Story Time

The Seattle city council recently passed an ordinance—subsequently vetoed by the mayor—that was advanced by a council member who is a former police officer. The ordinance would have made it a misdemeanor punishable by a $50 fine or jail if a panhandler said anything that made a passerby uncomfortable (i.e. “guilty”), or seemed overly “aggressive.” The ordinance would have given the police the power to issue tickets even when no one complained. Admittedly, most people find panhandlers annoying on occasion, and some of these indigents are nothing but street hustlers who like living irresponsibly. But some of these people—especially those with clear physical disabilities—are part of the larger problem of homelessness.

The census count is expected to be a challenging endeavor in some anti-government environs, and as for myself, I haven’t even received a census form, and don’t intend to go out of my way to acquire one. But there are also with potentially millions more of the homeless and “in transit” for the field workers to find and count. Prior numbers ranged from less than 250,000 to 3 million, depending upon the level of advocacy. Given what I just disclosed, I know for a fact that “official” counts are inaccurate even without taking into account the problem of counting the homeless. Many of the homeless deliberately seek “shelter” in places where they won’t be found, whether to avoid police harassment, to steer clear of mental or violent hard cases, or they just want privacy. Undocumented workers are also being told by immigrant advocates to shun census takers.

I have some experience with homelessness. As I have grown older, I have become cynical on some subjects and radicalized on others, but there was a time in my younger days when I was absurdly naïve and trusting. One day I fancied that Los Angeles would be a stimulating location for a new start in life (“It Never Rains in Southern California”). I bought a ticket on a Greyhound bus, pocketed my life savings of about a $1,000 and off I was in search of an exciting new career; in what I hadn’t yet thought of, but I knew it would be “exciting” and “fulfilling.” It was a 2,000 mile trip, mostly dull and uncomfortable, except when we stopped in Salt Lake City, where while I was admiring the gardening on the grounds of the Mormon temple compound I was accosted by a female who looked like a magazine cover model, who tried unsuccessfully to convert me to Mormonism. Back on the bus I found myself seated next to a new partner, who told me he was from Los Angeles, and would be glad to help me find a place to stay, and maybe even a job; he was such a fine fellow that I showed him my roll of bills. My new “friend” informed me that he had just evacuated Texas, shortly after he and his brother employed themselves in tidying-up a acquaintance’s house by transferring some of his belongings into the bed of their pick-up truck, while he was gone. That is until the police arrived after a neighbor reported the goings-on, and they were obliged to high-tail it through a few yards and over a few fences, forgetting about their truck.

Now, I’m certain that most people would be wary of “assistance” from a character of this sort, but I didn’t know anyone in L.A., and this guy seemed most willing and surprisingly friendly, given that even my name was a matter of indifference to him. When we arrived in L.A., we took a stroll before finding a front lawn to sit down on, and smoked some pot for lunch. The fact that this was a new experience for me had absolutely nothing to do with making uncomplicated my new friend’s aptitude for stealing things that were not his—like of all my money while I took a nap. When I discovered my deprived situation, it didn’t matter if I was in a haze or a daze; I walked aimlessly for about twelve hours around town trying to concentrate my mind on the most proficient and painless way of killing myself. I finally collapsed in an abandoned school house full of broken glass; I fell into unconsciousness before I could consider their uses.

By the time I awoke at the dewy break of dawn, sunshiny with birds chirping and all that other crap, I had forgotten the previous day’s tribulation and was ready to start afresh. What was that lyric from the song Me and Bobbie McGee? “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” I thought that being a beach bum in Santa Monica would be fun, until some kids started throwing mini firecrackers at me while I trying to sleep on the ledge of a lifeguard shack. Someplace down the beach was an open restroom, where I hid in a stall when company arrived around 2 am. I won’t describe the activity that occurred in the adjoining room with the sink, because this is a PG site; thus ended my career as a beach bum.
A couple days later someone who ascertained my impoverished situation while I was discreetly scanning the garbage cans outside a McDonald’s suggested that he had a place for me to stay for awhile; I found myself in house in North Hollywood run by Christian-types of the fundamentalist variety. I won’t say that it was difficult to abide by their rules, but I sensed right-off that I wasn’t going to “fit-in.” One day we went on a tour of the local churches; by evening I was ready to go home, but the “brothers” were not. The next stop on the itinerary had one of those rituals where you stand, sit and kneel every five minutes; it was fortunate that I was on my knees when sleep overcame me, because everyone around thought this pathetic sinner was deeply in prayer, and ought not be disturbed. The next day it was more of the same. I decided that I couldn’t fake it anymore; while we were waiting outside another church, I decided to take a look around, and kept on going.
I was one of L.A.’s homeless for another five weeks, had enough of that career move, and decided to visit an Army recruiting center in Crenshaw, back in the days when they took everyone.

So I know something about the business of homelessness, but since I still retain most of my faculties, I know how to get back on my feet after suffering life reverses. Although I have rather less sympathy for people who are professional hobos, there are those who are truly in need that sometimes try one’s cynicism. I discovered this a few weeks ago on my arrival to work. My work day starts at 2 AM to make sure I catch a red-eye bus to my job at the airport. After I off-loaded from the bus shortly before 4 AM, I was half-way up a sidewalk that led to the terminal when I noticed a very small, white-haired old woman with a mouthful of missing teeth and a cheap cart loaded with homeless kind of stuff, just standing there looking in a completely lost daze.

I have to confess that I was mightily afraid that she might ask me for “help,” which was exactly what happened. Fortunately there were other people who departed the bus with me, and seeing that I had stopped to “help,” two or three others felt obligated to do the same. But it was hopeless. She wanted to know where to catch a bus; I pointed toward the street and asked where she was going; “Sea-Tac” she said in a pathetic bleat. She was in Sea-Tac, I pointed out. Where in Sea-Tac did she need to go? She didn’t know, or rather, didn’t seem to comprehend the question. I asked her if there was anyone she could call, but her mind seemed to wander and I received no answer. The other people started to drift away; one of them whose English was limited observed that she had “Lots problems.”

And then it was just me and this old lady; I suppose that I am the kind of person who can be made to feel extremely mortified when confronted by people whose condition is even worse than my own. But I was going to be late if this kept-up much longer; we recently had to sign a policy statement that informed us that four late clock-ins was punishable by termination. I didn’t have any money to give her, and it probably wouldn’t have helped anyway since I was under the distinct impression that she was suffering from dementia (or she was very good actor, which I doubted) and she wouldn’t have known what to do with it. Having frittered away enough time, I told her that she should wait inside the terminal and maybe the port police would help her, although prior observation informed me that the police are loath to engage in social work (I always snicker when the intercom “reminds” us that the port police are “here to serve you,”—not hurt you), and they had probably already chased her once out of the terminal. As I left her, I wondered, considering her helpless state of her mind, she might have simply been dumped here by some trailer trash relations hoping that someone else would take care of her.

She was gone by the time I returned the same way 12 hours later. I couldn’t help but hope—perhaps for the sake of my own battered cynicism—that somehow found some respite from the condition that defined our meeting.