I
was recently asked to introduce a local academic to the homeless community
for a book he's writing. Some examples are as follows:
Water
gangs have multiplied during the plague, small groups of black boys aged
13-17 who claim a highway exit ramp to sell bottles at $2 apiece. Some of
them are strapped (a necessity when operating in cash). Not all of them
had a meal that day. I hand out canned ravioli and milk packs,
wondering if anyone at DFCS figures them into the childhood hunger data.
Amputations were
on the rise this past winter. Smoke enough crystal meth and you stop feeling
the cold, until days slip under the bridge and it takes a passing stranger who
noticed the smell to call 911. One of my clients lost all his toes
and three fingers. His first weeks out of surgery he couldn't make it to the
bathroom in time, crawling around his feces-stained living room like a bloodhound.
The pain and loneliness is unbearable. His property manager knows about
the dealers coming inside, at the same time recalling his own days as an addict
and admitting that keeping the client sheltered in his apartment is a small
victory.
A
homeless mother gave up alcohol when she learned she was pregnant, and
switched to weed. When two social workers conducted a home visit, the older
(childless) one threatened to call family services the second the baby was
born, whereas the younger (mother of three) defended the substitution, of
smoking vs. the agony of staying sober while living alone during lockdown.
A
man walked to my office parking lot with a coat and a tent, declaring he
couldn't sleep outside another night and would I drive him to the men's shelter
behind the jail? I didn't ask why he needed to be escorted to the
front desk, until the social worker appeared and motioned me to her office and
shut the door.
"I
curse a lot, but you seem cool," she said. She was well put
together, hair, nails, glasses on the tip of her nose, her office wall crowded
with family photos. "He gets fucked up at night. Coming in after curfew drunk
and belligerent, goes missing a few days, then crawls back with his tail
between his legs, except now he brought you to see me. This is the fifth
time he's come back, and it is a slap in the face to everyone who didn't
get a second chance."
"I
figured that might happen." We stared at each other, relaxed, having the
same conversation state-assigned moms have in other windowless rooms.
"He's at the top of the list for supporting housing. Probably get him
into an apartment in two weeks."
"Two
weeks? Four weeks? How long am I supposed to keep him?"
"It's
warm outside. I don't have a problem with driving him somewhere safe and
letting him pitch a tent in the woods."
She
looked at her computer. "Ugh I don't want him outside. Let me
see..." Type type type. She sighed. "His stuff is still here.
It's more work for me to discharge him then to let him have his bed
back."
"Can
I let him back in?"
I
opened the door and held his hand to shut him up while the social worker
lays into him.
She
pointed an orange nail. "You done fucked up. I don't need to hear your
excuses. But because you brought her" points at me "and I love her,
you get your bed back."
I
squeeze his hand before he can say anything stupid.
"Aaaaaand"
she draws out "You will see Mr. C for peer support tomorrow
morning. And Mr. G in the afternoon for the drinking."
I
nod very quickly and look at my client to do the same. She makes a shooing
gesture and I march him out of the room with both hands on his shoulders,
twisting my head thru the door to whisper "bless you".
She
smiles. "Keep me up to date on his apartment."