pride.
And now they saw Neko lining up several times a week. Still, at first thinking her husband would come back, Neko's neighbors took pity on her, commiserated with her view of her husband's irresponsibility, and helped with her tent and meals. After all, the couple had seniority over other residents due to their age and tenure in the park. However, when it became clear that Neko's husband had left for good, the neighbors retreated. They felt it was Neko's responsibility to do for herself. She was seventy-six years old, with illnesses that made her one of the few easy candidates for the scant state-supported welfare services.
Certainly Neko had her pride, her neighbors thought, but it was time for her "to do what she had to do." "One cannot depend on others," Pū-chan, Neko's neighbor, complained. "She may be pitiful (kawaisō), but I have stopped helping her. Her tent smells horrible because she merely drops her clothes in water, without soap, and hangs them to dry. And the tent is full of roaches. I don't know what she's thinking." Neko, in losing her independence and her ability to do homeless, had lost her legitimacy and endangered her relationships on the yama.
Kita, on the other hand, was younger than Neko. He was sixty-two years old and three years away from receiving his work pension, which, unlike the ex-day-laborers, he had earned from his former job at an inn in a northern prefecture. But he left the job, and his home, after the death of his wife. He traveled around a bit, but had drained his resources quickly. He was staying in a room in Ueno when he first came to the park. He saw all the tents, talked to some people, made some friends, and thought he would give it a try. He did not drink alcohol, nor did he ever scavenge for food or even do day labor, but he was quick to offer a cigarette and sometimes, or so I heard, even a loan. He "did not cause a big nuisance" (meiwaku o kakenai). Most importantly, he did everything for himself. He was his own means of financial support and was able to raise and lower his tent and move it out on "special clean-up" days. Thus, even though he claimed that his plan was to return to his daughter's home in the north where she ran an inn, for the time being, Kita was self-sufficient, committed to his relationships, active on the yama, and, therefore, seen as legitimate by his peers.
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