Another one of my truncated posts due to time constraints at the library. Just wanted to touch on a couple of items in brief. I know the language in this blog (and the subject matter) can get a bit dicey for some tastes. Some people might even be offended by the material. While I'm not trying to repel readers or gross anyone out, I do try to present the situations I've experienced in as true a fashion as possible. That means I try to reproduce the language used in such situations as well. Of course, this includes profanity. As it happens, I'm not the biggest fan of profanity. I try to use it as minimally as possible when I'm in public because I don't want to present myself as some common, foul-mouthed street miscreant.
In my experience those people who curse constantly tend to be the most ignorant people. But since many of the characters I've encountered during my homeless sojourn have little if any education, and because their life experience has largely been on the streets, they express themselves with profanities. Hence, that's how I depict them when representing them in this blog. So if you see things like f**k, or motherf***er popping up fairly frequently, I'm just trying to delineate the person for you, not get my jollies by stringing together every obscenity I can think of. After all, I can hardly have these guys sounding like Harvard professors or elite literati.
I'm actually sorry to see profanity used so often -- and this cuts through all classes. I think the country (and the world) has become a much coarser and vulgar place because of the prevalence of profanity. As a writer I hate seeing this happen because profanity loses its capacity for shock value. The f-word and permutations thereof used to be strictly verboten; now it's everywhere, uttered causally by anyone from 7 top 70 years of age. I'll put myself to the task of inventing new curse words that will cause your ears to spontaneously combust from outrage. And you're welcome.
As for what I've been up to? Well, more of the same at Salvation Army. I told you last time that I was accepted into their vocational program; it's now been approximately a month since I started. I'll finish up the backstory and some of the tasks I've been involved with in the next installment. For now, think of this as my blog's version of a coming attractions trailer:
In the next few installments of "Homelessness It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore:"
THRILL to the new characters your humble narrator encounters. You'll never forget the nameless, bug-eyed Junkie With No Name who battles for supremacy of the TV in the common room! Or how about the Big Guy Everyone is Scared Of because he sits in the corner and constantly talks to himself?
MARVEL at the ex-meth addict and drug dealer who transformed himself into a beatific, Yoda-like sage who dispenses wisdom while pushing a mop! He'll make you believe illegal drugs are good for you!
YOU WON'T BELIEVE the lead cook in the kitchen who bellows orders in a voice so loud he can be heard across Nevada into Arizona and beyond!
OGLE the sultry sirens your humble narrator meets while traveling through the wilds of the Salvation Army campus. Will these lethal lovely ladies seduce your narrator with their womanly wiles?
SEE the various characters of the Salvation Army as they struggle to stay awake during class after class of nerve-wracking methods on how to reintegrate themselves into society -- you fell asleep right then, didn't you?
STAY TUNED! In the coming installments you'll have a first hand glimpse into the petty annoyances of communal living! See if your humble narrator can fend off the malevolent microbes expelled by his fellow dorm inhabitants! Find out if your narrator can weather the senses-shattering racket of grown men snoring like bull elephants on the rampage! Will he have the fortitude to withstand the rotten-egg stench of intestinal gas that pervades the dorm room on a constant basis? And can you predict the mind-numbing secret your narrator uncovers while innocently pilfering a banana from the SA kitchens? Neither can he -- that's because he hasn't written it yet!
All this and more will be revealed as your humble narrator continues his journey through the netherworld of ex-cons, shell-shocked veterans, recovering booze, drug and alcohol addicts, and oh yeah -- the hordes of homeless looking to score free stuff!
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Believe it or not, everyone your humble narrator has met during his Salvation Army tour IS ON MEDICATION! EVERYONE! Including your humble narrator!
So there you go. Stay with me as we travel down this dark road together, and slowly make it to the other side. Remember, it's only a thin membrane that separates the fortunate from the unfortunate. And if you believe that, I have some old Enron stock to sell you!
Showing posts with label homeless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homeless. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
HINJFCA IV
So I'm back to blog two days in a row, a personal best. Note I've shortened the title of this thread down to an acronym, followed by the Roman numeral 'IV' for the 4th installment. Why use an acronym and Roman numeral? Easy. I'm getting too lazy to type out the whole title every time I sit down, and for some reason I felt particularly pretentious enough to use IV. And yeah I know I could just cut-and-paste the title, but that's not how the M-O-double R-I-S rolls.
So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas. Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:
Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus. He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available. With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk.
As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization. Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.
He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days. He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.
And Jim wondered: What brought me here to this moment in my life? Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction? Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief? Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin? Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim? So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions?
Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions. Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night. Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless. Maybe he should have realized it all the time. Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate. Maybe ...
(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)
Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here? Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo. At any rate, there was no use crying about it now. It was done, son, and he was in the shit. He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards.
As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever: His appreciation for the opposite sex. He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way. Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers.
One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt. A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say. She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear. Must get drafty up there, thought Jim. He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area.
He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley. Could he even get it up under those circumstances? Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom. You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought. And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree. (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)
Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute. The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID
"Why?" he asked.
In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said: My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar. Is good, yes. So you have ID my friend?"
Jim could only blink. The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like: "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"
Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID. The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?" As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him: That guy looked and sounded like someone. Then it came to him. The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem. (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)
Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building. She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion. People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there. Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point. She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered. The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.
There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming. He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice. It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming. Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.
The hours dragged but time did pass. Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army. Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities. The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find. Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be. It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.
Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now. He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong. Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things. Apparently they stayed there all day. Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window. He didn't see anyone else lining up there.
Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him. Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening. She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists. Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda. But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.
(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available. I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities. The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)
(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)
Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga. What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments? It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story. Pretty clever, eh? Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up. As the kids say, you know how I do. I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.
Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin. Ater-Lay.
So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas. Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:
Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus. He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available. With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk.
As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization. Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.
He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days. He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.
And Jim wondered: What brought me here to this moment in my life? Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction? Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief? Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin? Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim? So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions?
Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions. Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night. Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless. Maybe he should have realized it all the time. Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate. Maybe ...
(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)
Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here? Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo. At any rate, there was no use crying about it now. It was done, son, and he was in the shit. He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards.
As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever: His appreciation for the opposite sex. He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way. Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers.
One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt. A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say. She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear. Must get drafty up there, thought Jim. He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area.
He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley. Could he even get it up under those circumstances? Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom. You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought. And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree. (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)
Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute. The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID
"Why?" he asked.
In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said: My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar. Is good, yes. So you have ID my friend?"
Jim could only blink. The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like: "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"
Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID. The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?" As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him: That guy looked and sounded like someone. Then it came to him. The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem. (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)
Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building. She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion. People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there. Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point. She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered. The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.
There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming. He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice. It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming. Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.
The hours dragged but time did pass. Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army. Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities. The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find. Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be. It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.
Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now. He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong. Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things. Apparently they stayed there all day. Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window. He didn't see anyone else lining up there.
Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him. Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening. She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists. Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda. But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.
(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available. I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities. The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)
(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)
Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga. What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments? It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story. Pretty clever, eh? Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up. As the kids say, you know how I do. I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.
Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin. Ater-Lay.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Pt 2
I left the Super 8 Motel the following morning after getting directions for the Salvation Army. I had called them and found they offered beds for only $8 a night. With my limited funds, I sure couldn't stay in my present lodging. What seemed cheap at $39/night only a few hours ago now became an unaffordable extravagance.
I caught a bus headed north, toward downtown Las Vegas. This was an area I visited infrequently, and was always depressed by the plethora of low budget extended-stay motels that lined both sides of the street. You could see vagrants wandering about, some homeless people huddled in doorways or next to fire plugs. The overall feeling of the downtown area is one of a grittiness and despair that isn't normally linked to "fabulous" Las Vegas, Nevada. Safe to say, the chamber of commerce doesn't add images of this location to their brochures.
Transferring buses and heading east, I was taken into a part of Vegas that I had never traveled to: North Las Vegas Blvd that extended into the city of North Las Vegas. Drive a few miles to the south and this same Las Vegas Blvd widens and transmogrifies in to the world famous Strip. In this part of town, as you cross Foremaster and Owens, things aren't quite so glamorous. Remember that feeling of self-consciousness and shame I mentioned earlier about dragging around my luggage. I lost those feelings the moment I stepped off the bus.
As I searched for the Salvation Army homeless shelter, I had a chance to scan my new environs. It looks like an industrial area, with several open lots and road and sidewalk construction going on a various locations. There are some abandoned lots and buildings, as well as a few active businesses like a paper company located across from the Salvation Army itself (which is located right next to a Union Pacific overpass.) There's also a large cemetery in the area, which looks uncharacteristically green, peaceful and orderly, given the surroundings.
(An aside: For some reason, there's a large black rooster that roams a part of the cemetery located right by a street corner. I was curious enough to ask a groundskeeper one day:
"Why is there a black rooster in this cemetery?"
Without blinking he said, "Why shouldn't there be a black rooster in this cemetery?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. Now fuck off."
Well, I couldn't argue with his logic. The rooster remains there to this day.)
Perhaps the most striking thing about this area of town is the pervasiveness of homeless people. Simply put, they're everywhere. Pulling along luggage or boxes of their possessions they wander about, sit on curbs, congregate on street corners, or hang out in front of buildings. While many buildings and businesses don't permit this, you have to realize that this are of the city is vastly different in character from other parts of the metropolitan area.
The influence of Catholic Charities is considerable, due both to aiding the unfortunate and the physical presence of its buildings. It's actually something of a self-contained complex, that holds all types of social service offices from welfare to food stamps. They offer aid for rent and utilities with families, and the elderly and/or disabled getting priority. Cafeterias, laundry services, and apartments are also located there. Their most important service seems to be the free nightly beds offered to the indigent.
Men line up on Foremaster Street around 5 pm and at 6, representatives from Catholic Charities come out and start selecting who can go in for the night. Those with physical problems are given priority, and space is limited to the first 200 men. No pay beds are available. This is one reason I went to Salvation Army; once you pay for a bed there, it's yours until 5pm the following evening. If it isn't paid up by then, then confiscate your stuff and rent the bed to someone else.
At 6am, the men have to leave Catholic Charities with all their possessions. It's not unusual to see the same group of guys wandering around the general area, towing along their stuff, counting down the hours until they can have another shot at a bed for the night. Many of these men fit the homeless stereotype: Their clothes are filthy and ragged, hair and beards wild and unkempt, skin streaked with dirt, most of their teeth gone, and they stink. They can often be seen relieving themselves in the street in broad daylight. (If pets require pooper scoopers, shouldn't humans?) In other parts of the city this would likely draw stares, and provoke calls to the police. Here, it's just a matter of fact.
People with shopping carts full of junk can be found on nearly every street corner around here. It's as though they have created a type of impromptu village, using the carts as barricades and pulling tarps overhead when it starts to rain. Likewise, you can see certain homeless people at the same location every day, many of whom exhibit prounced mental problems. Often they scream and shout to an invisible adversary. Other times, they pontificate about some unknown subject so loud and so long that they rupture their vocal cords.
Heading east on Owens, is Shade Tree, a shelter for homeless women. For the most part this shelter seems to be quieter and engender less activity than some of the others. It could be because of the presence of children. In the neighborhood are several cheap apartment complexes, a newer senior citizen village, and some low-income housing sponsored by Salvation Army.
Speaking of the Salvation Army, that's the subject of our next chapter. I'd continue, but again, time is running short here at the library. If anyone out there has a web book (that works) drop me a line: "Will work for laptop".
In the meantime, I'll leave you with this observation: One thing I've found is that most of the homeless have an insatiable appetite for cigarettes. Bad enough they smoke constantly but they smoke the nastiest, vilest form of tobacco ragweed it's been my misfortune to experience in a second-hand capacity. And although I am a lifelong non-smoker I can truly say this without prejudice: if people smoked rhinoceros turds, it must smell like the stuff smoked by the homeless.
I caught a bus headed north, toward downtown Las Vegas. This was an area I visited infrequently, and was always depressed by the plethora of low budget extended-stay motels that lined both sides of the street. You could see vagrants wandering about, some homeless people huddled in doorways or next to fire plugs. The overall feeling of the downtown area is one of a grittiness and despair that isn't normally linked to "fabulous" Las Vegas, Nevada. Safe to say, the chamber of commerce doesn't add images of this location to their brochures.
Transferring buses and heading east, I was taken into a part of Vegas that I had never traveled to: North Las Vegas Blvd that extended into the city of North Las Vegas. Drive a few miles to the south and this same Las Vegas Blvd widens and transmogrifies in to the world famous Strip. In this part of town, as you cross Foremaster and Owens, things aren't quite so glamorous. Remember that feeling of self-consciousness and shame I mentioned earlier about dragging around my luggage. I lost those feelings the moment I stepped off the bus.
As I searched for the Salvation Army homeless shelter, I had a chance to scan my new environs. It looks like an industrial area, with several open lots and road and sidewalk construction going on a various locations. There are some abandoned lots and buildings, as well as a few active businesses like a paper company located across from the Salvation Army itself (which is located right next to a Union Pacific overpass.) There's also a large cemetery in the area, which looks uncharacteristically green, peaceful and orderly, given the surroundings.
(An aside: For some reason, there's a large black rooster that roams a part of the cemetery located right by a street corner. I was curious enough to ask a groundskeeper one day:
"Why is there a black rooster in this cemetery?"
Without blinking he said, "Why shouldn't there be a black rooster in this cemetery?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. Now fuck off."
Well, I couldn't argue with his logic. The rooster remains there to this day.)
Perhaps the most striking thing about this area of town is the pervasiveness of homeless people. Simply put, they're everywhere. Pulling along luggage or boxes of their possessions they wander about, sit on curbs, congregate on street corners, or hang out in front of buildings. While many buildings and businesses don't permit this, you have to realize that this are of the city is vastly different in character from other parts of the metropolitan area.
The influence of Catholic Charities is considerable, due both to aiding the unfortunate and the physical presence of its buildings. It's actually something of a self-contained complex, that holds all types of social service offices from welfare to food stamps. They offer aid for rent and utilities with families, and the elderly and/or disabled getting priority. Cafeterias, laundry services, and apartments are also located there. Their most important service seems to be the free nightly beds offered to the indigent.
Men line up on Foremaster Street around 5 pm and at 6, representatives from Catholic Charities come out and start selecting who can go in for the night. Those with physical problems are given priority, and space is limited to the first 200 men. No pay beds are available. This is one reason I went to Salvation Army; once you pay for a bed there, it's yours until 5pm the following evening. If it isn't paid up by then, then confiscate your stuff and rent the bed to someone else.
At 6am, the men have to leave Catholic Charities with all their possessions. It's not unusual to see the same group of guys wandering around the general area, towing along their stuff, counting down the hours until they can have another shot at a bed for the night. Many of these men fit the homeless stereotype: Their clothes are filthy and ragged, hair and beards wild and unkempt, skin streaked with dirt, most of their teeth gone, and they stink. They can often be seen relieving themselves in the street in broad daylight. (If pets require pooper scoopers, shouldn't humans?) In other parts of the city this would likely draw stares, and provoke calls to the police. Here, it's just a matter of fact.
People with shopping carts full of junk can be found on nearly every street corner around here. It's as though they have created a type of impromptu village, using the carts as barricades and pulling tarps overhead when it starts to rain. Likewise, you can see certain homeless people at the same location every day, many of whom exhibit prounced mental problems. Often they scream and shout to an invisible adversary. Other times, they pontificate about some unknown subject so loud and so long that they rupture their vocal cords.
Heading east on Owens, is Shade Tree, a shelter for homeless women. For the most part this shelter seems to be quieter and engender less activity than some of the others. It could be because of the presence of children. In the neighborhood are several cheap apartment complexes, a newer senior citizen village, and some low-income housing sponsored by Salvation Army.
Speaking of the Salvation Army, that's the subject of our next chapter. I'd continue, but again, time is running short here at the library. If anyone out there has a web book (that works) drop me a line: "Will work for laptop".
In the meantime, I'll leave you with this observation: One thing I've found is that most of the homeless have an insatiable appetite for cigarettes. Bad enough they smoke constantly but they smoke the nastiest, vilest form of tobacco ragweed it's been my misfortune to experience in a second-hand capacity. And although I am a lifelong non-smoker I can truly say this without prejudice: if people smoked rhinoceros turds, it must smell like the stuff smoked by the homeless.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Part 1
Okay, so there's the resultion to my cliffhanger: I'm homeless. Trust me, it takes a lot of effort to type out those words. This event happened approximately 12 days ago, on October 23, 2011 (talk about a day that will live in infamy). Within the space of 24 hours I went from having a decent apartment to being on the sidewalk with a pull-along carryon bag, a coat, a bottle of water, and no money and no place to go.
How did I arrive at that point in my life. Through a series of events no doubt orchestrated on a scale so cosmic the mere mortal mind could not begin to understand it. That, or it was a result of my own impressive fuck-up(s). To be fair to the cosmic forces, let's go with the latter options. What did I do? That, as they say is a long story, one which actually encompasses a thread deserving of its own blog. In short, I was diagnosed with a mental illness (this is not news to many people) commonly referred to as depression. More formally, major depressive disorder which is a disability -- in so many ways.
In short, I simply began not to care about things. Anything. Like bills, or paying them. Like working for work or pursuing an income. Now, when you don't care about money and you have bills piling up (including rent and utilties) that's a formula for disaster. But as stated ... I didn't care. So I ended up being evicted (in fairly dramatic fashion which I'll detail in a future entry) and that's how I would up on a sidewalk in front of the Eastside Cannery Casino on that Sunday morning, Oct 23. (Btw when Vegas says you can be evicted within 24 hours, believe 'em.)
The bitter irony of it all was that I did get the diagnosis and the medication, but too late. By the time it started taking effect and I realized my horrendous missteps, the damage was done. It was like trying to escape from a black hole when you're halfway through it. Creditors and landlords have little compassion for illness. Honestly, I probably wouldn't either. Would things had been different if I had retrieved treatment when I first started noticing symptoms? Possibly. At any rate, I don't see how matters could have gotten any worse.
Luckily I had a very resourceful (and generous) cousin to whom I could turn for help. She was instrumental (and continues to be) in helping me maintain my wits throughout all this. Because I can guarantee you I was freaking out on the inside and a lot of bad thoughts were flying through my head.
I'm 51 years old and this is the first time I've ever experienced homelessness. Like most of you reading this, it's something you imagine could never happen to you. It probably won't. But the experience is drastically altering my perception of the condition and the people struggling with it (and the people who enjoy it); it's also altering my perception of myself.
That Sunday morning, my familiar neighborhood suddenly felt unfamiliar and unfriendly. All the familiar streets and landmarks now seemed distant and alien. I'd walked down Boulder Hwy a zillion times. That Sunday morning, it felt like I had just landed in a foreign city. I saw a homeless guy sleeping on the grass by the side of the road and thought, "I'm like him now, except for better luggage."
Pulling along luggage is one sign of a homeless person. I had always given someone pulling luggage down Boulder Hwy the benefit of the doubt. There are a lot of hotels around, so it could be a tourist. You examine the condition of the clothing, cleanliness of skin before judging if they're homeless. The biggest giveaway is smell, or body odor. But when you see someone with luggage on the sidewalk and there's no airport nearby, you begin to suspect it's a homeless person -- and you avoid them.
That's how I felt pulling along my luggage: Like people were avoiding me. I thought they'd glance at me furtively, sizing me up as homeless and hurrying along. Maybe I was paranoid. Very likely it was own sense of shame that made me feel like I was being scrutinized and judged. At any rate, it was a long day. It would turn into an even longer night.
That same Sunday my cousin wired me some money which I could use for a room and get some food. The downside: I couldn't get it until Monday morning. After spending the day basically wandering up and down Boulder Hwy, I made a decision. Although the Salvation Army was available, it was getting late and I didn't want to wander around an unfamiliar area after dark. Given that, I decided to spend the night in a local park. Located near Boulder and Missouri Ave, it's very small. I would sometimes stop by to read or walk on a nice day. More important, I knew all the exits, and the park is literally right next door to a fire station.
So I spent all night in that park, but I never slept. From the early evening when families, couples and joggers came and went, I sat there occasionally eating generic Pop Tarts and getting drinks from the water fountain. It got chillier, and would spend some time in the filthy public toilet (which had no toilet paper) to warm up. Heading back out, I kept a constant eye out for anyone, especially police or park security guards. For the most part, I saw no one on that cold, clear night.
I walked around to keep warm. I marvelled at how quiet and still everything became. All I could hear were some insects chittering, or hip hop echoing from some far off speakers. Now and then there were some shouts from the public housing complex across the way. Funny, how I'd always derided those who lived in those complexes. Now I envied them the roofs over their heads. In fact, as I looked around at the houses and their lit windows and imagined the people inside enjoying a snack, or a mug of coffee and watching TV, I wondering: "Why them and not me? Why am I the one out here? Why aren't I inside where I could be warm and watch TV, play on the computer or whatever?"
And I realized that when I had all those things, I never viewed them as privileges. I never really appreciated the stuff I had. If I was watching TV, I'd think, "I wish I had a better TV". Or I hate this cheap coffee. Or this goddam apartment is too small, too noisy, and it stinks from all the people smoking constantly (I still stand by that last charge -- it DID stink). I just never truly appreciated all the advantages I enjoyed. Or how privileged I truly was. And I never realized it until approximately 3:35 am in a cold, isolated public park.
I watched the indigo sky form pink streaks, the stars faded, the sky brightened, and I shivered from some early morning chill. I felt like I was moving in a dream, but I'd survived the night with a lot of praying and attendant paranoia. With that ordeal behind me I proceeded to claim the money sent to me by my cousin. I got a room at a nearby Super 8 and after shaving and showering immediately crashed on the queen-size bed. It was a nice room, and reasonable at $39.
Soon I would find other accommodations that would make $39 seem like a king's ransom for a room. It would also involved getting involved with people and conditions that left me feeling like I was in a culture clash of sorts. In effect, I felt like a stranger in a strange land -- my own city!
I'm writing this on a computer in the Las Vegas West Public Library, and my session is almost up. I'll detail more adventures in the next installment.
How did I arrive at that point in my life. Through a series of events no doubt orchestrated on a scale so cosmic the mere mortal mind could not begin to understand it. That, or it was a result of my own impressive fuck-up(s). To be fair to the cosmic forces, let's go with the latter options. What did I do? That, as they say is a long story, one which actually encompasses a thread deserving of its own blog. In short, I was diagnosed with a mental illness (this is not news to many people) commonly referred to as depression. More formally, major depressive disorder which is a disability -- in so many ways.
In short, I simply began not to care about things. Anything. Like bills, or paying them. Like working for work or pursuing an income. Now, when you don't care about money and you have bills piling up (including rent and utilties) that's a formula for disaster. But as stated ... I didn't care. So I ended up being evicted (in fairly dramatic fashion which I'll detail in a future entry) and that's how I would up on a sidewalk in front of the Eastside Cannery Casino on that Sunday morning, Oct 23. (Btw when Vegas says you can be evicted within 24 hours, believe 'em.)
The bitter irony of it all was that I did get the diagnosis and the medication, but too late. By the time it started taking effect and I realized my horrendous missteps, the damage was done. It was like trying to escape from a black hole when you're halfway through it. Creditors and landlords have little compassion for illness. Honestly, I probably wouldn't either. Would things had been different if I had retrieved treatment when I first started noticing symptoms? Possibly. At any rate, I don't see how matters could have gotten any worse.
Luckily I had a very resourceful (and generous) cousin to whom I could turn for help. She was instrumental (and continues to be) in helping me maintain my wits throughout all this. Because I can guarantee you I was freaking out on the inside and a lot of bad thoughts were flying through my head.
I'm 51 years old and this is the first time I've ever experienced homelessness. Like most of you reading this, it's something you imagine could never happen to you. It probably won't. But the experience is drastically altering my perception of the condition and the people struggling with it (and the people who enjoy it); it's also altering my perception of myself.
That Sunday morning, my familiar neighborhood suddenly felt unfamiliar and unfriendly. All the familiar streets and landmarks now seemed distant and alien. I'd walked down Boulder Hwy a zillion times. That Sunday morning, it felt like I had just landed in a foreign city. I saw a homeless guy sleeping on the grass by the side of the road and thought, "I'm like him now, except for better luggage."
Pulling along luggage is one sign of a homeless person. I had always given someone pulling luggage down Boulder Hwy the benefit of the doubt. There are a lot of hotels around, so it could be a tourist. You examine the condition of the clothing, cleanliness of skin before judging if they're homeless. The biggest giveaway is smell, or body odor. But when you see someone with luggage on the sidewalk and there's no airport nearby, you begin to suspect it's a homeless person -- and you avoid them.
That's how I felt pulling along my luggage: Like people were avoiding me. I thought they'd glance at me furtively, sizing me up as homeless and hurrying along. Maybe I was paranoid. Very likely it was own sense of shame that made me feel like I was being scrutinized and judged. At any rate, it was a long day. It would turn into an even longer night.
That same Sunday my cousin wired me some money which I could use for a room and get some food. The downside: I couldn't get it until Monday morning. After spending the day basically wandering up and down Boulder Hwy, I made a decision. Although the Salvation Army was available, it was getting late and I didn't want to wander around an unfamiliar area after dark. Given that, I decided to spend the night in a local park. Located near Boulder and Missouri Ave, it's very small. I would sometimes stop by to read or walk on a nice day. More important, I knew all the exits, and the park is literally right next door to a fire station.
So I spent all night in that park, but I never slept. From the early evening when families, couples and joggers came and went, I sat there occasionally eating generic Pop Tarts and getting drinks from the water fountain. It got chillier, and would spend some time in the filthy public toilet (which had no toilet paper) to warm up. Heading back out, I kept a constant eye out for anyone, especially police or park security guards. For the most part, I saw no one on that cold, clear night.
I walked around to keep warm. I marvelled at how quiet and still everything became. All I could hear were some insects chittering, or hip hop echoing from some far off speakers. Now and then there were some shouts from the public housing complex across the way. Funny, how I'd always derided those who lived in those complexes. Now I envied them the roofs over their heads. In fact, as I looked around at the houses and their lit windows and imagined the people inside enjoying a snack, or a mug of coffee and watching TV, I wondering: "Why them and not me? Why am I the one out here? Why aren't I inside where I could be warm and watch TV, play on the computer or whatever?"
And I realized that when I had all those things, I never viewed them as privileges. I never really appreciated the stuff I had. If I was watching TV, I'd think, "I wish I had a better TV". Or I hate this cheap coffee. Or this goddam apartment is too small, too noisy, and it stinks from all the people smoking constantly (I still stand by that last charge -- it DID stink). I just never truly appreciated all the advantages I enjoyed. Or how privileged I truly was. And I never realized it until approximately 3:35 am in a cold, isolated public park.
I watched the indigo sky form pink streaks, the stars faded, the sky brightened, and I shivered from some early morning chill. I felt like I was moving in a dream, but I'd survived the night with a lot of praying and attendant paranoia. With that ordeal behind me I proceeded to claim the money sent to me by my cousin. I got a room at a nearby Super 8 and after shaving and showering immediately crashed on the queen-size bed. It was a nice room, and reasonable at $39.
Soon I would find other accommodations that would make $39 seem like a king's ransom for a room. It would also involved getting involved with people and conditions that left me feeling like I was in a culture clash of sorts. In effect, I felt like a stranger in a strange land -- my own city!
I'm writing this on a computer in the Las Vegas West Public Library, and my session is almost up. I'll detail more adventures in the next installment.
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