DAY SEVENTEEN
02.28.25
“A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be poured into your lap.”
The Scripture above was my meditation this morning and I was out the door by 7 am, a thick fog encompassing the valley. It was fresh and I decided to traverse the north side of the neighborhood first, direction Sunnyview. In the field between my house and the road, I stumbled upon a brand new jacket, thrown off and lying in the wet grass. Since I was at the beginning of the route, I set it along the fence line to pick up later for laundering and re-gifting.
Upon arriving at Hawthorne, I turned north to see if Jose was up. Instead of walking the street, I dipped left into the woodlands and visited former campsites. Twin and full mattresses lying about in two separate clearings, a twelve by twelve rug setting up the foundation in another. Along one hundred meters there were at least ten former sites, and that along the way to Jose’s temporary camp.
When I arrived, he was stirring, just up for the day. I asked him about his work in the vegetable processing plant and he responded “That starts Monday.” He put his hand in mine and we prayed Psalm 50 together; I was envious of how warm he was. He’s got a nice set-up, always very clean, and he doesn’t mind being alone. I hope his work pans out and he can get something established for the long haul.
With the I-5 greenway north of Sunnyview recently cleared of camps, I turned my attention to the swath south, between the RED CROSS building and the freeway. There was smoke coming out of the first tent, a lean-to up against the fence. Approaching, I noticed it belonged to Brandon/Wiener and he was working on renovations. He was quiet and had a large mound of mud he’d formed into a half-moon, holding down one edge of the tarp. We talked about the high winds from the other day, he mentioned their camp held up well. On the front ground of the lean-to, he’d stationed large rocks to hold the front side of the foundation.
As we spoke, Katelynn stepped out of the tent and she looked like a different person from our last encounter. Sober and rested, she seemed to me twenty pounds heavier than when I saw her a few Sundays ago, lamenting the momentary pain of their relationship. Today she didn’t speak to me, only stepped out when she heard Brandon and I talking. I was grateful to see them doing so well as the fog lifted.
I continued south in the greenway to inspect the other campsites. The next tent was crafted with old windows and doors, two pallets spanning the pathway which had washed out with the recent rains. In line with other camps and trails to them, this one was littered with all kinds of trash.
Next, I came upon what had been a gathering of carts, the contents of which had caught fire. The charred remains of at least fifteen carts were scattered over the hillside alongside the leftovers of burners and pallet shards. Camps catching fire is a constant hazard out here. Nearly every time I go out, I see someone wearing a jacket singed by fire, the nylon curling up and melting near a blaze. I’ve also seen in dumpsters brand new jackets with an arm or hood half burned off.
Walking still further, I came upon a young man passed out on a rolling shelving unit. He was alive but high enough to be oblivious to the world. His legs were resting on the ground and his torso leaning over the cart, while his head pitched back at an angle which made his mouth gape wide open. The oddest part of this man’s position: the cart he was dangling from had been leaned up against another person, that person’s feet sticking out from beneath a sleeping bag. I stood there for many moments, held my rosary above them, and prayed. It looked very uncomfortable though they weren’t feeling much.
Further along, there were two or three more established camps though nobody was stirring in them. It was still early enough the inhabitants were probably fast asleep. The constant hum of I-5 traffic to the east provided background noise.
Planned Parenthood was my next stop and as I approached I saw Tammy standing at the entrance with a friend of hers. We spoke briefly about our last encounter, about the movie Unplanned which I had watched since then, and about the frequency of her visits to the facility. A man I recognized from St Joseph’s was along the street, standing signs. “Take my hand, not my life” was stated on one side of each sign. “Abortion, the greatest child abuse” on the other. Tammy gave me a “million dollar bill” with an invitation to repent and return to Jesus’ heart of grace before I made my first lap around the building.
On completing that first lap, I met the gentleman from St Joseph’s, Bob. He told me they’ve been coming out on Fridays to pray a rosary and Divine Mercy chaplet for years. “Most of the people who drive by are supportive of us out here, though we do get a few who are adamantly opposed…” If the practice of abortion isn’t a staunchly mixed issue, then there isn’t one. “What I’d truly like in those instances when people are so angry with us for being out here is to engage in some kind of dialogue. I’d like to ask them why they stand where they do on the issue. Ask them how they arrived at their conclusions.” I enjoyed my brief chat with him before making another lap around the building.
After the second lap, I waved him goodbye and crossed the street headed toward Lancaster. At the light, I noticed a cart across the street half a block south. Oftentimes, such a cart will be abandoned, either having been rifled through by thieves or perhaps left behind for an upgrade. Such was not the case here. Lying next to it was a man, deep in fentanyl absorption. All the tell-tale signs were there: the bulging pulse on his neck, a twitching of his limbs, mouth gaping wide accompanied by strained breathing. He was half on the sidewalk, half in the wet grass.
In most instances like this, I usually crouch near the person and hold the crucifix at the end of one of my Medjugorje rosaries above the person and pray as inspired. Usually, that means a portion of the rosary, Divine Mercy chaplet, or Psalm 50. I don’t know how else to intercede in these situations, trusting our Blessed Mother will care for her child while I commend them to her through my human concern.
I moved further south and stood at the corner of Lancaster and Sunnyview. Enrique, who I met on Wednesday, was coming toward me through the crosswalk with another young man I hadn’t met till now, Morgan. Enrique was pushing a cart and Morgan walked beside him, truly the more exhausted of the two. Morgan was pensive, his hair pulled forward by his hoodie, encompassing his face. I simply chatted with them a bit and asked about Enrique’s leg and where they were headed—they had come to the 7-Eleven to meet a friend. After receiving permission, I placed a hand on each of their heads and prayed for them. I am always the poor man in these encounters, not knowing what to say or how to help. I trust the Holy Spirit is touching these men as He wishes.
Janelle stood at the west entrance of Fred Meyer hanging a sign. She’s a tough one and after an initial hug, she launches into a few stories. “Did you get out into that windstorm the other night? That was crazy!” Her voice is very raspy and I have to lean in close to comprehend what she's saying above the din of traffic nearby. “I never got my check all through February, did you say tomorrow’s March? I’m going to have to catch the bus to Stayton to pick up my check. Nowadays, everything is so tight and they don’t like getting you money on a card, you have to go down there to pick up a physical check.”
I asked her how long of a trip it was. “First I have to catch a bus downtown, then wait for the next bus going that way and make one more connection. Usually, the trip takes about three hours.” I wasn’t sure if that was one-way or round-trip. Stayton’s not that far out.
“Did I tell you about my son? When he was twenty-six, he had a major accident and was a true quadriplegic, he severed his spinal cord at C5 and C6. The doctors told us right from the start that these things have to take time before you know how much damage there’s going to be, let them do physical therapy and hopefully, there’s some improvement. But this lady doctor told me in no uncertain terms there wasn’t much hope in this situation, his spinal cord was severed. It wasn’t three and a half months before that kid was dragging himself on the ground with his elbows and after two years he could walk some. He still has a considerable limp on the one side but we think his healing is a miracle.”
She went on and told me about her upbringing. “I grew up on a farm and being on a farm you get the sense things are ordered and there’s some peace. But when I became homeless I had to develop a rough exterior. People out here will steal your stuff and knock you around for no reason at all and you have to stand up for yourself. How I sometimes miss the old days when life was simpler.” I suspect that’s a notion any modern person could attest to.
I next went into Fred Meyer to use the facilities. There was a man in the stall next to me wheezing and moaning with each breath. After doing my business I called out to him and asked if he was okay. No response. I got down on my hands and knees and poked my head parallel to the eight-inch gap at the bottom of the stall divider wall. The first thing I saw was the familiar hands, brown and beat up, knuckles lying on the tile floor. Poking my head in further, I saw his consciousness was flagging, his chest pitched forward onto his knees, head resting between his shins. So I did what I do with all our Lady’s children out here. I reached my hand into his stall and held his, praying a few Hail Marys before getting up to see if I might be able to open the stall.
He was securely locked in so I washed my hands and referred him to the young security guard at the entrance. He mentioned he'd get his supervisor to deal with it and I walked toward the entrance. Something stopped me so I turned around and went back to the bathroom with a desire to see if this man was okay. The security guard from Wednesday's encounter on the sidewalk stood at the stall door barking at the man.
As I poked my head through the bathroom door, the younger security guard mentioned I was the one who reported the issue at hand. "You're that guy from the other day, aren't you!" said the superior. "Yes, sir," I responded. He turned his back on me without another word. Us and them, this is the biggest problem I see in human relationships. Do we see ourselves as connectors or blockages? The security guard was not happy with me, though I was helping him out! I was grateful he was able to rouse the man in the stall.
Mark sat at the Fred Meyer west entrance, flip flops on both feet, a sock on only one of them. I’d met him on the 16th, the day it was pouring down rain without any relief in sight. Today, it was sunny, though his disposition was not. I crouched in front of him and recognizing him, said “Mark, right?” He nodded and blew out a deep breath through his nostrils. I asked if I could sit with him for a while. “Sure.”
I simply prayed for him in silence before he opened up. “Man, what are you doing out here?” So I told him, “I love you guys. I've been given enough money to be able to book a trip to Cancun once a year, to go down on the beach and drink Margaritas all day for two weeks, but for me, that wouldn’t hit the spot. It wouldn’t move my heart. Coming out here and visiting with you all moves my heart.”
His response: “You’ve got to be nuts.” He then turned to his momentary plight. “Somebody stole my shoes last night, stole my cart, everything I have now is what you’re looking at. Fucking druggies, why do they have to steal my stuff?” That’s a complex question I let hang in the air. He returned to questioning me. “What kind of work do you do?” I told him I’m an accountant for the State of Oregon, that I have a sweet niche and a 4/10 schedule which allows me to pay the bills and still have ample time for the neighbors. “We work hard in our office, the people on my team are salt-of-the-earth, good hard-working folks who I love too. I’ve been given a very good job and hope I’m sufficiently grateful for it.”
“I used to be a painting contractor…” he shared. “Grew up in the Bay Area and started working in paint in 1981. I did that until about five years ago.” During our sharing, I had asked him if he had any wounds which needed attention and he referred me to a major crack beneath the fingernail on one of his thumbs. We talked as I worked on the wound. Coming to a halt in the conversation we both sat in silence for a while before he continued, “I’m sorry to be such a downer. Bet that’s just what you need.”
“Listen Mark” I replied, “I hope you can tell just how angry I am with you right now, you goof!” He smiled for the first time all day. “This is life, and the people you see coming and going from this parking lot, they have it hard too. They have worries and concerns that drive their minds to depression and pain in the same ways you guys out here experience.” I’ve mentioned this before in these pages, but I think the playing field is quite flat, we, the housed simply have a broader line of defenses and coping options before us. “This is where I want to be, to be here with you, to feel what it’s like to have people come and go, driving past in their attempt to accomplish the things of their days. It’s good to experience some of your life with you.”
Mark pondered a while and finally came back full circle with me. “I guess you’re right. A trip to Mexico for vacation couldn’t ever get you to know this. Thanks for being out here.”
I got up and asked him to stand with me. I gave him my best bear hug and told him how much I appreciated him. He’s sixty and mentions the difficulty standing due to sports injuries. “You look like a Judo man to me,” I joked. “Just baseball and football, those were what I played. It takes a toll and so does life out here.” As he sat down and I walked away, I wondered if there was anywhere else I could be filled like this.
Oh boy, I thought, as I walked the north side of Market down to the I-5 underpass. I see Desiree sitting on the stone wall in front of the landscaping to the car dealership, Trenton leaning in to kiss her. It’s warm out so he’s dressed down in flannel shorts which have creeped down the backside of his rump: he’s three-quarter mooning the cars passing by, though oblivious to it. I decided, I think wisely, to pass them by as they navigate the current moment.
Standing over another sleeping man at the northeast end of the underpass, I notice a small fire burning where Sean and Jessica have been staying. The camp has expanded since I came through on Wednesday and there’s a broken-up pallet at the edge of the carts. Sean is working on an upturned bicycle; I pass him by and greet him, waving also to his wife as she rolls a joint. To the west, Natalie adjusts a thick blue pallet on end to let some heat out: “We got it a little too hot in there, now it’s getting toward noon and we had to let some warmth out of there. How’ve you been?” she asks. She hugs me. “I’m good, getting toward the end of my rounds,” I share.
Inside the circle of carts and pallets, the fire burns, and Natalie introduces me to Brian, and his pitbull, Opel. The dog comes over multiple times during my visit and sticks her nose through the holes in the pallet looking for affection. A very sweet girl.
Natalie and I get to talking and our sharing has the flavor of our usual discourse. "Is that a wig?" I ask. “Yes, it’s a wig,” she says, “I’m having a bad hair day.” The wig she’s wearing seems to be shifted to the left a tad, giving it a lopsided look. “Sometimes out here, you’ve got to change it up, at least give yourself the sense that the scenery’s shifting somewhat.” I pull off my stocking cap and she laughs at the notion there will be no shift there, just gaining follicle failure.
Natalie’s hands have darkened since our last visit, and they’ve lost the fake nails. I give her more bandages which she receives on condition. “Only if they’re not the plastic ones. You do have the fabric ones right? Plus, I know how bad your math is, so I’ll ask for three and maybe come away with ten.” I hand her some alcohol wipes and bandages, pointing out her math is better than mine, but not by much since my random grab procured seven bandages.
She starts in on my homeless field trip options: “Have you thought any more about coming out here for a week and giving it a go? I have. I think what you need to do is get ten people, yourself and nine others, and we’ll split you up between different groups of us. We’d keep you going but you’d have to come out with no judgment, no resources; it would be hard but we’d show you.” Truly, I had put it in the back of my mind since she first mentioned it. If anyone reading these pages would like to endeavor a week on the streets with my neighbors, please let me know. I know it would expand compassion in me.
The conversation turns to people out here, and relationships. “You know that storm we had the other day? Lizzy and I were across Lancaster by the Panda Express and she was carrying her big umbrella. When the winds kicked up, the umbrella inverted and she told me ‘Right now’s either the time for us to laugh or to cry, we’d better decide.’ We laughed, of course, nothing you could do about it.” She asked me about the people I’ve been visiting and somehow we got talking about names. I mentioned I know multiple Mikes out here. She counters. “How about Ryan or Zach? There’s tons of Ryans and Zachs out here.” I shared with her my recent interactions with Ryan from Missouri and Ryan who was frustrated with the horse tranquilizers mixed in with his drugs. “Oh that guy is a wonder,” she says. “One day he’ll be completely crippled in a wheel-chair wondering whether he should go to the hospital and the next day he’s got on jogging shoes and wants to head across the city. Both of those guys are good guys.”
I mentioned I met Zach with the prosthetic leg recently. “Yeah, that’s “One-legged Zach” and then there’s “Fat Zach” and “Alesha Zach”—because she and him used to be an item—and now there’s “New Zach” out here too. Way too many Zachs so we have to split them up by category! You’re right, though, a lot of Mikes too. There was a time out here about six months ago when another Natalie came into this area and she pretty much ruined my name while she was here; she was a stealer. She stole everything and people who knew me on the street kept saying ‘Why have you changed? What’s going on.’ Then I had to explain to them.”
I told her I stopped in to see Brandon (Wiener) and Katelynn this morning. “That nickname has got to go. When I first met Brandon, I told him that I’m either calling him by his name or changing the nickname to Tator Tots. His last name is close to Wiener but he got the nickname at school because kids can be punks. I’m not continuing that nonsense out here.”
Brian tossed a new pallet scrap on the fire as Natalie returned to her namesake damaging her reputation. “It’s weird getting money on the streets. Did you ever see that show where some guy bought a spoon for $.25 at a thrift store only to find out it was the last of a $2500 antique set? He sold it to the guy who owned the set for $50 and then traded up and up and up finally buying a Lamborgini for $275,000 cash without spending another dime. That kind of shit happens. Sometimes we’ll look in a dumpster and there’s brand new stuff in there. Last year I got a brand new tent out of the dumpster; it still had the tags on it. Mostly what people out here do is trade. They’ll get one thing, trade for another, then they’ll have enough to buy a bag of fetty and can smoke until the next round.”
“Do you smoke fentanyl,” I asked her. “Yes. You know it’s the drug they give people when they’re right on the edge of death and it allows them to relax and just go into the next world without fighting anymore. It’s kind of like that for some people but it depends on the batch you get. One round of it might just barely relax you or do nothing at all and then the next batch completely knocks you out and puts you on death’s door, just like when they administer it at the hospital. That’s why it’s so dangerous, the window is smaller than with other drugs.”
I wanted to attend mass at noon and my travel window was closing fast so I took my leave of her. I asked again if I might share her and her story with a wider audience, to show more aspects of life out here. “Of course you can but you better put me in a good light. Make me nice, but not too nice. Know what I mean? I don’t want people getting the wrong impression!” A tough task for sure. Every time I meet this lady and write about her, I hope I’m doing her personality sufficient justice.
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