DAY NINE
01.31.2025 St John Bosco
Justin, Trenton, and Natalie are huddled together at the I-5 pillar, backs against it to cut down on the cutting wind. Natalie’s in a camp chair: “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been, haven’t seen you in a while!” I had missed her unassuming spirit and was glad to see her. Trenton was lying down on a pad: “Hey man, that pack you gave me the other day was perfect, really helped me a lot” and it was then that I recognized him again as the man I’d seen Sunday at the Photovision. Justin, I’ve seen once before, and he helped me with context: “I’ve met you before, usually I’m dressed as a woman, you gave me a bunch of toilet paper maybe a month ago while I was riding past you on a bike, remember that?” Ah yes, the face I knew, the purple hair and makeup gone today.
I crouched down with them to get out of the wind too, and asked if they needed anything. Corey had been over here on Wednesday and dropped off some different kinds of provisions: Costco-sized canisters of Clorox wipes, new gloves, stocking caps, and the other usual stuff. Each one of them took some of everything. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention here my reservations about taking things like brand-new gloves and hats to the streets. The economy out here is fentanyl-driven and a brand new set of gloves/hats could translate into different things: it could keep them warm, get stolen, or worse, get the person carrying them beat up so the assailant can feed his or her addiction. I give them out hoping for warmth.
I was hoping to sit with them for a while, so I told Trenton I had a couple of beers in case he wanted to share one. “Hi, I’m Trenton and I’m an alcoholic. You know that’s what they say at the meetings, and I am one.” He went on to tell a story about being in San Francisco and traveling north to the Budweiser brewery south of Sacramento: “They gave us a tour of the brewery and at the end we were given two drinks right from the tap and it was so delicious. The whole time I was driving home all I could think about was my next drink and when I cracked open a can from my fridge, I spit it out, nasty next to that juice from the tap.” I doubt the canned beer was what sealed his sobriety, but he finished his story and was off and running in his conversation with Justin regarding the pipe he was working on. These guys were super grateful and as I picked up to leave, Natalie encouraged me: “Whenever you come out here, we really appreciate it. I’d hate to see it if some bad apple out here ever made you stop.” I smile, knowing there isn’t anyone out here more depraved than I am.
Walking east in a driving rain, I notice Sean’s car at the Days Inn, the hood is up and he’s sitting on the engine. At the west entrance to Fred Meyer, I encounter Kris, a middle-aged woman hanging a sign. The message is written in pencil and even at a few feet I cannot decipher what it says. Perhaps this is a good analogy for our prayer. We know what we need, but are too poor to express it in a meaningful way. We want someone to pay attention, but then some pattern of incapacity hinders us from actually communing with the one who can be with us. There is love and compassion on offer, we want to connect with it. This is the first time I’ve met Kris and she is dumbfounded when looking into the cart of goods. She’s panhandling for herself, her sister, and her husband so we fill a veggie bag with something of everything and she is gushing with thankfulness. In the brief conversation, I’d forgotten her name so I asked her to tell me again. “Kris, God bless you.”
Sean is working on the fuel relay on his FORD SUV. He’s already installed the fuel pump he showed me the last time we met, now it’s pumping too forcefully and blowing out the hoses on top of the engine. I stand there and talk to him awhile; he shows me the issue at hand. There are unconnected hoses and a dangling blower tube, but he seems to understand the issue. The blowing rain has subsided momentarily; I invite him to take a break to gather some provisions. Were I to paint a picture of Sean, he’d be my dictionary image for the definition of tough. Surviving on very little, moving from place to place, working on his vehicle so he can travel to gainful work. I want to see him succeed, and will walk with him as that process unfolds. At the end of our time together, he tells me the city wanted him moved yesterday so on Sunday I can find him parked behind the Holiday Inn. “You’re coming out Sunday, right? I hope to have this thing up and running by this evening so should be out of the city’s way by then. I know those guys very well, or they know me…” We say a common blessing over his engine as the rain picks up again. As I depart, he’s already taken his place again under the hood, criss-cross apple sauce, tinkering with hoses.
When I was hanging out with Trenton and his crew earlier, I noticed Hard Sudoku (hereafter HS) across Market at the I-5 exit. After leaving Sean, HS’s cart was there but he’d vanished. I deposited a couple of Corona’s in his grocery bag where I knew he’d find them upon his return. A few meters away, Desiree was in a haze, aimlessly wandering on that concrete pad; as I approached she waved me off.
I met Tory for the first time today at the Bottle Drop. His bicycle and trailing cart were parked out front and he was gathering himself for a ride back to Hyacinth where he was currently camping. He was wearing shorts and a neoprene sleeve on his right leg. From a distance, I wondered if he might be one of my prosthetic brothers. As I got closer, it was simply covering his leg of flesh. After the usual introductions, he graciously took something of everything to eat and thanked me. While we were talking, a beautiful young woman walked up and started putting her massive bags of cans in his cart. She asked if I wanted any and I declined, inviting her to put the whole offering on Tory’s wagon. She deposited there five black garbage bags full of recyclables and stepped into her nearby SUV. Tory looked at me with a big smile: “Dang, today is a good day.”
I made a loop around the Walgreens and 7-Eleven before crossing Lancaster again to the west. There was a young man in the bus stop shelter, smoking a joint and rearranging a few items in a small cardboard box. At my approach, he was very suspicious so I asked if he wanted anything: “I don’t want any of the food or water, but those protein drinks, I’ll take as many of those as you want to give me. Can’t get enough protein out here.” When I mentioned we had met the other day, he munching on a carton of ice cream from the Dollar Store, he nodded in agreement. I felt called to pry a bit further into his story: “Dakota Michael Johnson, born 09.01.2000” he offered when I asked him his birthday. “I’ve been out here eight years, ran away from the foster system. Though life out here is hard, I am thankful for some things, can’t tell what right now.” At sixteen, he decided he’d be better off out here than living in the system of foster care, for whatever reasons. There's a quality about this young man hard to articulate, but I’m going to try: absolutely protected, completely exposed. Even though he’s opened up to me and told me a few details of his life, my plain experience of standing with him in a small bus stop shelter is that trust doesn’t exist in his body. How could it? This is a kid I’d like to make a Sunday appointment with next time I see him: land on a rendezvous place and time, feed him a proper meal once a week, and just be with him in it. I honestly don’t know if that’s the naivety of my heart or my connection with his struggle for trust or both. I prayed with him for a moment before departing, the Mother of God is going to have to orchestrate if there’s to be more in this relationship, and the how of it.
Deacon Ed is praying outside the Planned Parenthood today, his Friday afternoon appointment at the hour of our Lord’s sacrifice on the Cross. Today is the third time I’ve met him there, a seminarian of the Diocese of Anchorage studying at Mt Angel Seminary. Ed is a simple man, walking and praying on a Friday afternoon, his visit to Salem a stop before continuing on to his weekend assignment at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, a parish in Albany. We spoke briefly: he went home for a month at Christmas and is back for the final push in his studies before priesthood. We talk about the details of ministry in Alaska: “Down here, priests have multiple parishes and the population is dense. In Alaska, the next parish might be three hours away and you’re still assigned there.” I ask him if he's going to get his float plane license to be able to broaden his ministry; he mentions a priest or two up there have theirs. I like this young man, and I hope his calling is consecrated to the Mother of God and her care.
Carlos and Justin are just north of PP on the left side or Coral, burning time. I’ve never met either of them before; they seem like they are ashamed, like two kids with their fingers in the cookie jar. I assure them, I’m just a neighbor helping out and they’re welcome to take any provisions they’d like. The last granola bars and a couple of protein drinks later and I’m headed south for home.
On Sunnyview under the I-5 overpass, there’s a fresh set of carts lining the sidewalk. Every couple of weeks, the police come through and disperse forming camps only to have them reform a few days later. This particular line of carts belongs to one man, a toothless fellow I’ve seen riding his bike along streets. He’s got a push broom out, slowly making his way all down the curb: he’s cleaning up. I’ve heard homeless people complain about the trash others leave or gather, but this is the first time I see someone cleaning up. And it’s not just around his campsite-to-be. I watch him as he sweeps the entirety of the stretch beneath I-5, a good fifty meters worth. I’m touched by his simplicity, his pace, and the matter-of-fact manner he goes about it.
On my stretch home, two elderly German Shepherds nose the curtains of their front room to the sides to have a look. I look back and ask them “What’s going on boys?” They don’t break their gaze. Continuing along slowly, I put them in my heart and add them to the other memories of the day.
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