It's Not Homelessness When It's Your Choice

I met a man named Ray a week or so ago, out in front of the Dutch Brothers on Eureka Way.  It was early, and I’ll be honest—I was really in no mood for his unsolicited conversation.  Pre-caffeinated Susanne is most often a sketchy prospect. 

As Ray began to talk, I couldn’t help but become, if not curious, somewhat alarmed.  According to Ray, he’s in his seventies.  He's wicked smart.  He's got a great vocabulary, and he knows a lot about U.S. History.  

He also had a 40-year drug habit.  Initially, he shared with me that he’d quit, but at various other parts of the conversation, he would mention the occasional relapse—primarily with cocaine.  This habit had caused him two heart attacks.  Healthwise, he indicated that he’s doing much better, literally back on his feet, after taking a nasty fall about a year ago, and being chair- and crutch-bound. 

He lives on the streets.  In fact, the most personally unsettling part of the conversation was that HE recognized ME.  At one point, he said, “Yeah, that’s a nice building you live in,” pointing to the place where I live and work, less than a block away. 

I asked him how he knew me, and he proceeded to explain to me that he often sleeps across the street from my suite, in the Old City Hall lawn.  I had never noticed him, but he was very aware of some of my details—which windows belonged to me, the sounds of laughter a couple nights before (pretty, like tinkling glass, he said), and the smell of my cinnamon candles in the early spring, when it was still cool enough to leave the windows open in the earlier evening. 

He explained to me, almost as a badge of honor, that he gets picked up by the police, “once or twice a week.”  I politely asked him why the police were targeting him, and his response was, “Oh, you know, the usual bullshit: trespassing, loitering, sometimes drinking.”

Another of the shocking details to me was that he has a payee for the monies he receives from his retirement and his disability.  There is someone out there who is “helping” him with his money—a more than modest sum of it—and he STILL does not have a roof over his head.  How can this be?

The more we talked, the more I realized that he PREFERS his rooflessness.  He reminded me of someone out of a Roger Miller song, sort of hoboing about in life, content in his marginalized existence, wearing some aspects of it proudly. 

His resourcefulness was a curious thing.  Aside from the small cup of coffee he purchased, the driving factor for him sitting at the Dutch Bros that morning was the free electricity.  At the menu board in the drive-thru lane, there is an empty electrical socket, which not only does he use, but he also “stores” his cords there from time to time, claiming that his belongings often get stolen from the other places he “stashes” them. 

I asked him several times, several different ways, why it was that he didn’t rent a house or an apartment.  At one point, he launched into an account of how he owns homes in SoCal, and lets other family members live there.  Once, he actually said he just prefers to do without the “hassle” of having a place to live. 

I hugged him as I left, and made him pinky swear we wouldn’t talk about the smell of my candles any more.  I can’t explain why I feel such a sense of exposure by that, but I do.

As I walked home, I again mulled over so much of what’s going on downtown.  Sleeping in public spaces, drunk in public spaces, trespassing, littering, assaults, burglaries.  As Ray demonstrates, it’s just not as simple as putting people in houses.  Many won’t stay.  Some, because of mental illness and drug addiction will destroy the structures.  It’s not safe for these transients, or for the rest of us, to be exposed to the unchecked behaviors. 

I keep getting stuck on this idea that we need to clarify who is out on the streets.  Some people are suffering misfortunes-- job loss, marital separations, etc.-- which create situations where families or individuals are homeless.  But then there's the Rays of the city.  He's not hanging his hat anywhere because he doesn't WANT to.  What do we do about this?  At what point are we going to say that his 'freedoms' are causing problems, and his choices are causing harm?  And at what point are we going to find a collective solution about it all?