Sidewalk Stories

“Get out of the car.”

We weren’t even parked. We were stopped at a red light when my supervisor, Myra, commanded those five words to me. Right there on San Pedro Street in the middle of Skid Row. I was more observant now than I ever was, especially riding shotgun. Coming from the corporate world, I drove my BWM, tinted windows and all, singing along to Prince, Whitney, and No Doubt—three favorites on repeat, driving from Sherman Oaks to a downtown skyrise, sitting on top of the world. I drove that route every day for 15 years, so how is it only now that I’m noticing the tents and holes people are crawling into on these streets. Once you see it, you can never unsee it. And now here I was, fresh off being what I assume was the oldest intern in the history of LA’s Department of Mental Health. (And proud of it, thank you very much.)

“Go on, get out of the car and go talk to her.” I nervously unclicked my seatbelt, opened the door, and ensured my badge was still hanging around my neck. The training wheels have been lifted. I was on my own.

I watched this frail woman sitting outside her makeshift home right there on the sidewalk. One thing I learned about people living on the streets is that they’re the most creative people I know. They make shelters out of rusty bicycle parts or scraps of wood and cardboard. This one was quite colorful: the nylon of many umbrellas, minus the ribs, tied together (perfect for when it does rain in LA). First, I had to admire this marvelous work of art, which I got to say, calmed my nerves.

I did a quick replay of everything my supervisor instilled in me. “If they’re sitting or lying on the ground, get down to their level. Know your surroundings. If there’s a wall, sit or stand with my back to it. Listen to my instincts. And finally, take a deep breath.

“Hi there, I’m Connie. I’m a social worker and just wanted to check in to see how you’re doing and if there’s anything I can get you.” She stared at me in disbelief at first. Could I really be the first human to acknowledge her in this long? She didn’t answer me right away, but she did open a section of her umbrella canopy. Now, I don’t know what I was expecting to be revealed, but never in my wildest dreams could I have anticipated what I saw… an 8-month-old baby girl. It took everything in me not to burst into tears. She introduced me to her baby, precious Allianna. This innocent little human sound asleep on sheets of cardboard with the umbrellas protecting her from the bright California sun…and the world. I told her I’d be right back, texted my supervisor, and dashed into the convenience store next door. I grabbed formula, Gerber jars, and diapers then cleaned out the shelf of menstrual products for mom. I left with all that plus three bags filled with drinks, food, and snacks. When I returned, my supervisor was already there with an RN and street psychiatrist. We got mom and baby into a shelter that night and then into family housing. That was my very first case as an official social worker. I was walking on air. I was Wonder Woman. (Linda Carter’s Wonder Woman, which I watched from the first week it aired in 1975, like I said, I’m…older.) But as invincible as I felt at that moment, I soon realized that this client turned out to be quite the anomaly.

Because then I met Hank.

Hank was surrounded by a small moat. He’d managed to dig a hole into the hill nearby and use that as his home—basically a cave. No one deserves to sleep in a hole in the ground (heck, even some of the dead get a nice cushy coffin). But in that hole, he had pieces of drywall for his walls and somehow managed to set up a tank outside to bring in water which tells me he went under the radar for a long time. But again, I never cease to be amazed by the creativity. We’re taught not to go into areas where we can’t be seen, so my DMH partner came with me.

And then there was that book, the letter J Encyclopedia, which I believe was strategically chosen as it’s not too big yet not too small, Goldilocks approved. One time he had it tucked under his neck like a pillow. Another time, he turned it into a table for a game of Solitaire. And then one day I noticed a good number of pages torn out from the middle, only to later learn those were his makeshift tissues.

The Swiss Army Book I called it.

But today, at our first encounter, Encyclopedia J was opened in the middle, resting on top of his face as if it were a sleep mask (another creative use). I kneeled to the ground and said “hello.” No answer. I said it again, this time a little louder. While his body didn’t move, I heard a few mumbles from underneath the book. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He looked anything but “fine.” I slowly lifted the book from his face and there he was with a three shades of grey beard and a few scabs on his forehead which clearly he’d been picking at. His eyes remained closed.

Had I met Hank forty years earlier, I would never have expected to meet him in his literal man-cave where the LA River crossed the 10-freeway. We should never have met at all. You see, Hank received a full football scholarship at UCLA and then had been drafted in round 2 to play pro in Pittsburgh, primed to be the next all-star running back. I knew a few things about football. My husband was a defensive end in college.

Hank didn’t ask for help nor did he welcome it…at first. It took eight long months of consistently showing up with jugs of water for his tank, food, and some everyday necessities to get him to open up to me.

It was April of his senior year in college. He had just dropped off his girlfriend at her home in Long Beach after a post-celebratory dinner following the NFL draft. He hopped on the 405 freeway to head back to his dorm. The next thing he remembers is waking up in the ER, his hip severely dislocated, and his football career suddenly shattered. Avascular necrosis was the technical term. All caused by two teenagers stupidly racing each other on the freeway, both of whom were uninjured. A reminder that anything in life can end in a second.

Hank was also in and out of foster care throughout his childhood and teen years after his dad left his mom, who was 9 months pregnant with Hank. And then 4 years later, Hank found himself wandering the streets of LA on his own when his mom overdosed. The statistics weren’t in Hank’s favor, but he became a success story—excelled in school, sports, and would soon be on his way to an incredible career path, one he had always dreamed of until the accident.

Each week after that, Hank and I seemed to have this routine Storytime where I learned more details about his life. After having to learn to walk again after the hip surgery and a year of recovery, Hank turned to alcohol and ended up on and off these streets. I must give him a lot of credit, simply surviving 39 years like that is a major feat.

A few weeks later, Hank let me drive him to a mobile shower. Almost a year later, we got him into a small apartment and collected social security and backpay for him since he was now 63. I didn’t see Hank smile much, but on the day I helped him move in, I’ve never seen a happier man.

It was a major adjustment at first, not only because it had been decades since Hank lived in an actual home, but getting tossed back and forth between foster care and group homes didn’t really prepare him for living in his own place. For the first few weeks that apartment was as bare as a cave (no pun intended). Well, he insisted on bringing that encyclopedia J, his only prized possession. We went on some thrifting adventures and found some great knick-knacks, kitchen supplies, even a DVD player that was half off at $4. I took him down to the library where he got his first ever library card and was now their most frequent DVD renter, surely on his way to become a cinephile.

After getting him to go to a few doctor appointments, Hank was open to taking Lexapro. After eight weeks, I witnessed a shift in his mood; he laughed more. His birthday was that week, and I thought I would surprise him with a small cake. He even invited a few neighbors for a slice. We all got to talking and I stupidly brought up how I went to SoFi stadium last night to see the Monday Night football game—my husband’s boss had an extra pair of tickets. I immediately saw the depression come back in those big brown eyes, like I suddenly erased all the hard work we both had done up until now. That was his one rule after he told me about the accident last year, no talk about football. Not a word. How on earth did I let that slip? He asked everyone to leave, including me. I told him I would be back next week to check-in. He didn’t even say “good-bye.”

I was optimistic (okay, cautiously) in my return and knocked on the door as I usually did. But no one answered. I knocked a little harder than usual in case Hank had the volume turned up on a movie. Still no answer. I always try three times. And then the door finally swung open…but the man standing in front of me was not Hank. At first, I kindly asked, “Where’s Hank?” He shrugged his shoulder with such callousness. I got firmer. “Where is Hank? The man who lives here.” His answer really set me off. “Yeah, he don’t live here anymore.” We’ve seen this many times before, what I like to call the “no-gooders.” People who trick the recently housed out of their apartments or tiny homes and take over with threats, leaving our clients unhoused again. I was seething, especially after I got a quick peek inside and saw dirty dishes in the living room, stains on the carpet, fast food wrappers thrown on the bed. I kept my cool as I told him, “Everything was all good, my mistake.” And then I rushed outside to call the police. The easy part was getting that con man out of Hank’s apartment. The hard part: finding Hank.

He didn’t answer his phone. But ever since we got him that cell, he rarely did. I sent a few texts, trying to mask my worry. “Hi Hank, just checking in, how’s it going?” I spent the next 3 hours driving around that area. I even went back to the cave – but no luck. I couldn’t help but think I caused this. Caused Hank’s setback. All I wanted for him was to be seen as a human being, restore his dignity, because that’s the very least everyone deserves. I’m not one to practice self-care. After all those years of working long hours, missing out on milestones and time with family, I never believed I earned it. This job was my second chance to be there for others, my family included. And every morning when I wake up before I plant my feet on the ground, I say out loud: allow me to care for others, be kind to everyone, and recognize the kindness shown to me. No matter how small.

This took me back to that first client and her baby. That same anxiety starting to drown me. But then I reminded myself that everything worked out for her and the baby and that’s still a possibility with Hank. It took another hour before I finally found Hank just sitting on a bus bench a few streets over. This was also the first time I saw Hank doing something unexpected with Encyclopedia J. He was reading it. I approached him and asked if I could talk with him. And I showed him the apartment key. He gave me a big smile in return. I told him that there’s people out there who take advantage of others, so don’t be so easy to trust. He said, “You mean how it took a long time for me to trust you?” I laughed and agreed. On our short walk up to his apartment, he told me about jazz, jaguars, Julius Caesar, Jupiter, and jellyfish and the fact that those luminous ocean wonders predate dinosaurs. All the Js from his outdoor reading. I helped him clean the apartment and get it back in order. He profusely thanked me and assured me he wouldn’t be that naïve again. I let him know there’s no need to thank me. “I’m just happy you’re okay.” He said good-bye, we pounded fists, a new thing I taught him (which I’ve seen my kids do with their friends), and I was on my way home.

I called my husband and kids and their partners and asked them to meet me for dinner at our favorite Italian place. I didn’t say much at dinner, I just wanted to listen to everything that happened with their day. Conversation flowed around me – everything from benign to celebratory – and I felt my tension melt with each story. That was the self-care I needed right now.

The next week, I had a few more new clients, one we were trying to get on conservatorship, so gravely disabled she couldn’t even stand up. Another client who set up his street tent inside his studio apartment, but hey, that’s his way of easing into a new chapter, we never judge. And of course, one who cursed me out, but I’ll try her again of course. And then on Thursday, I was back at Hank’s.

As I strolled down the apartment corridor, I noticed his door was already wide open. When I walked inside, the space was nearly empty—no table, chairs, no pots, dishes, not one DVD, but a giant trash can on wheels almost filled to the brim. A moving crew had already taken out all the big stuff.

I wasn’t really prepared for what was said next. They informed me that Hank had passed away last night. They were getting the space ready for the next person. I froze. This is the hardest part that unfortunately comes with the job, the part that comes with…life. It’s never easy, but the fact that Hank died peacefully in this place he turned into a home, watching all those movies, sleeping in that bed, gave me solace. He died with dignity. I let out the tears, smiling through them thinking how Hank would want me to rip out one of those “J” pages to use as a tissue right about now.

And then I saw that very book resting alone on the kitchen counter. Right as the mover was about to toss it in the trash, I stopped him and kindly asked for it. He passed it to me, not knowing the weight it had carried all these years. The ways Hank used it to soothe, to make shade, to combat boredom and feel less alone. He used it to survive. It was his lifeline, that Swiss Army book.

I tucked it under my arm and headed out. Called my supervisor and let her know the sad news about Hank and asked if I could take the rest of the day off. I got home for the first time in the middle of the day. What do I even do with myself? For starters, I added that letter J Encyclopedia to our bookshelf. It would never be opened again, but it served one more profound purpose–a talisman, a guiding light, a constant reminder why I do what I do.

As I get older, I know I won’t be out in the field much longer, heck, not sure how much more my knees can take. I hope the younger folks pick up the mantle and continue this important work.

It’s a beautiful world out there, even with everything going on today, and that beauty may look different for some people. Working corporate for all those years, I didn’t see it. But now…it’s all I ever see.