Once upon a time, in a strange little town in California, I served as a “street outreach liaison” working with homeless youth in parks, under bridges, across the railroad tracks, and everywhere in between. This is a true story of one of those experiences. Read the first two True Stories: Peter and Hacky Sack.
. . .
At a corner under the freeway I met Mary and George. The two were flying a sign near a busy intersection downtown.
As I approached, a police car slid across my peripheral vision like a black shark cruising quietly behind me; I tensed instinctively, willing it along with anxious attention until it rolled slowly out of sight. Then I looked back at the sidewalk.
I saw this: a tall gray man in a dull down jacket standing silently with a small scrap of cardboard, and a weathered woman on the pavement behind him looking up at me with tired blue eyes. I guessed the woman might be in her 40’s, and the man in his 50’s.
I stopped and said, “Hi.” For a brief moment the blue eyes tightened in quiet fear, then relaxed into a friendly gaze. “Hello!” said Mary, while the man tried his best to ignore me.
Mary and I exchanged introductions—“That’s George,” she told me. “He’s my man. He doesn’t like talking much.” Mary explained that they were lifelong local natives, and had been homeless for several years. They were using the sign to get money for dinner and a cheap motel room. “We just do this to get a break,” said Mary. “Sometimes it’s nice to have a hot shower and a little privacy.”
George stood unassuming on the sidewalk, waiting patiently. A passing motorist pulled over momentarily to hand George a 5-dollar bill. “We seen you around town,” said Mary. “Always wondered what you up to. Anyway, glad you came over here! It’s nice to meet new people. I think you’re doing a good thing.” And so it went. We discussed many things: The weather. Sleeping strategies. The new wave of methamphetamine suddenly sweeping the street kids into the gutter. Backpacks. Old bridges and county history. Suicides. Police. You learn a lot about life when you ask the right people.
Mary and I talked for several minutes, while George remained cautiously aloof. I sat down, and a family in a van stopped to give George $10. Some birds paraded in front of us, looking for scraps; another police car drove past. The birds scattered.
George was watching the police cruiser, tense. I stopped talking, and Mary grabbed her backpack. Seconds passed. More seconds. Then I stood up.
All at once the pavement behind me erupted with footfalls and echoing voices. Within moments two police officers were upon us.
I immediately recognized the leading officer. In the street he is called “Notorio”—one who is well-known or unsubtle. Notorio is infamous among the homeless folk; his invasive, unreasonable behaviors and stony attitude have firmly secured his villainous role in the canon of local street mythology. Take a walk through the Park and you’ll quickly find the work of several graffiti artists proclaiming, “Notorio sucks pig balls!”
Notorio grabbed George’s sign and lined us up on the sidewalk several feet apart. I felt fear coiling my guts into a wet knot, unsure what to expect. Mary looked nervous.
At a glance from Notorio, the other officer (a “newbie” wearing two bullet-proof vests and reflective sunglasses) marched forward, sticking out his chest with awkward bravado. Newbie paced anxiously back and forth between us, thrusting his face close to ours while he monologued about investigating drug crimes. As he talked, Newbie flexed his chest and arm muscles repeatedly. I tried not to laugh.
Then came the questions. The officers went to me first, surrounding me with their bulky bodies. They began with the basics: “Legal name… That’s your first name? Spell that. Ok… Date of birth. Address. Employer…” Etc. Then more specific questions: “What are you doing here? How do you know these people?” (“We just met.” “Sure, buddy.”) Then the next level: “Have you been drinking?” “How often do you come here?” “Do you do drugs?” “What’s in the backpack?” “What will I find in her backpack?” “What was your birthday?” And so on. I was somewhat surprised by the depth and suspicion of the officers’ lines of questioning, considering the benign circumstance and the respectful eloquence of my responses.
The officers conducted similar small-scale interrogations of each of us. They used a variety of tactics to barge their way into personal information, asking leading questions to dig for anything they could investigate further. The officers claimed Mary smelled of alcohol (she didn’t), and used that as an excuse to search her backpack and grill her about drug-related subjects.
Notorio pulled out a pad of citation tickets and scribbled some marks on the top sheet. “Find another place to hang out. We’ll see you in court.” Notorio ripped out the copy sheet, slapped it in George’s hand, and turned to leave. As the officers walked away, I looked at the ticket and almost laughed. Notorio had failed to date the citation, and George had never signed it. It was useless. The violation was “disrupting traffic,” with a note: “begging near freeway entrance.” The penalty was $250.
I showed George the mistakes. For the first time, his face softened into a dry smile. “Yep. Same old shit.”
The three of us sat down together on the pavement to discuss what had happened. “They do this kind of shit all the time,” said George. “They think if they scare us we’ll respect ‘em. We just try to keep livin’ our life. Nothing’s perfect.” George shrugged and looked away. Mary nodded. “They’re always lookin’ for somethin’. They usually try to say I’m on drugs so they can search our shit.” George grumbled. It sounded like a bag of gravel growling. With quiet venom he said, “I don’t like when they mess with Mary.” Mary touched George’s arm lightly. “It wasn’t too bad this time,” she replied, then looked at me. “They didn’t know what to do with you!” Mary’s chiming laughter brought a smile back to George’s face, and he snorted in agreement.
Mary and George explained that they had received tickets for begging three other times within the last year. Each time they had gone to court as ordered, and each time the citing officers had failed to appear. The judge had been angered by the pointless citations and flagrant waste of city and county resources. The county’s cost per incident tallied thousands of dollars, all so that a small ticket could be thrown out or a homeless person sentenced to some community service hours. Mary and George described the whole situation as a “game” played between the county and city police in order to appease the public.
Soon it was time to move on. We all agreed we were glad to have met, and hoped to see each other again. George shook my hand. “Thanks,” he said. “It woulda been a lot worse if you weren’t there.”
I saw this: George’s gray face and Mary’s blue eyes, smiling warmly. And then I walked away.
Read the first two True Stories: Peter and Hacky Sack.