From the journal of an anonymous traveler, dates unknown:
Well, I did it. Said my goodbyes to the kind folks in Las Vegas town and have now embarked on a strange journey to the east and north.
They was a bit put out about me leaving, really wanted me to stay. Must admit I got attached to the folks at the hospital. They was the ones who helped me recover from my shootout with the Malpaso Kid. A nurse I am fond of told me to forget my anger and let the past go, or some such. I told her I would. But by God if I ever meet up with Malpaso again I will blow a hole through that son-of-a-bitch big enough for a buffalo to roam through.
Doc Martin warned me that where I am going is still a wilderness, filled with all types of dangers from humans and animals alike. After surviving some shootouts with the galoots in Vegas town, I'll take my chances with the four-footed wildlife. The two-footed varmints were enough for me.
(At this point the Traveler was apparently en route to his destination(s); dates unknown):
... Been a easy enough ride on the train from Vegas town to Arizona. Stopped at a small fort called Flagstaff. Been let off at a rail depot where I'm supposed to pick up the next coach heading to the north. Four in the morning now and no one here but the attendant and some fellow travelers. Seem to be from the Orient, I cannot understand them at all. Three gals though, and mighty watchable.
... Two coaches were filled and left me in the dust before I finally snagged this stage. Had to bribe the driver to get a seat, too. The three gals have traveled with me and we have spoken a bit. They are real nice and say they are from a place called Formosa. I asked if that was near China and they got persnickety.
... Heading to the north I can feel the higher elevation make my ears pop. Noisy on this stage what with a couple of dudes from Germany yakking nonstop. Most of my fellow travelers seem to be from foreign lands. I hear some French and even Russian being spoken about. Alls I can understand is some Spanish and Navajo (which sounds kind of like the palaver those gals from Formosa talk) ...
... Seeing a lot of wildlife as we get nearer to our destination. Huge elk, a lot of muledeer and coyotes can be spotted along the plains or sometimes blocking the trails. Even seen a few bear off to the sides. No bison, though. Guess the buffalo hunters have damn near wiped out the herds ...
... The plains seem to stretch on forever. Skies have been clear and blue with the higher altitudes. Someone said that's because we're getting closer to God. Didn't figure on getting that close until I was put six feet under. Driver and scout say it is only a few hours away now, our final destination.
... I hear tell the area looks like a sculptor reached out and carved abstract shapes and patterns out of the very earth and rock. Some folks say it all looks too organized, too planned out to have happened by mere chance or coincidence. I been reflecting on how that could describe my own small existence: Seemingly abstract, events occurring by happenstance without any apparent meaning; yet all along things have been guided by an unseen force, silently orchestrating a plan that I cannot understand, but continues to play out ....
... We have arrived at the place they call El Canon Gran. When I first saw this wonder of nature I felt empty and fulfilled at the same time. I still wonder why I was led here and what I will discover. Guess I will know it when I know it. All I can know for sure is, El Canon was here a long time before we got here. It will be here a long time after we are gone ...
(The journal ends here)
Showing posts with label las vegas nevada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label las vegas nevada. Show all posts
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Friday, November 18, 2011
HINJFCA Five
As you know I've been experimenting with telling this story in the first and third person, with my own editorial comments included. The last installment was was truncated and presented as a 'flash forward' of sorts; and update on what's going on now as opposed to detailing the events that led me to my present circumstances. It occurs to me that all the shifting back and forth between first and third person, plus the time shifting from past to present and back again could understandably result in some "Lost" type confusion for the reader -- especially the casual reader who might not follow this blog on a daily basis. If that's you, then I demand you wear a hair shirt and whip your backside with a razor strop; with enough 'mea culpas' I may deign to forgive you. Or not.
Anyway, I think I'll endeavor to speed up the narrative and stick to the first person for the time being to alleviate any potential confusion. No need to thank, just throw money. So, to continue:
I got the bed at Salvation Army and was ushered into the men's dormitory. Located a few feet away from the women's dorm, it's a plain white one-story building with a slate blue colored door. When you enter, a dorm monitor checks your name and issues you clean sheets, a blanket, pillow and pillowcase, and a bath towel with two small bars of soap (kind of like the ones you get at most hotels).
I was assigned a locker with a rusty bottom, but I didn't care. I was so tired of lugging the carry-on that I would have set it down in a puddle of raw sewage just to get rid of the weight. Within the men's dorm are approximately 50-60 bunk beds and accompanying lockers. The good news: My bed was on the top bunk. The bad news: There was no ladder to access the top bunk. I had to climb up the metal frame of the bed to reach the top. This meant stepping on a thin rail that cut into the soles of my feel like a knife; it eventually became painful to walk on that foot.
But a bed was a bed, and if I had to make like Spider-Man to get up there and sleep I could deal with it. You are issued a set of rules upon entry and while you are given the tour. Off to the south side of the building are communal showers and sinks. On the other side of a concrete divider are approximately 10 toilets and 10 urinals. Almost every night I was there at least one toilet overflowed.
Among the dorm rules: You have from 5pm until 7 to enter the building and be accounted for. If you arrive after 7, you are denied entry until 5:30 the following morning unless you have a valid excuse (work, emergency, etc). Visitors are required to shower daily for as long as they reside in the dorm. That rule is one of their better ideas, imo. Many of the guys staying there have been on the street for some while, and could easily be carrying some sort of sickness or infectious condition. I heard that lice and bedbugs were problems, but I never had any problems with that while I was there.
No having lived in a dorm before, I admit I was taken aback by the idea of having to shower nude in front of a bunch of strangers. Every prison rape scene I ever saw in a movie constantly played through my mind as I headed for the showers that first night. When I got there it was half-filled with older white and black guys (this constituted the bulk of the ethnic makeup of the dorm I was in. There were a few Latinos and Asians as well; I was surprised by the presence of that latter group. For some reason I never imagined Asians as homeless or on the street.
As far as showering went, I simply decided to go all in. I stripped, did my best to ignore the other guys, and stepped under the faucet. Thankfully, the water was hot, the stream steady. I'll admit it felt good taking that hot shower, getting the street grime and sweat off my body. After that first night the process got easier. One thing I noticed was an unwritten rule followed by most guys while in the shower: No conversation. No looking around, either. Everyone kept their gaze straight ahead, like a horse with blinders.
I expect no one wanted to be suspected as being a homosexual, should they chance a sneak peek at another guy's junk. Personally, I kept my gaze straight for two reasons: I was too scared to look around and I didn't want to feel more inferior than I already do regarding the size of my manhood. Didn't I have enough problems without worrying about whether I can hang with the well-hung in a Salvation Army shower?
More rules: Lights out at 9 pm; lights on at 5:30 am. Visitors have until 7 am to shave, bathe, go to the bathroom, etc) at which time they are expected to leave the building. There is no way to reenter the dorm until 5 pm that night. In other words, you better have your gear together because you won't be seeing it again for at least ten hours. It also means you better have somewhere to go to kill all that time. I discovered that some guys actually maintain full or part
So it would be a misnomer to describe all the guys staying at the Salvation Army shelter as 'homeless' or on the street. Many of them are responsible, hard-working people who simply need the cheapest dwelling available while they save up for a car, an apartment, etc. Conversely, there are many occupants who are truly homeless and on the street. The save up enough money from performing odd jobs or panhandling to afford a bed for a few nights and get off the street. (Those with no money for a bed can go to the Salvation Army Rescue Mission a few miles away. I've never been there, but I'm told accommodation and food are far worse than in the SA dorms.)
While I don't doubt the dorm houses its share of drug addicts and alcoholics I didn't notice any such behavior on the premises while I was there. I did, however, notice many of my fellow occupants gather a few blocks away and toking on weed (or whatever) and likely indulging in other illegal substances as well. There are three dorm monitors who work the graveyard shift, and they tend to be pretty share about infractions should they occur.
Once, the old man in the bunk below me was caught trying to light a cigarette in his bunk; a big no-no. If not for his age, he likely would have been booted then and there. For the record, a patio area is left open around the clock for smokers to go outside and indulge their habit. Trust me, many guys indulge to the extreme. (Something I've always wondered about. Many of those guys will complain about being broke; yet they always seem to have money for cigarettes, drugs, booze, or whatever. Maybe it's me.)
You could classify the dorm occupants as Workers (those with full or part time employment) and Transients (those who just want a bed to get off the street). The Transients tend to hang around the DRC and courtyard all day, hanging out with peers who are still roughing it on the streets. I got to know those who stayed on the street by sight: Excessively dirty clothes and skin are giveaway, as is body odor. Many of these street people arrive at the DRC when it opens daily at 7 am to use the hot shower facilities and toilets. I was amazed at the long lines that formed everyday to use these facilities.
Likewise I was amazed that people could live their lives in such a manner. But one mystery at least was cleared up for me: I finally learned how street people manager to bathe and shave. Thank the Salvation Army. But good luck making headway through that chaotic line first thing in the morning. The more experienced folks waited until afternoon when most people had already bathed. Like the Transients, the street people congregated around the courtyard to play cards, dominoes, and smoke and smoke and smoke some more ...
While peddling is forbidden, there is plenty of evidence proving that cigarette hustling goes on constantly in the courtyard area. There are other people who operate outside of the SA grounds and in front of Catholic Charities who likewise peddle cigarettes. I don't doubt there's a decent income to be made by selling cheap smokes to the homeless. The customer base is basically made up of addicts (nicotine, drugs, booze to name a few.
Back to the dorms: The beds are made of a single, plastic-wrapped mattress. Not especially comfortable, but I slept deeply enough that first night. It is somewhat jarring when the light go on at 5:30, though. The harsh flouresecent glare really cut into my eyes. It's also strange to hear the gruntings and groanings of guys waking up in the morning. During the night, it's not unusual to hear guys talking or shouting in their sleep, as if caught in a nightmare. I often heard gasping and wheezing here and there. Plenty of coughing and sneezing, clearing of throats and so on.
One of the things that concerned me the most about staying in that environment was the health consideration. Many of those guys had lived on and off the streets so long it was likely they had picked up some sort of illness that could easily be transmittable, especially among a large group of people. I'm happy to say I never contracted an illness while in the dorm. Not even from the old guy below me who coughed so violently he shook the bed frame and sounding like he was hawking up his internal organs.
And there was snoring. Christ, was there snoring. I had never heard anything like it in my life, yet somehow I managed to sleep through it. Imagine a herd of water buffalo in the throes or coitus. Or bull elephants roaring at each other all night long. Or heavy duty machinery roaring nonstop through the wee hours. That is only some idea of the noise certain guys could make during the night. The deep, guttural, throaty rasps echoed off the cement walls in staccato fashion. Each blast of air expelled from their mouths resulted in a noise that served as a spike drilling into my head.
Sometimes I listened out of pure fascination: How could the human throat produce such inhuman, frightening noises with machine-like precision and nonstop performance. Sometimes it sounded as if certain snorers were waging an unconcsious battle between themselves to out-snore the other with ever louder barrages of offensive inhalations. Most amazing of all is that the loudest snorers were never awakened by the glottal obscenities bursting from their mouths. A disturbance of the peace that seemed to make the entire building shake as if undergoing a sonic earthquake.
Then there was the farting ... But let's leave the meaty stuff for tomorrow. After all, it's guaranteed to blow you away!
Jim
Share this with someone you lover or hate or both!
Anyway, I think I'll endeavor to speed up the narrative and stick to the first person for the time being to alleviate any potential confusion. No need to thank, just throw money. So, to continue:
I got the bed at Salvation Army and was ushered into the men's dormitory. Located a few feet away from the women's dorm, it's a plain white one-story building with a slate blue colored door. When you enter, a dorm monitor checks your name and issues you clean sheets, a blanket, pillow and pillowcase, and a bath towel with two small bars of soap (kind of like the ones you get at most hotels).
I was assigned a locker with a rusty bottom, but I didn't care. I was so tired of lugging the carry-on that I would have set it down in a puddle of raw sewage just to get rid of the weight. Within the men's dorm are approximately 50-60 bunk beds and accompanying lockers. The good news: My bed was on the top bunk. The bad news: There was no ladder to access the top bunk. I had to climb up the metal frame of the bed to reach the top. This meant stepping on a thin rail that cut into the soles of my feel like a knife; it eventually became painful to walk on that foot.
But a bed was a bed, and if I had to make like Spider-Man to get up there and sleep I could deal with it. You are issued a set of rules upon entry and while you are given the tour. Off to the south side of the building are communal showers and sinks. On the other side of a concrete divider are approximately 10 toilets and 10 urinals. Almost every night I was there at least one toilet overflowed.
Among the dorm rules: You have from 5pm until 7 to enter the building and be accounted for. If you arrive after 7, you are denied entry until 5:30 the following morning unless you have a valid excuse (work, emergency, etc). Visitors are required to shower daily for as long as they reside in the dorm. That rule is one of their better ideas, imo. Many of the guys staying there have been on the street for some while, and could easily be carrying some sort of sickness or infectious condition. I heard that lice and bedbugs were problems, but I never had any problems with that while I was there.
No having lived in a dorm before, I admit I was taken aback by the idea of having to shower nude in front of a bunch of strangers. Every prison rape scene I ever saw in a movie constantly played through my mind as I headed for the showers that first night. When I got there it was half-filled with older white and black guys (this constituted the bulk of the ethnic makeup of the dorm I was in. There were a few Latinos and Asians as well; I was surprised by the presence of that latter group. For some reason I never imagined Asians as homeless or on the street.
As far as showering went, I simply decided to go all in. I stripped, did my best to ignore the other guys, and stepped under the faucet. Thankfully, the water was hot, the stream steady. I'll admit it felt good taking that hot shower, getting the street grime and sweat off my body. After that first night the process got easier. One thing I noticed was an unwritten rule followed by most guys while in the shower: No conversation. No looking around, either. Everyone kept their gaze straight ahead, like a horse with blinders.
I expect no one wanted to be suspected as being a homosexual, should they chance a sneak peek at another guy's junk. Personally, I kept my gaze straight for two reasons: I was too scared to look around and I didn't want to feel more inferior than I already do regarding the size of my manhood. Didn't I have enough problems without worrying about whether I can hang with the well-hung in a Salvation Army shower?
More rules: Lights out at 9 pm; lights on at 5:30 am. Visitors have until 7 am to shave, bathe, go to the bathroom, etc) at which time they are expected to leave the building. There is no way to reenter the dorm until 5 pm that night. In other words, you better have your gear together because you won't be seeing it again for at least ten hours. It also means you better have somewhere to go to kill all that time. I discovered that some guys actually maintain full or part
So it would be a misnomer to describe all the guys staying at the Salvation Army shelter as 'homeless' or on the street. Many of them are responsible, hard-working people who simply need the cheapest dwelling available while they save up for a car, an apartment, etc. Conversely, there are many occupants who are truly homeless and on the street. The save up enough money from performing odd jobs or panhandling to afford a bed for a few nights and get off the street. (Those with no money for a bed can go to the Salvation Army Rescue Mission a few miles away. I've never been there, but I'm told accommodation and food are far worse than in the SA dorms.)
While I don't doubt the dorm houses its share of drug addicts and alcoholics I didn't notice any such behavior on the premises while I was there. I did, however, notice many of my fellow occupants gather a few blocks away and toking on weed (or whatever) and likely indulging in other illegal substances as well. There are three dorm monitors who work the graveyard shift, and they tend to be pretty share about infractions should they occur.
Once, the old man in the bunk below me was caught trying to light a cigarette in his bunk; a big no-no. If not for his age, he likely would have been booted then and there. For the record, a patio area is left open around the clock for smokers to go outside and indulge their habit. Trust me, many guys indulge to the extreme. (Something I've always wondered about. Many of those guys will complain about being broke; yet they always seem to have money for cigarettes, drugs, booze, or whatever. Maybe it's me.)
You could classify the dorm occupants as Workers (those with full or part time employment) and Transients (those who just want a bed to get off the street). The Transients tend to hang around the DRC and courtyard all day, hanging out with peers who are still roughing it on the streets. I got to know those who stayed on the street by sight: Excessively dirty clothes and skin are giveaway, as is body odor. Many of these street people arrive at the DRC when it opens daily at 7 am to use the hot shower facilities and toilets. I was amazed at the long lines that formed everyday to use these facilities.
Likewise I was amazed that people could live their lives in such a manner. But one mystery at least was cleared up for me: I finally learned how street people manager to bathe and shave. Thank the Salvation Army. But good luck making headway through that chaotic line first thing in the morning. The more experienced folks waited until afternoon when most people had already bathed. Like the Transients, the street people congregated around the courtyard to play cards, dominoes, and smoke and smoke and smoke some more ...
While peddling is forbidden, there is plenty of evidence proving that cigarette hustling goes on constantly in the courtyard area. There are other people who operate outside of the SA grounds and in front of Catholic Charities who likewise peddle cigarettes. I don't doubt there's a decent income to be made by selling cheap smokes to the homeless. The customer base is basically made up of addicts (nicotine, drugs, booze to name a few.
Back to the dorms: The beds are made of a single, plastic-wrapped mattress. Not especially comfortable, but I slept deeply enough that first night. It is somewhat jarring when the light go on at 5:30, though. The harsh flouresecent glare really cut into my eyes. It's also strange to hear the gruntings and groanings of guys waking up in the morning. During the night, it's not unusual to hear guys talking or shouting in their sleep, as if caught in a nightmare. I often heard gasping and wheezing here and there. Plenty of coughing and sneezing, clearing of throats and so on.
One of the things that concerned me the most about staying in that environment was the health consideration. Many of those guys had lived on and off the streets so long it was likely they had picked up some sort of illness that could easily be transmittable, especially among a large group of people. I'm happy to say I never contracted an illness while in the dorm. Not even from the old guy below me who coughed so violently he shook the bed frame and sounding like he was hawking up his internal organs.
And there was snoring. Christ, was there snoring. I had never heard anything like it in my life, yet somehow I managed to sleep through it. Imagine a herd of water buffalo in the throes or coitus. Or bull elephants roaring at each other all night long. Or heavy duty machinery roaring nonstop through the wee hours. That is only some idea of the noise certain guys could make during the night. The deep, guttural, throaty rasps echoed off the cement walls in staccato fashion. Each blast of air expelled from their mouths resulted in a noise that served as a spike drilling into my head.
Sometimes I listened out of pure fascination: How could the human throat produce such inhuman, frightening noises with machine-like precision and nonstop performance. Sometimes it sounded as if certain snorers were waging an unconcsious battle between themselves to out-snore the other with ever louder barrages of offensive inhalations. Most amazing of all is that the loudest snorers were never awakened by the glottal obscenities bursting from their mouths. A disturbance of the peace that seemed to make the entire building shake as if undergoing a sonic earthquake.
Then there was the farting ... But let's leave the meaty stuff for tomorrow. After all, it's guaranteed to blow you away!
Jim
Share this with someone you lover or hate or both!
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.
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