PRIVATE LIVES, PUBLIC PLACES : Fine Dining Before the Enemy Descends

The late afternoon, as winter shadows lengthen, is a magical time in Santa Monica. Children tumble home dragging book bags. Basketballs thump by the garage. At the shore, peeps scuttle through the waves and gulls herald the sunset. And the homeless hurry toward the velvety green lawn of City Hall for dinner.

A fat old man, paperback peeking from a pocket of his tweed jacket, strides out in battered walking shoes. Scottish farmers have always dressed like this; only the carefully folded cardboard on his cart tells of his hard nights. As he goes over the bridge, he calls to familiar faces. There are some to watch out for, it is true, reeling unsteadily with their inner demons. But, for the most part, the 4:30 dinner is a celebration--party would not be too strong a word.

They gather early. In the shade of a tree, an old woman sleeps curled like a baby. Many lie on the grass, letting the sun warm aching bones. To be homeless is to be always cold, ever tired. There are lines to stand in, long blocks to walk--to the few showers at Memorial Park, downtown to seek benefits, to St. Joseph’s in Venice for lunch. Who thinks there is no clock to homelessness? Offices close, food runs out. Above all, there is the coming of night, that ancient enemy.

In one corner of the lawn, a quiet game of gin is going on by the flower beds. A reasoned discussion of glasnost and neurosurgery proceeds nearby. Where did this owlish orator come from with his fine, long face? How many have lived one paycheck away from this?

Nearly 200 are here. They know each other well. The fair-haired men with laughing eyes hold down small jobs but sleep in fear of having their throats held to a knife, their wages lost. So many noble faces, full of quiet sadness: Who knows the stories of 200 pasts? Bill Hawkins, a gleaming, spotless man, has a part-time job. It means he can rent a storage locker--he can hold onto his life. The children’s photographs so often stolen, the letters and papers vanished in the wind--the curse of dispossession. Bill has an invention, an ingenious affair. One of these days, he will find a businessman to show it to. . . .

“One of these days,” the “once upon a time” of life on the streets. The dreams that encompass only a small room in Venice, a bathroom of one’s own, one friend always there.

The station wagons arrive and FAITH’s volunteers park so that old hands can come carry hot tureens, heavy trays, large bags of crusty rolls. Barbara, today’s head volunteer, stands out in a flash of color. Homelessness is perforce drab and shabby; it is a condition of constant camouflage. Barbara’s blonde hair and bright makeup bring a new note. Helen, the slender, pretty aide, is shy at first, as a deer would be among a host of strangers. Fear is not knowing.

Sylvester is here every day: the self-appointed “uncle,” grisly silver hair, thick glasses, gently watching. He is 70 now. He worked for more than 40 years and when he retired, he gave his life savings to his only son, who then turned away from him. Sylvester lived on the streets for eight months. He has a home now; coming here is his paying back.

Two park rangers stand by, a reassuring sight, perhaps, to timid newcomers. One, Cliff Hunter, is incapable of standing by. He soon pitches in, handing out plates, rounding up children and shooing them to the front of the line. He dishes up for the old men on the bench, watches out for the tall, still veteran in his wheelchair. He was head basketball coach for years. Giving becomes a habit, too.

The tables are laid with crisp white tablecloths and a buffet rich with the donation of the finest restaurants: avocados, pasta, corn bread, seed muffins, chicken dishes, salads. No lists to sign, no prayers enforced, no grim-faced officials. “Thank you,” they say. “Enjoy,” replies Barbara. No pushy elbows, shoving lines. In a life of desolation, there is no “me first.”

One or two women somehow sleep through dinner. Others rouse them, offering their own plates. At 10 past 5, it is over. Sylvester cleans carefully; not everyone in City Hall, it is too well known, likes this garden party on the front lawn.

A handshake, a word of goodby. A few walk off with one another, hand-in-hand. How precious the closeness seems. The rest are enfolded again in the desolation of being alone, of being invisible. They slip back into their unseen corners: a cardboard box in the bushes, a dumpster behind Sears, a bench on Wilshire.

Driving home through the glorious sunset, there are glimpses through the windows of book-lined dens, of easy armchairs in the million-dollar tear-downs. And in the darkness of these rich streets, there is occasionally a glimpse of a shadow. Nothing to trouble the busy eye, rushed from a full and generous life. Just an outsider from another country, walking toward death.