Oot and Uh-Boot

I was going to call this blog "Out and About," but everything in my head is in a Canadian accent, so "Oot and Uh-Boot" it is. Matt got home from work really late last night, so I resorted to watching television to entertain myself. (Okay, so there's this show called Property Virgins on a network called DIY [I'm guessing, Do-It-Yourself?], and in each 30-minute episode, we viewers watch first-time buyers choose a home. Last night, Vishnu and blond lady [I never caught her name, probably because I was so enraptured with the name Vishnu] plunked down $349,000 for a teeny-tiny, run-down row house in Toronto -- hence the Canadian accents in my head.  I so wanted to say to Vishnu and blond lady, "Nooooo! Don't do it! In Orlando, you can get a washroom big enough to turn around in! Plus, no snow! And Disney World!" All of this is to say, my general avoidance of television is a wise plan.)

Back to "Out and About" ...

Over the last couple of days, I've been tootling around more on my own. My comfort with the trains and my general sense that we live somewhere northeast of L.A. has solidified sufficiently such that I don't need to obsessively consult Google Maps every time I set out. Releasing my stranglehold on my phone and my little print-outs means I am more aware of my surroundings, specifically the people in them.

So, here's the obvious thing ... there are thousands and thousands and thousands of homeless people in L.A.

Here's the less obvious thing ... what am I to do about this?

In the absence of a coherent plan, I'm blogging.  That's a lame response, but at the moment, it's the only one I've got.

Yesterday, in front of Target, a elderly lady in super short shorts asked me for a dollar. I gave her one. She coldly turned away from me and picked her lit cigarette back up off the bus bench. I was more baffled than irritated. And then I was irritated with my irritation. After all, I have an address.

On my way to the train station, a homeless man on the opposite side of the intersection smiled at me and waved. As I waited for the walk signal, I thought, "Just smile and say 'good morning.'" When I got within earshot, he asked, "Hey, have you got a cigarette?" I thought, really? A cigarette? Not a twenty or a burrito? I shook my head, smiled, and said, "Good morning."

I had to fill out some paperwork at my school. There was a man asleep on the sidewalk out front. His butt was pretty much hanging out of his pants. I distinctly remember thinking, "Oh, he's gonna have such a sunburn."

Later in the day, I had to go to a public clinic for a TB test. The clinic is in MacArthur Park, an area of town I've been warned to avoid. In fact, as I was leaving her office to head to the clinic, my new HR director put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Please. Be careful." But after my accidental stroll through skid row last week, I figured it couldn't possibly be too bad in broad daylight. And I was right. There were a ton of homeless folks, but they all seemed rather cheerful. In fact, there was a spirit of industry there that fascinated me. On just about every corner (and even in the lobby of the clinic), a person sold odds and ends to make a little cash: bags of peanuts, gum, cheap toys. One incredibly inventive lady had set up a grocery cart and a cooler at the corner of Alvarado and Wilshire. A griddle was straddled across the top of the cart, and she was frying up hot corn cakes on it -- and, oh my goodness, the aroma made me light-headed. Under the griddle, I could see her few personal possessions and a square-ish thing that must have been her source of electricity. Tomorrow, when I go back to the clinic to get my TB results, I just might queue up in the long line to buy a corn cake.

There was a young man in a shiny blue suit and aviator sunglasses at the MacArthur Park metro stop. He stood at the top of the escalator and asked passers-by, the ones who looked homeless, if they needed a job. My instinct was to hurl him down the escalator. It's not that he seemed evil, exactly, but still ... I had a very strong urge to protect people from him.

There are days when the sheer volume of homeless people in this city depresses and overwhelms me, and others when they are barely a blip on my radar. Neither response is helpful. Buying corn cakes and dolling out sunscreen don't seem like much.

As I go out and about, I think about this: There's only "out and about" for a homeless person. "Out" is all the time, even in a sleeping bag on skid row. "In" might look like watching DIY for a few minutes at Best Buy before the manager asks you to leave, or a quick doze between train stops on the days the police aren't checking for tickets.

I don't know why there are so many homeless people here. And I don't exactly know how a person becomes homeless in the first place. Sure, I've heard lots of reasons, some of which make a little sense, and many of which are a horrible clanging in my ears.  In the space between the poles of blaming victims and blaming government or capitalism lies a vast territory of people with shopping carts and ill-fitting shoes. People who have faces and stories and hopes and hurts and families and irritations and good days and bad. People who have all of these things, like me, but yet, do not have a home.

I still don't know what to do.