Seeing Clearly

DAY TWENTY-THREE

03.28.25 Friday of the Third Week in Lent

Clarissa and Frank were standing on the ARCO sidewalk in between a jutted-out wall and the propane tanks. They had a friend with them, Javy, who I met today for the first time. Clarissa was sitting on the concrete and I greeted her first. “Oh hey, it’s been a while,” she responded.

You may remember these two from the day when Corey and I found John Mustoe had died. That day they were resting at the picnic table outside Baskin Robbins, she ribbing him about not procuring enough cookies to her liking. Now, she filled me in on recent happenings. “You haven’t seen us out here because we’ve been staying with a friend. There was a bunch of us there and he got fed up with some of our behavior so everybody got kicked out. So now we’re back out here.”

This is a common occurrence: friends will take in the needy for a time and something happens which puts them back on the street again. She didn’t share with me many details, only that They were trying to stay warm. “Last night was so cold and these two (she pointed at Frank and Javy) kept warm by laying on me all night. I asked them this morning to find a spot where I might sit down since it’s now my turn to rest. Here we are.”

Javy stood there listening. Sticking out from beneath his stocking cap were braids of hair strategically positioned to frame his face. He opened up after Clarissa shared with him my relationship with her and Frank.

“I’ve been on the streets for a couple of years now which is crazy since I’ve got a bachelor’s degree. Criminal Justice of all things. Crazy, right? I got hooked on fentanyl and now I’m on the other side of the equation, wanting to get off it, trying to get off it, but nothing works. I spend most of my time up in Woodburn with a gang up there. They’re not a violent gang like you hear about, it’s more like a tight-knit community where you feel included. I’m not a member of the gang, but they know me and they take care of me.”

Javy is the first person affiliated with a gang I’ve met out here since there’s no gang presence in our neighborhood. We have packs of young people and drug dealers, but no committed or professed gang activity. I had my unspoken doubts about the altruism of the group he's been hanging with.

“I’m going back to Woodburn tonight to be with my people but came down to see Frank for a while, we go way back.” They weren’t overly hungry but Clarissa went into the store with me and we got her a fountain drink, Frank and Javy ice cream sandwiches, Frank’s favorite. The ones with cookies for the endcaps. He had stepped away for a moment to check his phone and I noticed he was becoming distant.

I’m learning something out here about the inner dynamics of my relationships with the people. Couples have to be approached in a different manner than single folks because of the inherent shame that arises when someone like me steps in for a minute to help. The value and the pride of a man is to be able to provide for his wife or significant other and if he can’t do that, there’s already a feeling of lack or inadequacy. Add my intention to help out both of them and that already present sting comes closer to the surface.

When Clarissa and I emerged from the store, Austin and Tyler had arrived and joined the group. Austin’s appearance changes from visit to visit based on his drug intake. When clean he presents as a cherubic elven creature, with soft eyes and combed beard. When he’s using, he looks like an old man, exhausted and strung out, while trying to act as if it’s normal. It’s a contrast I see in many out here. Today, his system is unoccupied with drugs.

Tyler and Austin wanted something to drink as well so I went in again with Austin. He got the largest fountain drink possible and I grabbed a Cherry Coke for his friend. The cashier knows him well and gives him a task. “You know my locked dumpster in the back? I know you can get in there and have the stuff to open it up. The lock is frozen and I need to get a new one. Can you do your thing and cut the lock off for me?” Austin nods, "I’ll figure it out.” He's non-plussed at the request.

Since we’re in the middle of a transaction, the cashier, a Hispanic man with a high and tight haircut and massive grin, decides to show us some of his magic tricks. He pulls out a cigarette and taps it on the counter. Laying it flat, he circles it over and over with his index finger before using the same finger to roll it across the surface without touching it. Pretty smooth if you’re asking me. I decided to enjoy the show and not point out the experiment in static electricity masking as a magic trick.

He then pulls out a coin and makes it disappear while offering it to Austin. It moves from one hand to the other with some slight of hand, very quick and nimble. The cashier's been practicing and I stood there wondering how many customers have seen the same routine. Perhaps it’s his way of paying Austin back for cutting the lock on his dumpster out back.

We make our way back outside and the group reforms in a circle around Clarissa. Frank is still around the corner; she’s resting. Javi shakes my hand and acknowledges the goodness shared against the wall of the neighborhood ARCO.

Sean’s wife Jessica is standing by herself in the bus shelter as I pass by. “Hi there,” she says, “I’m on my way to the Methadone Clinic.” She’s trying to get free of the drugs and getting the help available. I’m touched by her grace; she smiles at me as she hops on the bus.

There’s a group of people camping against the recently installed fence under I-5 at Market. Sean is tending a small fire while rolling a cigarette and Lisa is sitting criss-cross applesauce behind the stop light. She’s in good shape and remembered me from the day I sat with her outside Denny’s while she sobered up. Brian and another man are sleeping beneath a transparent piece of plastic wide enough to cover them. Brian’s dog, Opel, is nestled up beside him.

Lisa and I talk briefly before I check in with Sean. He and Jessica were going to move down to Center Street after the fencing was erected but still occupy the same location, albeit with much less wiggle room. The city has moved the signs prohibiting camping, fire-burning, etc. from the concrete pillars to the fencing uprights, but the fact remains people need a place to sleep. So here they are, weirdly on the margins of the margins in a six-foot swath of concrete between the fence and freeway exit.

At Fred Meyer I see Libby hanging her sign for college money, trying to pay for Chemeketa and though I don’t stop to talk to her, her mother Laurie comes to mind. Last I saw Laurie, she was sitting in the same place where Libby now panhandles. We had talked about her upcoming visits with the doctor, about the longstanding infection in her left leg and potential amputation of it. I’ve seen Libby a few times recently but don’t disturb her. She’s a frail sensitive young woman and I want to help, not hinder her experience. God be with them both.

Michael was up and active under the I-5 when I reached his perch. He was working on his Sudoku puzzles and offered me a cigarette when I dropped off his dosage of two Coronas from my backpack. When I declined, he pulled out his vaping pen and took a few drags, telling me he prefers vaping to smoking cigarettes, a new revelation. He seemed content with his station today, watching the cars pass by, his usual lack of urgency attending him.

After crossing Market Street at the Fred Meyer gas station, I bump into Froyo. He’s loitering in the Mexican restaurant outdoor seating area, high on something. He’s from Mexico, an alcoholic, and usually when I see him he’s drunk and happy, always swearing an oath to protect me if anyone on the streets bothers me. I like him, though I feel sorry for him and his situation. He’s very animated.

“Hey man, I was thinking about you just the other day, not in a sexual way; you know what I mean! I've been wondering what happened to you. I haven’t seen you out here in a long time and was wondering if you got killed by helping the wrong people or something. Glad that’s not it.”

His eyes are glazed over, cloudy. I tell him, “I’ve seen you a couple of times recently but from a distance. You were drunk and walking the other way so I didn’t bother you.” “Ah man, you should always bother me, you know. I probably saw you too but didn’t get it because I’ve got this astigmatism thing in my eyes. Whenever I do meth or cocaine, the day of I’m okay and everything looks right. It’s the next day that’s the problem. The next day I’ll see leaves on the street looking like dollar bills. They (I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but refrain from interrupting him) think I look like an idiot running around trying to pick up dollar bills that aren’t dollar bills but tree leaves. I’ve probably seen you but haven’t seen you. Try acting like a dollar bill and maybe I’ll pay you more attention!”

I’m smiling as he changes gears and contradicts himself. “Anyway, I don’t like talking to people when I’m fucked up. See you later man.” He took off in the direction of Fred Meyer and I was left with the experience of having been oddly seen.

I was headed toward Planned Parenthood since I had a 2 PM appointment with Sally to pray for the unborn, our usual time. We’re in the middle of a 40 Days for Life campaign which coincides with Lent. On my way, I notice a young lady standing at the window of the Mexican meat shop in the strip mall. She’s looking over the eight-and-a-half by eleven papers taped to the window, informal announcements for apartments and rooms to rent. They’re of the kind with the telephone number written by hand over and over at the bottom of the sheet, separated by a scissors cut.

I stop and ask her if she’s found a place. “Not yet. My boyfriend and I are looking but everything is so expensive. We might just find a room to rent.” She and I talked for a while and I told her I have a room or two extra but will only take in men with a desire for some community and prayer. Nothing against women, it just complicates things in such a communal setting.

“Oh, I understand. There was a time in my life when I was getting clean from drugs and spent nearly ten years in a recovery facility. First I was there for my own recovery and then I stayed on to help others in a volunteer role. It was only for women and they did that on purpose too. I hope you find the right guys to come live with you.”

“The problem for me right now is my relationship with God. I’ve had a relapse with the drugs and don’t know how God sees me. I don’t want to be dishonest with him but honestly, I don’t know how to talk with him either.”

I tried to reassure her of the depth of God’s mercy in the Cross of Christ and offered her Psalm 50 as a way to return to prayer. “Just say it over and over, let it sink into your bones.” She asked me to pray with her so we did, right there in front of the meat shop, shoppers coming in empty and others leaving with ham hocks in tow. In the middle of our prayer, a van pulled up behind us and waited.

“Come on, Cherie!” the driver called out. She walked away, opened the passenger door, and hopped in, a look of sadness on her face.

Arriving at Planned Parenthood, the 1 PM crew was just finishing up. One o’clock on Fridays is the hour when a clergyman accompanies the group of people praying and usually ten to twenty people join in. Today the weather was being gentle on us so people lingered while Sally and I got started. My friend Jon Kelley had been with the 1 PM crowd and decided to make it another hour with Sally and me. We walked the sidewalk slowly, meditating on the Sorrowful Mysteries of our Lord’s life, Jon carrying a sign of our intention to stand with the lives of the unborn.