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| Photo courtesy of Chips and Salsa Today blog |
These are the things that haunt us.
There is a woman floating among the tables on the Catholic Worker
patio. Shrouded in white, clean, hair
freshly washed, eyes vacant. She is
dream-like, hallucinatory. Then it
registers, across her chest, LAC+USC Hospital. I realize she is wearing two
gowns, one tied in the front, one tied in the back. Barefoot.
On her wrist, the distinctive plastic bracelet. She sits on the corner of a table, spine
straight, dignified. I know her story. Homeless patients from the county hospital get
dumped back on Skid Row, often without their possessions or any provisions for
their self-treatment.
* * * * * *
“Water man! I need water over here!”
The clients have taken their
seats at the picnic tables on the patio.
The line still runs out to the street, and they cannot get enough
water. As I move quickly, table to
table, the clients in the line also ask me for a cup and some water. It is the heat, the humidity, and something
else: the food is spicy hot. In an effort to create flavor in blandness,
the cooks have loaded up on hot sauce and peppers. There is also a cart manned by an attractive
volunteer. Clients stop by on their way
to the tables to put more spicy condiments on their food. They ask for spoonfuls ladled over their
plates, or to fill paper cups. There are
tables set up nearby with bins of diced onions, jalapeno peppers, and the bell
peppers I chopped. They want taste, but
the sauces and vegetables simply create heat, and then, no one can get enough
water. It is comic irony, but there is
no time for a chuckle.
“Water man! Hurry, I need water. My mouth is on fire.”
I draw my pitcher from a barrel,
and rush from one end of the patio to the other, filling paper cups. “Sir, agua?” I ask one man. “Ma’am, more water?” When I call them sir or ma’am, it is as if I
have given them a compliment. They
visibly straighten and smile, the lost look runs away from their faces, and
they lock eyes with me. Dignity becomes
a tangible thing, all because of a sir or ma’am.
Several complain that the water
from my pitcher is not cold enough. I go
back inside to the kitchen to find another water barrel; this one has been full
of ice and water for longer, so it’s colder.
I scoop up a pitcher and make for the patio. On my way out, I notice that many people in
line for food have containers and jars.
Once they have a full plate, they ask the server to fill their plastic
containers for later. One man has only a
vegetable bag from the supermarket. “I’m
afraid it will melt,” the server tells him.
“Please, please, fill it.”
She ladles the tuna noodles into
the bag. The man twists and ties a knot. The bag holds for now.
Back out on the patio, I
continue to move quickly to fill the outstretched cups. At the back and center of the dining area is
a fountain. In this oasis of food and
comfort, the fountain offers a Zen-like peace.
A woman crouches at the very edge, rocking gently back and forth on her
heels. She is humming to herself, but I
cannot make out the tune. It sounds like
a lullaby. “Ma’am, would you like some
water?” I ask her. She visibly shrinks
from my words and from me, waving her hand frantically in the air. I move on and leave her alone.
“Hey, hey, man,” a toothless
Latino stops me.
“Would you like water?”
“No water. Listen, man, could you help me. I’ll work for it, I’ll do whatever you
need. I have to get a bus ticket
home. You know, it’s like ten or fifteen
bucks, and I ain’t got it. But I’ll work
for it, I promise. Do you know someone
who can help me? I need to get back home
to Santa Maria. It’s up north.”
“I’ll get you some help,” I
offer, and go to find one of the workers.
When I return, he tells the woman the same story, but she cannot give
him fifteen dollars. They do not just
hand out money to people. The man
becomes a little more edgy and insistent.
“Look, I just need to get
home. Can’t you help me?” Then another thought strikes him. “Listen, can I use the phone? I can call someone to wire me the money.”
Another diner nearby, a man
wearing several coats in the heat and humidity, perks up. “Here, man, use mine.” He holds out a cell phone. Homeless people with cell phones? When I pass by them later, the bus ticket guy
is talking urgently into the cell phone, pleading for help.
“Ma’am, some water?” I ask a
chubby, middle-aged woman with a cherubic face.
“Oh, dearie, you must be new
here.” I nod breathlessly and catch the
corner of the table for balance. “And
you don’t look so good.”
I fill her cup while pondering
her English accent. “I’m fine,” I tell
her.
“Where am I?”
I notice she is very clean and
her nails are painted. “You’re at the
Catholic Worker.”
All I have learned and read runs
away from my dehydrated brain. “I think
in the 1960s.”
I go to the barrel to swoosh up
another pitcher of ice water. Jeff Dietrich, the leader of Catholic Worker L.A., stands nearby supervising the
patio. I ask him when Dorothy Day died,
and he snorts out a reply: 1980.
As I continue to move among the
clients, a low-hanging branch rips off my hair net along with a chunk of
hair. Oh well. My Saran-Wrap gloves are also in
tatters. I strip them off and drop them
into a trash can. I am no longer
handling food, so I don’t think I need them.
My hands welcome the chance to breathe, but they still feel slimy from
the thin plastic sheeting. A man calls
out to me for water. I come up behind
him to fill his glass, but I involuntarily recoil. His hair is alive with lice. I am suddenly reminded that the people behind
the empty cups are in dire shape. Many
have needle tracks up and down their bare arms.
There are skin infections and sores.
There are casts and splints. And there
are bugs—flies, worms, lice, and other creepy-crawly things.
A face looms in front of
me. “Hey, I don’t want to bust your
balls,” the man says, but you need gloves.”
He is a volunteer, and his words don’t fully register. “Some of the people are complaining. I just thought you should know. Go get gloves.” I do as I am told.
I come to a table in a corner of
the patio where the men glower at each other and eat in silence. One man, white and middle-aged, has a
store-bought water bottle that he wants me to fill. As I am pouring in the water, he sneezes into
his hand. “Bless you,” I say
automatically.
“Hey, don’t blow your nose while
I’m eating, you dirty sonofabitch!” one of the other guys says. I take a step back.
“I’m not a dirty sonofabitch,
but you’re an asshole.”
The complainer stands up, and
for a second, I see a fight coming and I am between them. “Fuck you,” says the sneezer.
Thankfully, the complainer moves
to another table. I turn to see Jeff
Dietrich standing nearby, watching intently.
Is he watching my reaction, or is he anticipating trouble? And with his small stature and bad knee, what
would he be prepared to do? The trouble,
this time, dissipates.
In one corner of the patio, the
homeless get to leave their carts while they eat. The area is blocked off and secure. This is also where Catholic Worker people
issue carts to those who do not have them.
It is a major problem on the street when the cops bust the homeless for “stealing carts” from local businesses. The
homeless lose their possessions when their carts are impounded, and they have
no way to move around Skid Row. The Catholic
Worker started a program where they buy carts and issue them to the homeless, clearly
marking them so that the cops know to leave them alone. This is one problem of which I am completely
ignorant. Who knew that a shopping cart
might be considered property worth the risk of injury or death, but on Skid Row
everything is in the shopping cart.
Therefore, the homeless are simply fighting to protect their last
possessions, the things absolutely necessary for survival.
The line is still long, and the
diners have changed over several times.
Each table brings new faces, and the demand for water is unceasing. There are clients with the thousand yard
stare, as if they have been in the war zone too long. There are the normal conversations that one
might hear in a restaurant. Three men
are discussing the Lakers with a worker, the ins and outs of recent trades and
the team’s chances of winning another championship. A woman face down on the table suddenly
raises her head and calls out for water.
She is black, but her face is coated in what appears to be white
paint. I study her complexion as I fill
her glass. I cannot tell why her face is
painted this way. There are no marks or
sores, so the white is definitely not a cream or ointment. I pass another table where two women are
reading the Bible. As I fill glasses, I
realize one of the Bible students is a man in drag. He is wearing a miniskirt and a low-cut
top. A construction worker carrying a
heaping plate of food exits from the line and leaves the patio. Should a man with a job be allowed to get
free food? He returns several times for
more, but no one from the Catholic Worker seems to notice. There are Hispanic gang bangers lining up as
well, with pressed white tee shirts and clean shorts and socks. Do they qualify as poor and indigent? Two black guys in suits come through, rings
on nearly every finger and big gold medallions around their necks. Not exactly my view of a person in poverty,
but several workers know them. “I love
you all,” one of the black men calls out to the kitchen staff as he exits.
As the diners dwindle, my final
job for the day is to dry dishes. At
this point, my legs are rubber and the bustle of activity has taken on a
hallucinatory haze. Spots and shadows
cloud my vision, and my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. I am in no shape for this work, and I hope my
condition has gone unnoticed. But in the
middle of drying the dishes, Mike calls me over and dismisses me for the
day. I am the first one to be let go
from the volunteers, and I cannot help but think that it is because of my lack
of physical stamina.
Before I leave, I take a last
look around. The dining patio is still
full. Some of the homeless have taken
the opportunity to sleep on the tables and benches. Patients still wait at the health
clinic. I wonder what will ultimately
happen to these people. It is good work
to feed them three times a week, to try to give them medical attention, to
provide them with carts and clothing, but those are immediate needs. Will they ever escape the street? Jeff Dietrich and his workers have been doing
this for forty years now, and I am sure the line at the gate is just as long
today as it was in the 1970s. The faces
change, but the problems remain.
Out on the street, I walk to my
car, careful not to step on the bodies already staking out their places on the
sidewalk. The noon sun burns hot. Across the street, a dog savagely attacks the
fence as a homeless man passes. Near my
car, a dead tree offers two men scant shade to lounge on their sleeping
bags. One rolls around laughing, holding
a blunt in his hand. “Hey, dude,” he
calls to me. “Do you know how to sing Hakuna Matata?” He laughs at his own question. Aside from the obvious Lion King reference, I find it ironic that the title is Swahili for
“There are no worries.”
I wave to the men, get in my car
and head for home, full of questions and deeply disturbed.
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