Street People Help Count the Homeless : Census: Pasadena sends out teams of volunteers in what may be the nation’s first effort to recount its vagrant population.

It was easy to miss the elderly man who slept obscured by bushes in the shadows of a corporate courtyard in downtown Pasadena on Wednesday night.

Most people don’t stroll through this deserted public space after dark, but Janice McNaughton is savvy to the ways of street people because she was recently homeless for several months.

“Aha, here’s one,” McNaughton said. Behind her, a group of people with clipboards surged forward.

They wore fluorescent orange shirts that said “Stand Up and Be Counted” and were among the 150 volunteers who fanned out across Pasadena into abandoned buildings, freeway bushes and back alleys Wednesday night to count the city’s street people.

Although many cities have merely grumbled that their homeless population was undercounted in the 1990 U.S. Census, Pasadena may be first in the country to do something about it. The U.S. Census Bureau and the League of California Cities know of no other city conducting a recount, although officials say they might not be notified beforehand.

The 1990 census found 234 homeless people in Pasadena but city officials believe the true figure may be as high as 3,000. A final tally from Wednesday’s search will be released next month but early indications prove there was a drastic undercount, said Joe Colletti of Pasadena’s Housing and Homeless Network.

A key reason for Wednesday’s success was recruiting the homeless to help count their colleagues, something that was not done in 1990, Pasadena officials said.

Because cities receive state and federal funds based on population, finding more people could mean more money for city coffers. Homeless activists say some cities don’t want to draw attention to their street people for fear of discouraging investment.

But in Pasadena, plans began last fall with a committee of city officials, social workers and the homeless, who were paid $7 an hour to lead census takers to obscure locations.

The new tally included a woman sleeping with her six children in a van downtown, and seven men camped out in the arroyo.

Between 10 p.m. and midnight, 17 teams traveled to 90 sites where homeless people are known to gather. Each team included a social worker, a Spanish translator, a volunteer and a homeless person.

Including the homeless proved a wise move. For example, McNaughton displayed a canny sense for finding street people. Like a good detective, she picked up clues: An empty Thunderbird bottle, flattened bushes behind a park dumpster or crumpled McDonald’s wrappers in dark stairwells.

“You’d be surprised at how invisible you can become at night and how little room you need,” McNaughton said.

Cruising down Michigan Avenue, she saw a man strolling with a knapsack. He may have looked like a guy on his way home from the gym, but McNaughton knew better.

“Michael,” she yelled out the window, “You going to be my camp contact tonight?”

The man agreed, saying he knew up to eight people who lived in the area. “But they’re afraid,” Michael said, “that the cops are following right behind you guys.”

McNaughton explained that the police were not involved and that he didn’t have to give his name. Mollified, Michael launched into his life history: White, 48. From Washington. Mechanic. Homeless three months. No wife, kids, Army record or drug problem. Gets $540 a month in unemployment.

The group waved its thanks and moved on to a parking lot where McNaughton found a homeless man who washes bar patrons’ car windows for spare change.

The man in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt regarded the group warily for a moment, then yelled his recognition when he read the slogans on their chests.

He answered their questions. African-American, 36. From Kansas. Veteran. Attended college for two years. Receives general relief benefits of $341 each month.

“A lot of us out here want to work,” he told the census counters, waving his Windex. “We don’t want to beg or steal.”

He told McNaughton that some homeless alcoholics were sleeping in a nearby abandoned commercial building. “But I don’t think you want to mess with them,” he said. “You have to crawl to get in there, and it’s dark. . . . It could be trouble.

At the fenced-off structure, McNaughton’s flashlight picked out a mat flung over the barbed wire that allowed trespassers to shimmy over the fence. It was near midnight and the abandoned building looked ominous.

“We’ll have to take a pass on this one,” McNaughton sighed.

Gloria Kunkel, executive director of Union Station, a Pasadena homeless shelter, acknowledged that the count probably overlooked some people. “Drug alleys and places that are extremely dangerous, we just won’t go there . . . at night,” she said.

But in the bushes near Pasadena’s Colorado Street Bridge, several homeless people proudly showed visitors around their makeshift camp.

“A lot of these people live on Social Security and don’t get much to eat, and it breaks my heart,” said volunteer Rose Rivera. “I wanted to do something to help.”