Across the Great Divide

Shelter Report: Good Man in a Black Hat.

Anthony came into the Day Center this week, the first time I'd seen him since last spring.

Something was off.

He has always been thin and his face has the slightly rearranged look of an old injury that had settled in place. The difference was, I had never seen him without his hat—a broad, black flat-brim that, with his dog and the cowboy-boot roll of his walk, identified Anthony from a block away. 

In the spring, he gotten the key to an apartment. He was never a grump before, but each day he came for his mail you could see how having his own place had lifted him. He said walking in and closing that door was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

That expression, too, was missing.

I asked about the apartment. How it was going.

Another good thing gone.

He had done what others in his situation do, allowed in some people. In the supported housing, it's against the rules but when a man finally experiences a little good fortune, it's hard to say no to people left in the leaky boat he just escaped.

But those friends haven't done the same work to get off the street and often they bring the street with them. The man and woman emptied his bank account and took advantage of him in other ways. Anthony lost the place, less than a year in.

A big heart is a huge risk in these situations. People who have lived unsheltered for a long time have often had to let their boundaries go. They've shared space and meals and cigarettes and clothes with all kinds of people who might not otherwise be their friends. Part of getting them ready to move into housing includes alerting them to the pitfalls of good fortune. But compared to the other dangers they've faced, giving someone a couch to sleep on may feel like a long-due kindness.

He said the housing authority was understanding. He was looking for new apartment now, but he needed a place that would take his dog.

I hope next time I see the hat.

Shelter Report: Simple Luxuries.

At the end of the table today, two Native women demonstrated techniques for making cigarettes on a budget.

Joanne, like a number of smokers, gathers discarded cigarette butts from the street, public ashtrays and other sources. These are typically collected in a sealed baggie or Tupperware-style container for later harvesting of the tobacco.

The burnt end is pinched off and the remaining tobacco is worked from the paper tube. Since smoke has traveled through the tobacco, what remains is relatively harsh and it is often cut with  low-cost rolling tobacco such as Bugler. 

Here, she has culled enough to produce one hand-rolled cigarette.

Others work more in production mode, using a rolling machine. I've seen some guests insert tobacco in premade tubes, but Suzi (left) is using the simpler cradle-style roller.

Her technique involves snipping off the end of the filter next to the previous smoker's mouth and then reusing the trimmed butt.

The result is a well-shaped cigarette, but the recycled filter may not be to everyone's taste.

***

JC told me he went to bed hungry last night. Sometimes it's that way, he said.

Now that it's toward the end of the month, he is out of SSI money. Because he sleeps on the street, he doesn't get the breakfast and dinner served at the shelter. He's on his own for food and other expenses, such as buying the diapers he needs for his incontinence.

Early each month, his benefits account is credited electronically and he withdraws money in the predawn, calls a cab and takes it out to the Love's truck stop on the interstate. He typically orders biscuits and gravy for $7 plus coffee and a tip. Then he pays $11 to use the trucker's showers.

The showers are deluxe compared to what we have at the Day Center. They have a second head about waist high which can be directed at the feet.  Since he's paying, there's no one banging on the door that his ten minutes are up.

He takes a cab back to his camp. The fare is $20 each way.

All in all, he spends nearly $70 within the first few hours of receiving his payment.

It may seem foolish, given his empty belly last night and the prospect of more if he can't raise a few dollars panhandling. But by spreading his dollars out, he might have to give up this one luxury, the only time all month when a few people do as he asks. When he can sit at a table and not be asked to move. When he can feel the hot water soothe his aches, the way we can do anytime we've had a bad day.

 

 

Shelter Report: The Myth of the Shiny New Suitcase

Everybody thinks I'm doing meth, she said—but I'm not.

I put that one down as a fib, given the evidence—the mouth contortions, the chickenpox face, the rapt but ineffectual focus on dressing the sores on her hands.

A shoplifting charge had put her in jail for a few months, enough to come out clean and healthy, but now she suffers from a skin infection and a bad choice of self-medications. 

It's routine for people on the sidelines to talk about "bad choices," but that implies good ones are readily available.

Last week, a local newspaper columnist wrote a lazy opinion piece stating that our local homeless shelter is having financial difficulties because it is serving too many people who don't belong here.

Anyone with eyes knows the number of transients has shot up like a human cannonball. Most of them, by definition, don’t have to be here. If one has no residence or job in an area and its [sic] 5 degrees outside — the logical solution is travel, unless free services outweigh the lure of the road.

One remedy, then, might be a shiny new suitcase, but there will remain a minority, forced by circumstances to remain. This is the number to consider for assistance.

This is a simplistic generalization by clever fellow untrammeled by facts. The type who does back-of-the-envelope math on a few stray figures and mistakes them for reality.

I wonder what he thinks those circumstances are that force people to remain?

According to recent surveys of the local homeless population:

• 28% are under 18
• 42% report at least one disability
• 57% of these transients have lived in the county for three years or more
• Only 22% have been here less than a year.

Some were perhaps drawn by stories of a compassionate community handing out freebies. But others were returning home, seeking help from family members that didn't pan out, or sent here by other communities doing precisely what the columnist proposes doing to others.

***

If unemployment is your only issue, maybe pulling up stakes is the way to go.

But many homeless face multiple barriers. If you're a kid, fresh out of jail and on probation, have chronic health problems and lack transportation or employment, maybe not it's a good idea to leave town and see if you can find a job where you don't have friends or any support structure. Maybe your mail will catch up to you, along with your disability benefits. Maybe you'll quickly hook up with a new clinic or physician and the local shelter won't also be full and straining to keep its doors open.

Yeah, maybe. And maybe a girl's meth problem will clear up with a shiny new suitcase.

***

A regular who recently spent 45 days in the mental health clinic came out last month with a $65,000 bill. His Medicaid paperwork was sent to General Delivery at the post office instead of to the shelter or his mail drop at the Day Center. By the time he discovered where the mail had been sent, he was in danger of being cut off from his coverage.

This snafu happened in the town where he's lived for years. I'm sure he'd do better in LA.

Doctors told another ill guest that she needed three days of bed rest. (There are limited provisions at the shelter for patients discharged from health care facilities to stay during the day, but good luck getting inside if you weren't admitted to the hospital for your ailment.) 

Bed rest requires a bed you can access. Rest of any kind is at a premium. I'm sure it'd be easier in a strange city.

***

But I see good things, too.

A woman came in today to pick up her mail. She's in a small apartment now, going to outpatient counseling four days a week. Her parents came to town to visit her for five days last month—the first time she'd seen them in eight years. Her mother, who had refused to visit before, told her, "This is much better than I expected."

When she picked up her mail, she gave a new first name. I'm not using that name any more, she said I'm leaving the old life behind.

Another woman who has been a fixture in the homeless community thanks to a head injury that left her vulnerable and hearing voices got into an extended care home about two years ago and it changed her life. She's safe and well-cared for, and though she still talks to herself, she's more confident and social now. When she comes to the soup kitchen, it's to say hello to the friends who looked out for her back in the day.

This morning an older woman who lives in some new apartments built by Catholic Outreach drove over in her scooter with a bag of fruit and baked goods she bought on manager's special. She brings these items for "the kids" and takes hugs in exchange. A year or so ago, she was living in her car, which contained all her possessions. She totaled it in an accident and had to put her things in storage.

Now she lives a block from her kids and sleeps warm and safe.

But I'm sure, she'd have done fine with a bus ticket to Durango.

 

Shelter Report: You're Starting to Spook Me.

I was cleaning the vestibule area as a prelude to shutting our doors for the day when I saw an overloaded car pull up to the curb. A young man unfolded from the front passenger side and walked awkwardly through the entrance.

My phone's about to fall out of my jacket, he said. Then his flip phone landed on the (carpeted) floor.

Good, I said. You hit the thickest part (where I had pulled inside the boot-scraper rug).

He wanted to know if he could do some laundry. I told him the cutoff was an hour ago.

No exceptions?

You have to sign in by ten. That way there's enough time to get all the loads through the cycle before we close.

Is there a place I can hand-wash some things?

There wasn't, but he only had a backpack and his persistence suggested that he really needed to wash what he had.

Tell you what, I said. Go back and talk to the people there. They might be able to help you.

The Day Center director came up to the window to sign him in. I didn't hear their exchange from where I was but I assumed it was a repeat of what I'd just said.

The new guy (we'll call him Ignacio) raised his voice and said, that's about the most hostile reception I've ever gotten. Why are you talking to me like that? I've lived in Grand Junction all my life and I've been homeless since I was 17. How about if we start over and you say: Hello, Ignacio. Welcome. How is your day so far?

His reaction seemed a bit off, but the two of them worked it out. He offered to come in and do some volunteer work while his load was running and the director brought him inside.

When I was back at the window, a man came in to inquire if we were able to help the young man with his laundry. Otherwise, the man said, he'd take him somewhere else. (The driver appeared to be one of the periodic users of our services himself.) I told him we had worked something out.

Later, I went back to where Ignacio was sweeping the patio. I told him the man who'd dropped him off had come by to check on him, to make sure he had what he needed.

He looked uncomprehending, so I restated what I'd said and added, I thought you'd like to know the man cared about you.

Ignacio said, why are you so angry with me? Are you a cop?

No, I'm a volunteer here. Trying to be reassuring, I made the mistake of lightly touching the arm of his coat.

Ignacio jumped and said, you're starting to spook me. He seemed to have little idea what I was talking about, so I stopped explaining and left him to his sweeping.

***

A young woman came in for the first time with another guest who seems particularly gentle and helpful to others. He told me his name and then gestured to the woman, saying: I don't know hers. 

She came in from California last month, pregnant with her fourth daughter, and is still trying to get settled. She seemed to appreciate the young man's help. I wonder if she knew his name.

Later, a regular came in. He's one of the guests who likes to sit in the vestibule rather than coming inside. It was the first time I'd seen him since I got back, but I recalled his name and signed him in. I asked him if he'd seen Ron, another regular who often sat across the way from Ed, a knee-to-knee distance of less than five feet.

Ed said, I'm not sure I know him.

***

My first day back a few weeks ago, one of the first people to the window was unknown to me, so I asked his name, which was something like Scott Thomas. Some guests give their last name first, because that's how the sign-in sheet is organized. Others don't. Our exchange was complicated by the cross chat of a full vestibule, so it took a couple tries for me to establish which name was which.

He took exception. I'm not going to stand here repeating my name for you. My time is valuable. I'm extremely intelligent, and if I was working, I could easily make $250,000 a year, which I would invest in some new ideas and make it 25-million. Are you a cop or something?

I explained I was bit hard of hearing and he settled down.

It strikes me now that some of these folks may go days without anyone besides a police officer asking their name.

 

 

Shelter Report: Cold Snap

The first time JC said he had come to the Day Center "to change my diaper," I thought it was his droll way of saying he wanted to use the rest room. 

This week, I realized that in addition to his COPD he suffers from incontinence. 

This makes him, as you can imagine, an unpopular visitor in many places. He told me had recently been booted from WalMart by a manager who accused him of leaving graffiti in the restroom, which he denied.

I said, I know you look sketchy but the only canister I've seen you with contained oxygen. If the manager really thought you'd vandalized the restroom, he might have pressed charges instead of kicking you out. He targeted you because he didn't like your looks.

He laughed and gave me a fist bump.

I'll go to Target and spend my money from now on, he said. It's only five more blocks. (It's actually closer to two miles farther.)

We've had lots of snow and relatively cold weather. I asked JC where he was sleeping.

On the streets, he said.

How is that, I asked.

It's all right.

He explained to me that he had a sleeping bag he topped with three blankets and another sleeping bag. He curls his legs in the sleeping bag back toward his butt for extra warmth. The only issue is he can't keep his shoes warm for the morning, even if he puts them in the bag with him.

He even tried warming his water bottle against his body and then putting it inside a shoe. The next morning it was frozen solid.

***

A man nearby asked Christian if his liner pants had been burned by his campfire.

No, Christian said. He got them that way, burned by somebody else's fire. Three men began to compare burn stories. One showed melted shoe edges. They all had spent nights illegally in storage units trying to stay warm. They talked about the safest warming stove to use inside a unit. 

Last February, two men died in a storage unit fire. They drank, so they weren't allowed into the shelter. Instead, they died within sight of it.

One of the men was a laid-off oilfield services worker. He had a LinkedIn profile. He was enrolled with Life Leadership, a scammy multi-level marketing organization.  

I didn't write about them last year. It was just too sad.

The police said they would look into whether the municipal ordinance was being followed—not whether people had safe places to sleep at night.

Well, if you drink, you don't have a safe place. If you wear a diaper, you don't. Trust me.

***

The little things we do—laundry, rest rooms, phone and mail, storage, a warm place to sit for a few hours—may seem mundane, but they can make a big difference for folks on the edge.

A new guest checked in and I gave her an intake form. She almost cried when she found out she could use our phone number to put on work applications and we would take messages for her. She had applied for a number of jobs when she hit town, but the husband she left cut off her cell phone.

***

With the snow and ice, we had sprinkled rock salt outside. By the end of my shift, a good amount had been tracked inside the vestibule.

One guy leaving dove to the floor when leaving and pretended to find a meth rock.

"Tweaker's paradise," laughed his girlfriend.

Laughter means you're alive. It creates a little distance from your problems.

We just laugh about different things at the Day Center.