The Homeless: Lives of Boredom and Despair : It Was a Failure Somewhere Else That Led Many Onto the Streets

From the cocoon called the automobile, most of us protect ourselves from some of life’s vulgarities. Safely enclosed behind our rolled-up windows, we avoid the smells of street life and the boredom and despair of unemployment.

Several months ago I asked my editors if I could pose as a homeless person. I wanted to know the apparently homeless people I saw from my car. I wanted to know who they are and how they got there.

In my eight days on the streets, I found that “typical” homeless people were not drunks and derelicts, but men and women down on their luck. I found that most did not panhandle for change to buy cheap wine but rather, when they did get money, used it to buy food and cigarettes.

I’d heard there was a lot of violence on the streets, but I never witnessed an argument, let alone a fight.

It is not easy to get to know the homeless. They don’t like to talk about themselves, even if only to reveal a name.

Many, of course, wouldn’t be on the street if they hadn’t failed elsewhere. And who likes to talk about failure?

I met few women. Most shelters do not take in women and children, though some do. For some reason, in eight days on the streets of Central and South Orange County, I came in contact with very few women; I saw only one homeless child, and she was with her parents. But I saw no other children on the streets.

After a couple of days I had no trouble blending in with the homeless. Still, I always felt like an outsider. Although I sometimes went hungry, and lost seven pounds, I couldn’t forget that soon I would return to my clean, safe life. That thought sustained me when I was tired, cold, hungry.

But that knowledge also prompted guilt feelings, which grew stronger as my time on the streets neared an end. Most of the people I lived with are still out there; I, of course, am clean again and living in comfort.

In the following two reports, I shall discuss my experiences while living on the streets of Orange County. It is impossible to relate every experience and talk about each individual I had direct contact with, but these are what I consider the most interesting of my “homeless” days.

Monday

The journey began shortly after 10 a.m. on a cool, sunny Monday , March 2. In anticipation of the trip, I had gone without shaving for a week and had not showered for two days.

I carried an old, dirty backpack stuffed with a shirt, a thermal undershirt, two T-shirts and an extra pair of white cotton socks. I also had a rolled-up blanket tied to the bottom of the backpack.

I had a Texas driver’s license in the back pocket of my beige corduroy trousers and seven $1 bills.

I walked north along railroad tracks from The Times’ Costa Mesa office for almost a mile until I intersected Fairview Street in Santa Ana.

People’s Reaction

I hadn’t really decided where I was going but I had thought of sleeping outdoors the first night. I wanted to get used to the elements and to get a little dirtier before venturing into downtown Santa Ana, where I knew many of the county’s homeless people could be found.

By the time I arrived at Centennial Park, I had already noticed the reaction I was drawing from people on the street. Drivers would stare. A boy bicycling toward me pumped harder until he was past. He looked nervous.

By late afternoon, I think I’d walked eight miles and I was getting tired. I crossed the Santa Ana River, stepping through about six inches of cold water.

Under the Santa Ana Freeway, just north of where it meets the Garden Grove Freeway, I discovered a sanctuary, or what appeared to be one. The area under the bridge resembled a two-entrance cave. It was dark and smelly. Old clothes, food cans and broken wine and beer bottles were littered about.

A few days before, heavy rain had fallen. Nighttime temperatures had hovered in the low 40s. It was obvious people had tried to keep warm under the bridge. Rocks surrounded the ashes of what once had been a sizable fire.

Didn’t Seem Safe

But I rejected this site. It didn’t seem safe. It was pitch-black, and besides, the stench was too much. I also figured the overhead traffic would keep me awake.

Instead, I settled in amid a cluster of nearby eucalyptus trees. Behind the trees was a nine-foot-high chain-link fence enclosing the Orange County Youth Guidance Center. I ignored a sign on the fence forbidding loitering.

The ground was a bit damp but I thought the cluster of trees was safe because no one could see me. Resting my head on my backpack, I saw three people, two men and a woman, walking by on the jogging trail. They stopped before the cluster of trees, about 20 feet directly in front of me. I heard whispers and could see them. But they apparently could not see me.

Then one of the men dropped his knapsack and circled around to my right where there was an opening to my hideaway. He got close and, still lying on my back, I said, “Can I help you?”

“What are you doing,” he asked, peering down at me.

“Just resting,” I replied calmly.

“Yeah, OK. Hey, my name’s Billy. I sleep down the road a bit.” And he extended his hand.

“I’m Ray,” I said, returning the handshake.

Refused the Help

Billy, who appeared to be in his mid-30s, wore jeans, work boots and a lightweight jacket. He told me that he had been living nearby for six months. He said to be careful because the police sometimes cruised by the riverbed.

A few days later I would run into him again and he would tell me a little about himself. He was a self-acknowledged alcoholic who refused to stay at the missions or the Salvation Army. He also refused food offered at community centers. He said he panhandled for everything he ate and drank.

I found out later Billy had a companion, a young pregnant woman. The couple had drifted in and around the southwestern United States for the past couple of years. Billy was anxious to move on, but decided to stay by the river until his girlfriend gave birth to their child.

The spot where they camped was less than a mile from the UCI Medical Center in Orange.

“We have to stay close to the medical center for when the baby comes,” Billy said one day as he was panhandling around Centennial Park. He was drunk at the time.

Wanted to Move On

Billy never volunteered what his plans were once the baby was born, only that he wanted to move on after spending six months camping along the riverbed.

After Billy left me in the clump of trees, I realized that although he had startled me momentarily, I had not been afraid.

But my calm did not last long. A few minutes after Billy left, a dog inside the Youth Guidance Center’s compound began to bark. I did not want to be spotted, so I did not look to see where the dog was.

It was then that I felt genuinely afraid. I realized that although no one could see me, I was in real danger because it was dark and someone could get close to me before I had a chance to see them coming.

I also was cold, cold enough that I forgot I was hungry. I shivered. The wind stung my face.

At one point, I got up and put on my thermal undershirt. My Army fatigue jacket was fully buttoned and I draped the blanket around me. Still I shivered on the ground and wondered how it could feel so cold since the temperature was probably only between 45 and 50 degrees.

“If you sleep outdoors again, be sure you find a warmer spot,” I told myself between short, restless intervals of slumber.

Tuesday

By dawn, I was awake to stay. Traffic was already heavy on the Santa Ana Freeway, to my right, and the Garden Grove, to my left.

A bread delivery truck arrived at the Youth Guidance Center and shortly I could smell the aromas of breakfast, reminding me that I had gone about 36 hours without eating.

Sunlight slowly filtered into the cluster of eucalyptus trees. Across the river I could see early morning joggers and bicyclists. I began to feel warmer.

At a park restroom, I brushed my teeth and splattered cold water on my face. Again, I thought about food. It was probably 9 a.m. by now, but I wasn’t sure. I thought of how easily you lose track of time out here.

I walked east. Two miles later, I reached a 7-Eleven at the corner of West 1st and Flower streets, and I was exhausted and felt hot and sticky underneath the heavy military jacket. After careful consideration, I decided the best buy would be a 16-ounce container of a red drink resembling Kool-Aid that sold for 55 cents, and a 59-cent package of crackers.

(I realized the drink and crackers weren’t very nutritious, but I was more interested in bulk. I didn’t know how far I could stretch my $7. It took me about five minutes to finally decide what to eat. I really wanted tomato juice, perhaps a piece of cheese. But those items were too expensive for my budget.)

I felt pretty miserable and looked worse. The clerk looked at me apprehensively as I paid for my first meal on the streets.

Aimless Wandering

After a few more hours of aimless wandering, I reached the Salvation Army’s shelter, located in a working-class residential neighborhood in the 800 block of East 3rd Street in Santa Ana. The neighborhood consists mainly of small but neat frame houses and a few mom-and-pop grocery stores. About three blocks away, on East 4th Street, are a couple of tough-looking bars.

I was looking forward to a bed and a warm meal. I was fifth in line for a bed and I waited on the ground against the wall.

A plump woman named Lily came into the yard with her thin husband and daughter, who appeared to be about 6 or 7 years old. The woman walked to the front of the line and shook hands with one of the older men. She then proceeded to shake hands with everyone. “Hi, I’m Lily,” she said.

“God bless you,” she said. “God bless all of us.” I found it touching, and I felt a twinge of sadness that these people were homeless. Then I overheard her say she and her family were from Michigan and had been in the county for a month, looking in vain for jobs.

At about 5:15 p.m. they let us in the building. The people who had been there the previous night went in first. Lily, her husband and daughter also went in ahead of the men standing by the wall. Most of the men appeared older than my 36 years and looked like unemployed laborers.

None Turned Away

On this night, everyone got a bed and no one was turned away. We sat in the cluttered day room, which had a television in the corner and four old armchairs facing it. Behind the armchairs were several folding chairs and two old couches.

The walls, in need of paint, were mostly bare save for a couple of nondescript drawings. It was dark and crowded in the room. At 6 p.m. we were served spaghetti on paper plates. We ate in a crowded dining room, eight people at each of four round tables. The spaghetti lacked taste but was filling. I gave my slice of pumpkin pie to a man named Elvin.

Elvin, 39, said he moved to Orange County last year from Oakland. He has worked as a warehousemen and a carpenter’s helper. That day, he had been released from Los Angeles County Jail, where he spent 18 days for traffic violations. Because of the jail stint, Elvin said he had lost his warehouse job.

At 7 o’clock, the dormitory was opened and we were given towels by a Salvation Army worker who said everyone “must shower.” I was elated. I couldn’t wait to get clean.

The dormitory had 15 double wooden bunks, each with an old blanket and a pillow. Army lockers stood in front of each bunk. It reminded me of a dilapidated military barracks, but the dormitory was clean.

Finally a Shower

The stall in the restroom had six showers; only four worked. I undressed at my bunk, No. 25, stowed my backpack under the bed and walked into the shower. I had to wait a few minutes for an opening, and by the time I jumped into a stall, about four inches of water clogged the drain.

After the shower, I settled in to watch the Lakers play basketball on the day room television.

“Boy, I bet you feel good now,” Elvin said.

He was right. In the mirror before the shower I had noticed my face was grim, my eyes had dark circles. The fatigue--after only two days on the street--was difficult to hide.

Wednesday

After a few bites of grits and a cold bran muffin, I was back out on the street by 7 a.m.

I soon realized that I had dressed down for this gig. Most of the people from the shelter didn’t look as trashy and most were clean-shaven. I was walking around with 10 days of stubble, an old Army jacket and a 10-year-old baseball cap. I looked, and felt, pathetic. For the first time, I really felt homeless. The pleasant town house I share with a friend in Lake Forest now seemed like a dream.

I couldn’t have looked completely hopeless, though. At one point during the day, a bag lady asked me for spare change. I gave her a quarter.

I spent this night in the Orange County Rescue Mission, which is on West Walnut Street in a residential Santa Ana neighborhood.

Littered With Debris

Although the mission, across the street from the UCI Medical Center’s community clinic and Center Park, is clean and well-cared-for, the street is littered with wine and beer bottles and other debris.

The mission has a large lobby with wooden benches. It also has a large cafeteria-style dining room that doubles as a prayer hall.

That afternoon, four of the mission’s 30 beds were available, but nine men wanted in. We wrote our names and threw the slips of paper in a basket. I lost out.

I thought I was going to have to return to the cluster of trees by the river to sleep that night. But fortunately, I got some good news after the doors were locked.

An employee at the mission told me that at 9 p.m. the doors would reopen and about 35 men would be allowed back in to sleep on the lobby’s hard floor. (The mission, which operates under bylaws similar to those used by the YMCA, does not accept women. A spokesman said its founders elected to make it solely a “men’s rescue mission.”) Many of the men who cannot get in go across the street and sleep in the doorways of the community clinic.

While I was waiting to make my bid for the bed, I met Mark. He said he was 22 and he looked, frankly, goofy. But he was a really nice kid. He moved here from Illinois last fall.

Mark had a job moving furniture for $4.50 an hour in Anaheim and was renting a small apartment. But he lost the apartment, he said, after hurting his back. The injury would leave him unable to work for two months. He was planning to go to his grandmother’s house in Lakewood the following day.

Mark was very kind and friendly. He was atypical of most of the guys on the streets. He was clean, and he had been forced to go to the mission only because of the accident.

‘Could Have Been Worse’

“I’m lucky, I guess,” he said. “It could have been worse. I just hope I can get back to work before long.”

Steve, 24, told me he had been living on the streets for 1 1/2 years. The day I met him he had a job cleaning generators at large companies. He said he was going to work again that night in Long Beach. He was happy for the money.

After I lost out on the bed, I went to Center Park behind the community clinic. Many men sleep there, as well. I later learned that alcohol and drugs are prevalent at the park.

I got restless. I was tired and hungry and not looking forward to waiting 3 1/2 hours for a spot on the mission floor.

I bought a pack of cigarettes. I had noticed that cigarettes were a good way to draw people and engage them in conversation. Friendships on the streets often form over a smoke and dissolve just as quickly. Some people don’t care to know your name. If they do volunteer a name, it’s always just the first name.

That night, I thought I was going to go hungry. The mission only feeds men who get a bed. But George, a butcher I had befriended, said there was talk that women from a nearby church would show up with food. The rumor was accurate. Three women appeared an hour later and fed us freshly baked beans and rice and corn bread. There was enough for seconds.

Quiet, Humble Man

George had arrived in Orange County in late February after spending several months in the Long Beach and San Pedro areas of Los Angeles County. He was a quiet, humble man. He would volunteer little but would answer a question directly and honestly.

He had a habit of narrowing his pale blue eyes and squinting at people at he observed them. He had little sympathy for those other homeless men he thought were not trying hard enough to find a job.

Through the toughness, however, emerged the heart of a kind man. He was always polite and was careful to always thank those who offered him food.

Nor was he without humor. He did not laugh much, but he had a benign smile that was more like a smirk. He called street people “tramps,” which seemed like an outdated word. He rolled his own cigarettes and never bummed from anyone, which was unusual in the streets.

George had slept in the rain and developed a bad case of dysentery after eating 4-day-old soup at a mission in Long Beach. He felt his luck was not likely to improve in Southern California, so one drizzly morning a couple of days later he walked to the Santa Ana bus terminal to return to Portland, Ore. He said prospects for a butchering job might be better up there.

“This area just hasn’t been worth a damn for me, so I better move on,” he would say that day.

Strewn With Bedrolls

On this night, however, when the doors reopened at the mission at 9 p.m., I was exhausted. I had been on my feet for about 15 hours. I just wanted to crawl down on the floor and sleep. I staked out territory next to George. Within minutes, the wide lobby was strewn with blankets and bedrolls. George and I were in front of the restroom, so guys had to tip-toe around us to get there.

George rolled a cigarette, smoked it and went to sleep. I laid awake for an hour or so before I dozed off. It was cool, the floor was hard and it was crowded.

But it was better than sleeping on the ground by the Santa Ana River.