Downhill through light snow
My track joins another... three
Snails in the rat race.
Last night's snow was wet but not heavy enough to be a hazard to navigation. The pavement was clear for cars, and I stayed on the road when I could, nosing back into the bike lane's light slush when the traffic caught me. The fenderless front wheel tossed up just enough slop to soak my pant legs and speckle my shades.
"T" spent the night outside, where the snowfall was bit less poetic. He brought in his sopped sleeping bag and a load of laundry. After he warmed up in the shower, he changed into his customary sport coat. The tail of the jacket, too small for his big frame, drapes on his rear like an untucked shirt.
My job at the Grand Junction Day Center this day was managing the flow among the five washers, five dryers and about ten people who had things to wash — or in one case, just to dry.
As the laundry attendant, I manage the signup sheet, set up the machines and operate them, summon people to move their laundry through the cycle and make sure nothing gets left behind. Like the other jobs at the Day Center, it's neither complicated nor onerous. Since people are literally airing their dirty laundry, I try to find the right line between being helpful and giving them some space.
One of the houses demolished to make way for the new housing.
Earlier this month, some new housing opened across the street, with 500-square-foot apartments for homeless veterans. For men who've been on the street or in shelters for years, moving into a nice new apartment can be an adjustment. For example, so much of their life has been communal or at least out in the open. Having four walls and a ceiling suddenly closes them off. They don't see their old friends as a matter of course, and the friends may not feel comfortable just dropping by.
You might have to spend some time here to understand why ringing another man's doorbell could seem like a big deal.
One man reported that he felt lonesome just sitting in his apartment with no visitors, so he came over to the Day Center. I talked to another vet who'd recently found housing and asked him how it was going.
"Oh, it had bed bugs and I moved out," he said. "I don't mind. I've been homeless so long, I guess I prefer it. I'm happy staying at a church now where they have shelter overflow. The people there are real nice, and I don't have a problem with alcohol, so I can stay there.
"There are so many places in the Valley that'll help you if you just look," he said.
A young woman arrived in tears, sad because a friend had left for a job in Idaho — a good job, apparently, paying $15 an hour with benefits. A good reason to leave a shelter and a semi-girlfriend. She asked for a Kleenex and I gave her one, though we have boxes of them all over the place. Hard to tell how much of this was fresh pain and how much performance for a fresh audience.
I try to accept everyone at face value here, but I know I'm not always getting a straight story.
Case in point: "E" was talking about going to court. As she described it, she'd been outside by the library reading a book and fell asleep. When she awoke, she said, her pants had slipped down and a police officer was giving her a ticket because her butt crack was showing in public.
I gather from other people there was a mattress involved, not a book, and the roadside, not the library. There was also a naked man she forgot to mention, but the part about her pants being down was true, to one degree or another.
This afternoon the bike lane is damp but clear. The snow lingers in the grass and on the north facing hills, but the desert brush looks like it did yesterday. Tomorrow, if you want to see snow in the Valley, you'll have to look for it.
