Homeless

The
first car is just a warning, but the cop means business.

            The garage-employee vehicle cruised
by, blasted a rude reveille, and moved on — a signal to the sleeping men that
it’s time to hit the road.

            The men rise slowly from the garage
floor — a concrete bed feathered with free newspapers.

            “You don’t want to smell like urine,
especially if you have job interviews,” says Charles Kellum, spokesman for the
anti-poverty group Poor People United. “If someone peed on the concrete even up
to a month ago, if you lay down there, the smell will be on your clothes.”

            They do this every morning and know
they don’t have to leave until the cops come. They huddle against a heat vent
and wait.

            “They’ve burned all their bridges,”
Kellum says. “Family kicked them out. Shelter kicked them out. No place to go
but here.”

            Kellum knows. He escaped the streets
not long ago and now works to help others do the same. The unknown number of
men and women who call the parking garages, the old subway tunnel, and other
hideaways in the city’s nooks and crannies home, make up the chronically
homeless — those who can’t, or won’t, get any kind of public assistance.

            “There’s no sense of time down
here,” Kellum says. “You just go through the day, hope you can get a good
night’s sleep.”

            Kellum doesn’t want too much detail
about the specific garages the homeless use to appear in the paper. The police
tolerate the homeless now, he says. But they might be forced to get tougher if
the public finds out where they are.

            Kellum has spent many days and
nights in the parking garages, sleeping on the floor or hiding in truck beds or
underneath cars.

            “It’s hard for them [police] to see
you when this place is filled up,” he explains. “You should see when they have
a hockey game. People walk right by them [the homeless]. I remember seeing a
guy lying down right in front of the doorway. [They] just walked around him.
Like he’s there but he’s not there.”

            But there are worse things than
being invisible. Once, Kellum remembers, two police officers persuaded him to
stand beside their buddy’s new car so they could take a picture.

            “Guess it was funny to have a
homeless guy next to his brand new car,” he says.

            The cop eases his window down, but
doesn’t speak. James Wilson (names of the homeless in this story have been
changed), one-time migrant worker now homeless crack addict, waves.

            “Time to go? Alright. See ya
tomorrow.”

            To make sure Wilson and the others
are serious about moving on, the cop takes up position toward the back of the
garage and watches.

James Wilson
started using back in 1995. He buys his drugs, he says, from dealers in
the Scio Street area. His addiction keeps him estranged from family and from
the assistance he could receive at shelters. He’s high, he says, almost every
day.

            “When I’m on drugs, it changes my
attitude. It changes my feelings, it changes my nerves,” he says. “I do things
a lot differently. It’s like, I’m scared. Like people are looking at me in a
different way. Like they’re out to get me, y’know?”

            Most everybody at the shelters uses,
Wilson says. And when he’s using, he has trouble making curfew.

            “I feel bad if I go there when I’m
on drugs,” he says. “I can’t cope with their rules or the people there.”

            It snowed last night and Wilson, 49,
thinks there’s money to be made shoveling driveways and walks. But first
thing’s first: breakfast at the Open Door Mission.

            “We don’t open till 7:30. You know
that,” lectures Walt Brundage, grabbing a smoke outside the mission doors.
Brundage is the mission’s assistant supervisor.

            Wilson talks Brundage into letting
him in more than a half-hour early.

            Breakfast is cereal, bagels, hot
tea, and coffee.

            The population at the mission is
overwhelmingly male. The men eat, sleep, talk, and play cards. The wooden altar
becomes a makeshift bed. The canopy is a banner which reads, “Jesus is Lord.”
The atmosphere is one of depressed hostility. Flare-ups are common, Brundage
says, but violence is rare.

            “Some are morning people, some
ain’t,” he shrugs. “Most ain’t.”

            It is at the mission that Kellum and
Wilson meet up with Arnold Lester.

Lester has
been on the streets a week and is barely making it.

            “I’ve been on the streets before,
but not like this. This is real bad,” he says. “It’s cold. I have no family
here. I’m very depressed, lot of messed-up thoughts in my head. I really just
want to die. I need somebody to talk to me to get on my feet again.”

            He carries around a package of
photographs: him at Seabreeze, hiking in the Adirondacks with friends, flashing
a thousand-watt smile in a three-piece suit…

            Lester, 41, had been living with his
girlfriend and her children in Greece, until, he says, she threw him out.
Payback consumes him.

            “I just want revenge, you know, when
somebody hurts you?” he asks. “I’m very angry with her. I’m so angry. I’m
plotting stuff in my head. I want to cut the brake lines on her car. I want her
to feel the pain back.”

            He pulls up his sleeve to reveal
what he says are scars from previous suicide attempts.

            “I want to die, but I want to hurt
someone in the process,” he says. “I don’t want to go through this pain. This
pain is too great for me. I’m ready to snap. She just kicked me out on the
streets. She don’t give a fuck.”

            He won’t eat.

            “How do I know where it came from?!”
he says, gesturing toward the food.

            Lester’s problem, says Kellum, is
that he hasn’t faced the reality of his situation.

            “He was living, like, DVDs, TV, a
job and all… All of a sudden now he finds himself without any of those things,
and the only thing he can think about is how to get those things back,” Kellum
says. “That’s where the frustration comes in, the anger.”

            Lester’s mood lightens somewhat when
he asks Wilson if there’s money in panhandling. A practiced panhandler, Wilson
usually works the Midtown and Monroe Avenue areas.

            “Oh man. Shit, I out there three
hours and I had $47,” he says. “Back to the Cadillac [Hotel].”

            “James always makes money,” Lester
says. “James, let me get a dollar, man.”

            Wilson shakes his head.

            They’re ready to move on, but Wilson
needs some supplies first. He asks Brundage for conditioner for his hair, but
Brundage’s “attitude” ticks him off.

            “Yo! If you don’t want the job, get
out and let somebody else be there!” he shouts.

            “It’s like he’s paying for that
stuff,” Lester agrees.

The reason
Poor People United came into existence is to serve people like Wilson and
Lester — homeless who can’t or won’t get public assistance.

            PPU wants a hypothermia shelter —
a place with limited rules that will take almost anyone.

            “We would not restrict people who
had been using substances [and there would be] no curfews. No need for payment
of any kind,” says PPU member Claire Olson. “The only limitation would be
disruptive behavior.”

            Many of the chronically homeless,
say Olson and Kellum, refuse to go to shelters because of the rules they
impose.

            “What we did is, we went down in the
subway and we asked these guys, ‘Why not go to a shelter?’ They told us,
‘Listen, we can’t handle these curfews. We don’t like these admission
restrictions,'” Kellum says. “We were able to consolidate that and say… ‘Is
there any way we can correct this and have a shelter that would allow these
people to be served?'”

            “What PPU is saying is they want a
homeless shelter where they’re not going to sniff people’s breath and they’re
not going to wait for [social services] to send money following the head,” says
Jon Greenbaum, of Metro Justice. “They want a homeless shelter where no
questions are asked. If you behave yourself, you get a bed. If you don’t,
you’re shit out of luck.”

            PPU’s efforts have paid dividends.
The county now has an emergency hypothermia plan. Several shelters will open
additional beds on designated “hypothermia nights.”

            No set temperature has been
established.

            “We’re kind of using common sense
and looking to what the Open Door Mission is doing and the Red Cross, and sort
of having a little network… [they] really are the key people to contact the
shelters and to contact Lifeline and the missions, and let them know we’ve
activated the emergency system,” says County Legislator Carla Palumbo.

            Good, says Kellum, but not good
enough.

            “We’ve been pushing for this since
May. Right now we’re seeing some results,” he says. “Not everything we wanted,
but we see some progress.”

There is
federal money available for a permanent site. The new shelter, Palumbo
says, would be open year-round, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It would
accept sanctioned individuals — those barred from getting assistance from the
county — and rules would be minimal.

            “The concept is pretty
comprehensive. It’s got loose rules so people can come in at whatever time, day
and night,” says Ruth Nieboer, director of social services for the Salvation
Army. “But it would also have mental health workers, case management, and a lot
of services available.”

            The problem has been finding a
location for the new shelter. Whenever a potential site is identified,
opposition springs up from neighborhood groups.

            “I don’t think there’s too many
communities real excited about having a shelter that predominately targets
street people in their neighborhood,” Nieboer says.

            Donna DeMaria can sympathize.
DeMaria is on Albany’s Homeless Action Committee, a nonprofit organization
“that works to promote permanent solutions to the homeless problem.”

            Albany has two shelters that operate
in the winter only. The committee runs one.

            “The term we use is ‘a shelter of
last resort’ for people who can’t get into other shelters,” because they’re
drinking, using drugs, or have behavioral issues, DeMaria says.

            The shelters, she adds, are “full
pretty much every night.”

            The committee operates its shelter
in a Lutheran church. Facing pressure from neighbors, the city, DeMaria says,
tried to stop the shelter from opening by denying its zoning permit. But the
committee ignored the ruling.

            “On the same exact night the zoning
board said ‘no,’ we opened in the church,” she says. “Ultimately, they didn’t
take any action. [Our] attorneys have said that [there is] very solid case law
for churches operating shelters.”

            Every city, DeMaria says, needs a
shelter of last resort.

            “In every community there is a group
of people who can’t access the shelters because of addictions, mental illness,
just not complying with the requirements of the shelter…” she says. “Then there
are people who just won’t go because they’re afraid, they’re paranoid. They’re
not sure what might happen to them. And some of them have very good reason to
be afraid.”

Who are
Rochester’s homeless? They represent a broad spectrum, according to Nieboer. The
highest number is single men. But the fastest-growing groups are women,
children, and teenagers.

            “Some of it’s the economy. With
teens, some of it is substance abuse,” Nieboer says.

            In the course of conducting a study
late last year, the Homeless Services Network asked homeless individuals where
they stay, besides shelters.

            “We were pretty amazed by the amount
of people who [stayed] in abandoned buildings, in people’s garages, anywhere,”
Nieboer says. “It was just a very high percentage of people who had not stayed
in what we consider appropriate places to be housed.”

            There are about 615 beds available
in Rochester, Nieboer says. On any given night, they are 85 percent occupied.
Given that there are beds available,
Nieboer understands why the county is reluctant to contribute any money toward
the new shelter.

            “Why open something else when there
are beds available?” she says. “Obviously, the county does not have a lot of
money these days and they shouldn’t use it if they don’t have to.”

            PPU criticizes the county for not
contributing any funding toward the permanent site. But the county has provided
resources, Palumbo argues, in terms of setting up meetings, enacting the
emergency hypothermia plan, and in other ways.

            “I think everybody at the table is
doing what we can with what we’ve got,” she says. “We just went through a
budget where the county cut significant funding for really good programs. I
don’t think they’re going to turn around and come up with any money anytime
soon for anybody.”

            What PPU did, Palumbo says, is bring
a critical issue to light and also to offer a potential solution in the form of
the permanent site.

            “I didn’t realize there were people
who, even on the bad nights, weren’t getting into a place,” she says. “I think
other groups might learn something: that if you come with a solution you give
somebody something to work with at least. I know that this solution [adding
beds] isn’t everything they wanted. But it was better than not doing anything.”

Charles Kellum
spent two
winters scratching out a living on the streets of Rochester. He slept in
parking garages and passed days reading and keeping warm in the public library.

            “[They] really don’t like the
homeless there, but it’s a free library,” he says. “They won’t allow him to
fall asleep. They kick him out if he falls asleep. Imagine going the whole day
without a nap.”

            When it is pointed out that many
people do, in fact, go the entire day without a nap, Kellum responds, “Really?
I need a nap.”

            Without a permanent address, he
couldn’t get a library card, so he hid the book he was reading at the end of
each day so he could pick it back up the following day.

            He spent many mornings, too, waiting
for work at Labor Ready on Mt. Hope Avenue. Labor Ready provides temporary workers for manual, skilled, and semi-skilled
positions in all industries.

            “This is my
hustle,” he says. “I wasn’t good at panhandling. I didn’t like looking for
bottles. What I do is take a chance, come here every morning.”

            Through Labor
Ready, Kellum, 39, worked construction, did masonry work, dishwashing, and
other jobs.

            “This was my only
source of income the entire time I was homeless,” he says. “And I would sit
here every day, six days a week. Maybe work twice [a week].”

            Kellum’s average
pay when he did get work was about $35 a day, which he says, buys “nothing but
drugs.”

            “You work so
hard. You get so little. It makes you so angry,” he says. “$35 is not going to
change your life. It’s not going to get you out of the street.”

            He has struggled,
he says, with substance abuse and depression. The only thing that kept him
going those two years was a primitive desire to survive and the tiniest hope
that maybe, somehow, things could get better.

            “I felt like, if
I’m going to be a loser, I’m going to be a loser somewhere nice, like Florida.
That’s what my reality was: just make it to Florida,” he says.

            “There is a hope
that you’re going to get off [the streets]. What happens is, three, four years
pass by without you even knowing it. You don’t realize your whole life is
passing you by, don’t have any kids… All of a sudden I’m an old man. I’ve got
gray hair now.”

            Kellum was able
to get off the streets because a staff worker at the Department of Social
Services took a personal interest in him and helped him through the system.

After
the Open Door Mission, Wilson heads to St. Joseph’s on South Avenue.
The restrictions are fewer, Kellum says, and the bathroom facilities are
preferable to the mission’s.

            “The water’s much
warmer over there,” he says.

            Wilson wants to
clean up a little. It’s important to maintain your personal hygiene, he says,
because how you’re treated has a lot to do with how you look.

             “[They] treat me shitty when I’m down and
out,” he says. 

            It’s also
important not to stand out in a crowd. Looking like a homeless person can get
you kicked out of places like Midtown.

            “Our policy is
that there’s no loitering in Midtown. If we see someone loitering, whether
they’re homeless or not, they’re asked to leave the mall,” says Al Cupo,
Midtown property manager. “Loitering is being in Midtown with no intent to shop
or eat at Midtown.”

            “Obviously, it’s
not a story that we want to see in the newspaper about homeless hanging out at
Midtown,” he adds. “It reflects negatively on Midtown and it doesn’t attract
people that we’re trying to attract.”

            Palumbo thinks
that as long as Wilson and others aren’t bothering people, they should just be
left alone.

            “If they’re just
sitting in a chair and being warm, I don’t have a problem with it,” she says.

Wilson
will move from soup kitchen to soup kitchen before returning to the garage
for the night. The plan to earn money shoveling snow never materialized.

            “They wouldn’t
have had a good chance,” explains Kellum. “They would have to knock on at least
50 or 60 doors and maybe got two or three driveways. It’s a lot of work.”

            Wilson says he
will probably pick up a supply of drugs before the day is over.”I’m an addict. It’s called an addict. I use
drugs,” he says. “I’m mostly high during the day. It’s a very stressful
lifestyle.”

            He has tried to
kick drugs many times, he says, but “it only works for a little while.”

            A tall,
African-American man with 10 years of street living clearly etched on his face,
Wilson says he knows what it would take to turn his life around.

            “Get all the
respect. Get a job. Get the welfare. Stay in one place. Clear and simple,” he
says. “Get the DSS [social services]. Be in the shelter. Do what they tell
you.”

            Is he ready?

            “Right now?
Today? Yeah,” he says.

            There’s a pause.

            “Shit. You know I
ain’t ready.”

Homeless
in Rochester, an exhibit of photographs, video, and other visual
art by local artists to benefit Poor People United, runs through Saturday,
March 6, at The All-Purpose Room, 8 Public Market. The gallery hosts a
lecture-discussion on local poverty issues at 7 p.m. on Thursday, March 4. Info
and hours: 423-0320
or www.allpurposeroom.org.

This article appears in Mar 3-9, 2004.