Survival Is What It Boils Down to : The Hardships of Living on the Streets Can Make Just Getting Through a Day an Achievement

It was Thursday, my fourth day among the homeless. At 5:30 a.m. the lights came on in the Orange County Rescue Mission on West Walnut Street in Santa Ana and we were told to rise. Through the window, I noticed the drizzle.

My friend George and I headed through the rain to “Tripp’s,” which is what the transients call Annie Mae Tripp’s Southwest Community Center in the 1600 block of West Second Street in Santa Ana. Breakfast is served there from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m., lunch at noon.

In an old frame house, about 100 of us ate oatmeal and drank coffee. I hate both. I could only stomach about half a bowl of the gruel.

Later that morning, as I walked the two miles or so to Centennial Park, I realized for the first time that I was beginning to believe I was one of the homeless. No one questioned my story of being a Texas drifter. I was seeing the streets, and life, through their eyes. I even felt a certain weird exhilaration that in three short days I could function like these people. I knew the angles on where to sleep, where to find food and how to bum shorts (cigarette butts).

I’d come to the conclusion that some of the people I’d met, like George, were down on their luck but were really trying. George wanted a job desperately. He was a butcher and he had worked off and on temporarily. He told me that every time he worked, he paid rent somewhere and didn’t use missions.

Others had lost hope. Still a few others were only interested in the handouts, scrounging for change to buy cheap wine or to get loaded on dope.

But I realized it didn’t matter whether they were out here voluntarily or had screwed up their lives so badly that they had no choice. The streets are no place to live.

It was still raining at day’s end when, cold and hungry and my backpack heavy with rainwater, I made my way to the mission. But I didn’t eat that night and I huddled in front of the mission for three hours before I could get in. When I finally did get in and was able to lie down, I couldn’t sleep.

Fatigue, hunger and filth conspired to keep me awake. On the cold floor, I was uncomfortable. Every time I thought I was about to fall asleep, my dirty head would itch or I’d hear someone snore. I even cursed myself for wanting to do this assignment. It was the most miserable night of the week.

Friday

I awoke at 5:30 a.m., feeling even worse than the night before. I had probably managed two hours’ sleep.

The guy next to me got up and left, not even waiting for breakfast. He didn’t miss much. They gave us two pieces of bread, one of which was soaked in watery gravy. I didn’t care. I wanted a shower desperately.

When we got kicked out at 7 a.m. I decided I would stand outside the mission until 9 a.m. when we could get back in and line up for a shower. It was cold and drizzling.

It turned out to be a day of meeting interesting people:

-Buck the Fraud. While waiting outside for the shower I spotted Buck, a man in his 40s with piercing blue eyes, sauntering up to the mission. He quickly took up with Bill, an old fellow who had shared coffee with me the previous night. Although I had never before seen him, I instantly got the feeling that this man wasn’t to be trusted.

When the doors opened, a scruffy-looking guy walked in behind Buck and pleaded with him to take him where he wanted to go. Buck ignored the pleas and finally walked up to the desk and complained about the fellow.

“This guy claims he gave me $5 to take him somewhere. He’s a liar. I don’t even have a car,” Buck told the attendant, who quickly threw out the other guy.

Buck smirked. Another man, who the night before seemed to be using a pay phone in the mission to deal drugs, walked up to him.

“Man, that is low down. You don’t pull that ---- around here,” he told Buck.

The incident seemed to confirm that “tramps don’t steal from tramps” as George had told me two days before. It was one of the unwritten rules of the street.

I only saw Buck once more, on the last morning of my assignment. He and Bill were drunk and dirty at 6 a.m., sharing a can of malt liquor on a bench across the street from the mission.

- Gary the Thief. This guy was a master petty thief. He could walk into a store and in 30 seconds emerge with a couple packs of cigarettes. Earlier that day, he said, he went into the Salvation Army Thrift Store on West First Street, took off his shirt, put on a clean one, and walked out undetected. But like most other men I met, Gary would not panhandle for change. He would steal and he even told me he had been known to roll drunks in downtown Santa Ana.

- The Rev. Nat. This preacher came to deliver the noontime 20-minute sermon before men could begin their lunch at the mission. He rambled on about resisting sin and saying no to the devil. Half of the 50 guys slept, others looked at the floor self-consciously. My friend Robert sat next to me and at one time interrupted the preacher.

“How can we follow what you are saying when we don’t even know what you are talking about?” Robert asked sarcastically.

“It is your duty to listen. You are here to listen; I do the talking ,” the Rev. Nat shot back.

We then ate a small serving of vermicelli and white bread. I couldn’t decide if listening to the sermon had been a fair trade for lunch.

Day of Free Rides

Word had spread that bus rides would be free today, part of a special promotion by the Orange County Transit District to boost ridership. I walked the 1 1/2 miles to the Santa Ana bus terminal. I was going to Laguna Beach. I was clean, having showered only hours before, so people on the bus paid little attention to me. I walked to the back of the bus and placed my knapsack in the corner.

Laguna Beach is a small community and I have friends who frequent downtown bars and restaurants. I was afraid of being recognized there and I was uneasy when Robert (the artist) and Gary decided to join me.

After we arrived, Gary immediately went into a store in Laguna Beach and stole a pack of cigarettes. We strolled south on Coast Highway and they kept whistling and making lewd comments to women on the street. We finally found our way to St. Mary’s Episcopal Church on Park Avenue, a haven for the homeless, which I had been told about in Santa Ana.

The scene there was totally opposite from the mission in Santa Ana. The people sitting in a patio at the rear of the church were an odd mixture of laborers, artists and local characters. They were all white. A couple looked like leftover hippies from the ‘60s.

At 9:30 p.m. we were allowed in the church and given a mat and two blankets. It was warm inside and I bunked down at the altar with about six other guys, including one who had arrived on a skateboard.

I slept soundly, and comfortably, for the first time in a week.

Saturday

Brother Gabriel woke us at 6:30 a.m. I went down to the church’s cellar and cleaned up a bit. I felt less tired than I had in days.

We lined up at the community hall for a breakfast of French toast and cereal and then congregated outside the community center chatting with Brother Gabriel.

One of the rules at St. Mary’s is that those who sleep or eat at the church must contribute by doing chores or small errands. Robert was temperamental and didn’t like anyone ordering him around. His arrogance soon landed him back on the street.

Brother Gabriel asked Robert to rake leaves, but he refused. A confrontation ensued. Robert called Brother Gabriel a name and the brother told Robert to leave, “and don’t come back tonight.”

“Fine,” Robert fumed.

Chill on the Beach

Later, Gary and I walked down to the beach. It was barely 7:30 a.m. and a dark, overcast sky kept a chill on the beach. A few joggers ran by, but soon the benches were taken up by most of the 28 people who had slept at the church the night before.

At this point, I decided it would not be a good idea to stay in Laguna Beach since I had already spotted three or four people I knew.

Back in Santa Ana after a 75-cent bus ride, I saw Elvin, whom I had met there the previous Tuesday night after he had been released from the Los Angeles County Jail, where he had spent 18 days for several traffic violations.

I got up and ran up to the front of the Salvation Army. We were genuinely happy to see each other. Elvin told me he had found a temporary job as a carpenter’s helper for $45 a day. I told him I was glad he had bounced back so soon after his jail term.

“You can’t keep an old dog down too long,” he said, and I marveled at how cheerful he always seemed to be.

Gulping Spaghetti

Later, while watching television and waiting for supper, I became convinced that it was time to end my project. Too many people on the street had become familiar with me. Before long someone would have figured out who I was and what I was doing.

Guilt also took hold. At supper, I looked around the small, crowded dining room at the other 25 people gulping down spaghetti. I felt sorry for them and I felt guilty that I would soon return to my normal life. I knew when I would eat again. I knew where I would sleep every night. I knew where I would collect a paycheck. They didn’t.

I felt for them. A knot formed in my throat and I pushed my plate away. The dormitory was still closed. If not, I probably would have looked for a secluded place by the bunks and cried. I’d been holding in a week’s worth of sadness.

Sunday

For days I had heard people talk about the pagoda.

The pagoda is located in the mall that connects the Orange County Courthouse and the Santa Ana Police Department. Every Sunday the homeless are treated to a plentiful meal there by members of the Vineyard Christian Fellowship Church in Anaheim.

The church members spend most of the weekend cooking and collecting food. They arrive after morning services and feed about 250 to 300 people. The food is good and all are urged to eat until nothing is left. Even ice cream and pastries are served.

On this day, about 250 people came for lunch, forming a line that snaked out and around the pagoda. I walked to the rear of the line and Hector spotted me. I was surprised to see him. On Friday he and another fellow named Tom had headed out to catch a train to El Paso.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We made it all the way to Riverside and then I started thinking about doing time if I went back to Albuquerque. I was just feeling bad. I’m OK now,” Hector said. Two days earlier, Hector had told me he was wanted in his hometown on a burglary charge.

I never saw Tom again. He was a bonafide, but clean, vagabond who said he ventured between California and Texas by jumping on freight trains. I remembered that he wore short-sleeved button-down shirts and usually had earphones plugged into a small cassette recorder.

Tom survived on food stamps and odd jobs he found in the produce business. When I first met him with Hector on the street, he had wanted to convert $30 of food stamps into cash for bus fare to Indio, where he thought he could find a job.

‘What the Hell’

But the food stamps were stolen and Tom was left with no money. On the spur of the moment, he decided to head for Riverside and jump a freight train that would take him to El Paso.

“What the hell,” he had said. “I’ll just take the train to El Paso. Get a few bucks together and party a little in Juarez. I’ll come back later in the spring.”

The church people placed baked chicken, beef jerky, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, pastries and bread on our paper plates.

As the line made its way toward the entrance to the pagoda, I looked up to see Gary leaving with a plate overflowing with food. He looked at me and as I was about to greet him, he turned away. I thought again how friendships don’t last in the streets. Yesterday, I had given him 75 cents to ride a bus. Today, he probably didn’t care who I was.

I took my plate and stood alone eating by a tree. I passed on the ice cream and I kept to my oath not to take seconds. I watched the people mill around and slowly disappear. It seemed this was the only time the homeless felt a bit happy. The atmosphere was a more relaxed one than I had seen all week and there was even laughter. Some left with bags of food and fruit.

The younger church members talked softly to some of the homeless, asking them if they wanted prayers to be said on their behalf. When one nodded yes, two people would place their hands on the person, close their eyes and silently pray for a few minutes.

Monday

The lights came on at the mission at 5:30 a.m., but almost everyone was already up. Apparently, Monday was an important day.

One man explained to me over a bowl of oatmeal that if you find a job on Monday at one of the temporary labor placement offices, the chances of working the rest of the week improve.

“If you don’t find something on Monday, chances are you won’t work all week,” he said.

Those willing to work find themselves too often in quagmires they cannot control. For example, Gary told me that he could earn $60 unloading produce trucks in Brea. But to get the job he had to be there no later than 4:30 a.m. He had no car and the buses don’t run that early.

“If I can find somebody with a car the night before I can share the job with, it works out. But that hardly ever happens,” he said.

‘Know What You Are’

Another fellow, Steve, told me that he periodically checks newspaper want ads for temporary jobs.

“But sometimes you call and the person you need to talk to is not there. You can’t leave a number for them to call you. When you say that, they automatically know what you are,” he said, adding that a center where the homeless could place calls to prospective employers and receive messages could alleviate some of the problem.

I ended up walking to downtown Santa Ana and back to the mission. About 30 men were waiting to shower. I sat quietly, peering into their sad and grimy faces again. No one was smiling. There was little chatter. I felt sorry for them, and a little guilty for having invaded their territory in my curiosity to learn about them.

I walked out quickly, not wanting to turn back. I was returning to my life.

During the five-mile walk back to The Times’ office, I stopped for a breather at Centennial Park. I took the time to think back on what I had experienced.

Lost All Hope

I was not surprised to have learned that life was tough on the streets. But I was a bit surprised that the experience had been so emotional.

Trying to figure out who these people were, I concluded that most were a cross-section of Americans. Some were uneducated, lacking in social skills. Others were there because they had ruined their lives through drug or alcohol abuse. Others were fleeing from the law. Still others had survived so long on so little that they had lost all hope for a better life.

Still others really didn’t care, I thought. They would rather hustle for a drink of cheap wine or a smoke. Perhaps something to eat. One of the saddest scenes I saw was a guy offering another a dime for a hit off his Thunderbird bottle.

I found it interesting that they all talked about “surviving” on the streets. But “living” was a word I never heard. I suppose to them survival was enough of an accomplishment.

I know many of these people have dreams. They want to get on their feet, have a regular job and live in a place of their own. But I question how much they really believe in those dreams. Some, like Robert (the artist), were kidding themselves.

Decent People

Others, like George, the slaughterhouse butcher I had befriended before he returned to Oregon, were decent people who might ultimately triumph through honesty and diligence. The grime and hardship of the streets, however cruel, cannot rob them of their dignity.

I sat at my desk upon returning. I felt pathetic. I could smell my dirty hair and my clothes were very filthy. I had $2 left of my original $7 and I asked a colleague to fetch me a hamburger with my last two bucks.

Hours later, when I had taken a long shower and thrown my dirty clothes into the washer, I tried to nap on the couch at home. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t rest. It felt strange to be home. The faces of the homeless remained very vivid.

But at least, I thought, I know now who they are now. They are people. Some strong, some weak, some honest, others crooked. But whatever they are, I know them as people. They are no longer nameless, grimy faces to me.