DAY TEN
02.02.2025 Presentation of the Lord
“Thus says the Lord God: Lo, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me; And suddenly there will come to the temple the Lord whom you seek, and the messenger of the covenant whom you desire. Yes, he is coming, says the Lord of hosts. But who will endure the day of his coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like the refiner’s fire, or like the fuller’s lye. He will sit refining and purifying silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi, refining them like gold or like silver that they may offer due sacrifice to the Lord. Then the sacrifice of Judah and Jerusalem will please the Lord, as in the days of old, as in years gone by.” –the Prophet Malachi
My neighbors across the way were in their driveway as I departed on today’s walk. Lee and Cathie are sweet, getting up in years, and dealing with the vagaries of aging. Lee had one of his pinky fingers wrapped, it was swollen. “The doctors told me they’re going to have to amputate, it’s infected and has been for a while now.” He’s Samoan and carries with him a gentleness I’ve rarely found elsewhere. He also possesses a sense of humor which flattens me on occasion. When I jokingly asked him if I could have the finger after removal (a first-class relic!), he replied “No, I think we’ll have you over for dinner shortly after they amputate: be careful what you might find in the soup!” I love these two. I’d been in the neighborhood a couple of months when a tin of Christmas fudge was left on my doorstep, care of Cathie’s mixer. This morning we prayed over Lee’s finger, and they blessed my departure before they hopped in the car for a trip to the store.
Today was a cart-free day, a walk through the neighborhood without provision. My first visit was with Roy and Eddie, standing in front of two tents on the NW corner of Sunnyview and Hawthorne. Roy and I know each other by now and I can spot his gait from a good distance. I greeted him and he embraced me; he was pushing a kid’s scooter around, not the usual baby cart. He didn’t want to talk much so he ducked into the closest tent while Eddie and I talked. Eddie lives in one of the camps here, next door to Jesse. He told me he was currently outside his tent since a friend and his lady were in there. A veiled-not-so-veiled reference to the sexual activity on the street which in a housed situation would be more private.
Last Monday, my team at the office moved locations from SE Salem to a Keizer location. Our boss bought Costco pizzas for lunch and there were parts of two pizzas left over; I took them home and brought them out to this camp around 8:30 that night. Unable to rouse anyone, I left them on a chair outside Eddie’s tent: “Awww, that was you who brought that pizza out? Everyone was thanking me for it, we ate it all the next morning and I kept telling them I didn’t have a clue where it came from. That was some good pizza, Bro!” I asked him about the length of their stay in this spot: “I think the cops are being nice to us since it’s been so cold out. They might give us another couple of weeks; moving this time of year isn't fun and even they know it.” Eddie is dressed in relatively clean and new apparel, an oddity for life out here. He seems to have some level of resources maybe some of the others don’t. We didn’t talk for long; he too ducked into the tent.
I stopped for a bit to examine the boarded-up house at 3603 Sunnyview; the house isn’t condemned, but there are city postings all over it prohibiting occupation. It looks like it may have been a squatter's house and the owners got the city involved. A weird combination: the roof and guttering system are brand new, while the rest of the house is so worn down and boarded up it seems it might be best to knock the place down and start over. If it stays in its current state much longer I might call the city and see what the story on it is. It has a massive lot, though the yard and surrounding area are trashed.
Taking a left on Coral Street, I see Scotty sitting on the curb on the backside of the BIG LOTS store. I’ve seen him on multiple occasions before; usually he’s a secondary figure who wants to be in the shadows. Today I found out why: “The name’s Braden, but I like people to call me Scotty since it’s a shift from my past life, don’t want to remember it most days. I’ve been out here twelve years and man is it hard, just got jumped and could use a couple of bucks to make it through the day…” I take a closer look at him than I ever have. He’s got reddish brown hair where he isn’t balding, a unique wrinkling of the skin on his head, not as the wrinkling of an older person, but large firm wrinkles. Ever since I met him, I’ve known he’s carrying true pressure. Since he opened up about his desire to distance himself from his past, I told him a bit of my story: “Sometimes it’s too hard to even get to the center of things due to the pain of it. I’ve seen counselors and spent all kinds of money trying to figure out why I feel so much pain, but at the end of it all, there’s a sense nobody is going to get it.” Perhaps he gets it. He continued: “Twelve years ago, I was working both in construction and auto-body repair, I was doing all this stuff, really good at it. I’m at work one day, my wife and four little daughters are in California, and I get a call that they’ve been killed in a car accident. Brianna, my wife, and the little ones.” I was so gutted by his story I missed the names of his young daughters. What I do remember is each of their names ended with Lynn, eg. Ashlynn, Katelynn. He said it so matter-of-factly; I just sat there. There’s nothing to say, no psychological angle to take, nothing but the Cross of Christ and Scotty/Braden joining his pain to it. If I wasn’t already gutted, he continued “They’re the reason I keep going, the reason I have hope. Life is tough out here, but someday I hope to see them again…” I look into the distant sky with him and lift him to a distant God who is so close.
At the 7-Eleven sidewalk, I see Richard stacking bedding on a shopping cart. I ask him where he’s moving to: “Don’t know yet, but it’s every day now. I’ve got to find another shopping cart so we can load this stuff in there…” A man comes from the east begging for a plastic bag or shopping bag and Richard gives him a large black trash bag. A young Hispanic kid comes over to talk with Richard; I recognize him and ask his name. “Junior.” He doesn’t want to talk and Richard declines any help moving so I head to Walgreens.
Desiree is slumped in the sun at the pharmacy drive-thru. I didn’t know it was her until I sat down beside her. “Last night I didn’t sleep hardly at all, so it’s probably good you’re waking me up, I’ve been sleeping here now for way too long.” The sun is shining on us, she mentions how cold it’s been. “I’ve got to keep moving at night so I don’t freeze, then I know the drive-thru isn’t open on Sundays so I stopped here to rest. Still tired, but I got to get moving.” We talk about Dwayne “he’s under the I-5 at Market” and she becomes highly animated when I ask her if she likes the Classical music playing: “You know why I think they do that, so the shoppers will get hyped when they actually grab their shopping cart and then will have all this energy to go zip zip zip around and buy up everything. For me, I like it, but after a while it gets repetitive, they play the same songs over and over and over.” I smile at her and she back at me. I like her take on the music.
Last night at Lancaster and Market there was a riot of sorts: a protest started at noon regarding the Trump Administration’s immigration policies. It was relatively peaceful until it got dark and reportedly people were throwing objects at passing cars, lighting fires, that kind of hooliganism. The report I saw: five people were arrested and the streets shut down for hours. I mention it because today there was a message on a loudspeaker at the 7-Eleven: “Thank you for shopping at 7-Eleven. For your safety, all activities in the parking lot are under video surveillance.” Not sure if the riot and announcement are connected, but this was the first time I’ve heard the public address.
By the Bottle Drop, a toothless lady's clamoring for some smokes as I walk past: “You got a cigarette I can buy from you?” I decline, wondering if it’s time for me to buy a pack and walk on. On the Lancaster sidewalk, is the hunched man I saw a few weeks ago bent double underneath a red blanket. He’s got cuts all over his head, his haircut equally botched as it was then, and I simply ask him how he’s doing. He looks at me blankly. He’s got a lit cigarette hanging from his lips; the woman who just asked me for one approaches him. “You got a smoke I can buy off you?” She’s singing a tune from the late 70s: “Abra Abra Cadabra, I wanna reach out and grab ya.” He stumbles to the left front of his cart and digs under the plastic wrapping it. Finding a smoke, he hands it over and I take my leave of them. I’m glad I didn’t have a cigarette on me. This poor and crippled man was able to meet the need of his street sister.
Trenton’s on the Market St sidewalk west of Fred Meyer. He’s not happy with me: “Why didn’t you give me those beers the other day? I could have used them to settle in, to relax, to get comfortable.” He and I had a long conversation about his alcoholism then; I had told him of the Coronas in my bag for Hard Sudoku. A learning moment. Although at the time he wasn’t interested in them, today he was angry I hadn’t given them to him. I asked him what was beneath his anger: “I just saw my girlfriend and I looked at her and she looked at me and then I looked away for a minute and she’s gone. She is so tiny she could have gone anywhere, into Fred Meyer to do some shopping, anywhere really. How do you let go of someone who you let into your heart and now you have to let them go?” I asked if he was referring to Desiree, his girlfriend. “Of course. I don’t know how to do it.” She is no longer his girlfriend, though that detail got missed in the conversation. Letting go is a process I don’t understand either, though I suspect a couple of Coronas wouldn't truly help.
Dwayne’s under the I-5 just like Desiree said he’d be. He’s packing up, also talking about his lady: “I love that woman, but she’s got a screw loose.” I think he’s also referring to Desiree and decide not to spend any further mental energy on that relational dynamic. He says he’s getting a place later this week, an apartment in the neighborhood and I hope it’s true. He mentions last time he mucked up his housing, getting caught with weed in the building. “Not really weed, but the dust of weed on a rag I’d used to clean my pipe.” I hope I don’t see him again for a while.
While I was talking to Dwayne I noticed Lizzy at the exit on the south side of the street. When she panhandles, she does so in a very reserved manner, sitting quietly with a simple sign. Today she’s sitting beneath a foil “blanket” to warm herself, her sign stating “Homeless” with a smiley face on it. I sit next to her, and we talk for a long time, the better part of an hour. “I was just thinking about you,” she began. “It's been so cold out here the last couple of weeks and I know it looks stupid but I think this blanket keeps me warm to some degree and even if it’s just one degree, it’s worth it.” When I approached her, the blanket completely engulfed her, a big tin bubble with this young woman inside. I told her she looked like she was either trying to attract aliens or pull down a television signal old-school style, suggesting she was too young to remember that. “Oh, I remember when we only had a few channels and had to adjust the wire hanger on the back of the TV with the foil at the top. The good old days.”
I noticed a St Benedict rosary hanging from her neck. “Junior gave this to me and wear it everywhere I go. (She confirms it’s the same Junior I just met, on the move at the 7-Eleven) He used to be so kind and generous but life is getting hard for him. His Dad died last summer and now his only brother is being shipped upstate to do a long time in prison, for murder or something like that. This rosary though, I don’t ever take it off, wear it everywhere. Someone out here tried to buy it off my once, but it was a gift and I won’t ever take it off.” I simply emphasize the power of Benedict to help and protect her and share a bit of my relationship with St Benedict. “My parents baptized me at five weeks old on July 11th, the feast of St. Benedict.” "Right around my birthday, July 20th,” she said.
A woman of Asian decent opened her window and I sprung up to retrieve the few dollars she was holding out. Lizzy shifted gears: “I see people coming off this exit non-stop and nobody’s smiling, well, I guess that lady right there is kind of smiling but it looks more like a smirk than a real smile. Life must be hard no matter where you live. The thing out here is the drugs, fentanyl mostly. It's so addictive in a different way than all the others, heroin, meth, you name it. It used to be if somebody did some time in jail or went into treatment, it might be enough to get them detoxed and clean and they might have a real shot at staying sober when they get out. Not with fentanyl. I just recently did forty-five days in jail and the very first thing I did when getting out was find my dealer. I know everyone living out here in north Salem, and in the last few years, not one person has gotten clean. Not one.” I asked her how often she is using fentanyl. “Every day, I have to. There’s not even a choice involved anymore.”
I asked her about her friends, how she gets along out here. “Well, we have it hard; in the last four years, I’d say that I know of ten women who’ve simply disappeared and I know it isn’t because they got clean. People just disappear. I know for a fact that two of those women were murdered, but they classify them as fentanyl deaths so the authorities don’t have to investigate them, it’s easier just to assume we’re homeless and nobody cares about us anyway so even though the fentanyl overdose numbers are high, they’re higher than in reality. Just imagine, if you’ve got people dying out here, would you take the time to investigate a violent murder? So much easier for them to sweep us under the rug…” It must be hard for both sides, the homeless and the police. When John died a few weeks ago, I got a call in the evening from a deputy trying to gather any kind of information he could about him, next of kin, anything. In that instance, I could share with them since I’d encountered him half a dozen times and he’d given us family information. I suspect many people on the streets, many who exited the foster system or dysfunction, don’t have anyone “established” to contact.
Lizzy continued: “The other hard thing about it is we don’t really have a voice, can’t have one because of the drug scene out here. We were going to organize a protest down at the Capitol a while back, but then we realized half of us have warrants out and a gathering like that would give the cops easy access…” She grins at this and I see the irony. Protesting treatment from a society that has cast you off, which you have also turned from in so many ways, wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense. Where would the connection occur with such an action? Would there even be a desired outcome? It’s complex, and the complexity isn’t lost on her.
As I take my leave of Lizzy, I’m reminded of her sincerity. She is a good kid in tough circumstances, partly chosen, partly imposed. I think it would be naïve to couch it in any other terms.
Sean and his vehicle have indeed moved to the street bordering the Holiday Inn. As I approach from the south, he’s behind his rig, repairing a bicycle. “Hey, if I bring my car out here, will you work on it too?” I ask. He looks at me and smiles. “If I’ve got wheels, I can work. This old bike needs some work.” I ask him, “So you got the car going?” “No, my friend towed me over here Friday night. The fuel relay is still causing problems and I need to go to the auto parts store and get some new hoses and a toggle switch.” He takes me around to the front so we can look under the hood and gives me an abbreviated explanation of the issue since he knows I’m not mechanically inclined.
Changing subjects he talks of the new spot: “I should probably move it again, put the car in front of the pickup parked there since I don’t have any plates on it, the back hatch one big invitation for a citation. I shouldn’t bother the neighbors at all since I keep it clean but we’ll find out soon, won’t we? Just down the street here, I’ve got some friends who live in the apartment complex and they let me shower there when I need one so that’s nice. Anyway, I’ll get settled and hopefully be able to hang out here for a while.”
At this point, I ask him if I can share his story, and ask the spelling of his first name. “Of course you can, people need to know what it’s like out here; you’ll give it to them straight.” He mentions he’s an Irish Sean, my intuition being correct on that score. “We Irish, not the best of folks but good hard working.” He and I have spoken in the past about his MMA career so I put in a plug for a bout between him and Conor McGregor. “That guy is one bad dude, nasty in his prime. When I was fighting, it was because I loved it but it was so hard on my body. My record: 11-3 overall, 1-0 as a professional. I miss it sometimes…” We embrace as I depart, two old fighters on a different stretch of our careers.
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