Maybe it was the moon today. Or maybe it was the drugs.
Day Center guests check in at the front door before being admitted. They register on their first visit, and then on subsequent visits they declare the services they've come for. We keep track of how many people we serve each day, but I'm not certain anything happens with the other data we collect. I suspect asking the guests to articulate that they've come for coffee, mail and a shower mainly serves as a quick sobriety check.
But not an infallible one. People aren't supposed to be admitted if they're under the influence, but that's a subjective call, since some of our homeless guests are on legal medications that lift their moods or suppress their mania. Others show up with some level of alcohol, meth, heroin, cocaine, weed or another substance in their system.
No one created any trouble, but more people than usual were in an altered state today.
One conversation was about Ron Paul. Both of the discussants were for him, because he's for basic liberties (which the homeless might naturally support) and going back pre-Federal Reserve and not paying tribute to the Chinese (which don't seem to be front-burner issues if you're living in a tent).
One man was convinced nobody else was for Ron Paul, while the other was convinced his campaign was being sabotaged by claims that Paul was racist and anti-Semitic. Neither was clear on what Libertarian meant.
Another regular passed from semi-comatose to voluble in the span of his stay, landing in that meth-driven sweet spot that can seem as if the user is alert and on top things — at least until he starts talking about the illegality of carrying ice cream in your back pocket when you're in Utah.
He told me about trying to get arrested for shoplifting beer so he could spend some time in jail straightening himself out. "I was doing drugs and I needed to stop for awhile, so I could get back to remembering 1 plus 1 equals 2 and ABCD."
His buddy walked into the store and picked up a 12-pack of Old Milwaukee. "Geez, I said, at least steal something good in case we don't get caught, so he took a 12-pack of Budweiser."
The strategy didn't work, since the judge fined them instead of giving him and his accomplice jail time. He claimed the judge had the same name as a long-time president of the National Geographic Society — something I was unable to verify, but it seemed to hold some mystical significance.
Foiled in that attempt at semi-rehab, they went to a Pizza Hut, ordered pizza and beer, and did a dine and dash. This time, they got off without being arrested. There were no doubt other ways to get arrested in Utah without scoring free beer, but as far as I know, he didn't try walking around with ice cream in his back pocket.
Next to my station near the showers is a book shelf loaded with free books where the Ron Paul fan club was hanging out. One of the men had placed his jacket on top of it while he was showering. There's not much space for leaving personal articles or folding laundry, so people use whatever surface is available.
When he took down his coat, he accidentally pulled off a ceramic angel that he'd covered and forgotten about. It fell to the floor and shattered. The angel, which I'd barely noticed before, had some significance to the Day Center director, who glared at the man who broke it.
He took responsibility and cleaned up the pieces, provoking a discussion about personal accountability with the wife of Mr. Ice Cream Pockets. She was also amped up.
The day was full of these moments: People off-kilter and out-of-control, but still grounded in a weird sort of morality, showing concern for each other and disdain for society.
Broken angels.
