Night without shelter
After three-hundred miles and nearly eighteen hours I was, at last, crying. Today I was crying for people I’d barely met. Living with them, however briefly, had done something to me. As my partner and I walked along a scarcely-lit Tri-Cities trail at night, I dwelled on how that same morning I had briefly been the unsheltered, wandering the streets of a much bigger city — and I compared it to the insulated life I now led. It stung, and I have decided that ignoring those lives is no longer an option I can passively accept.
I’ll take you to those lives through this article, and perhaps you won’t be inclined to forget about them, either.
10pm: No port in a storm
I’d landed at 10pm the night before my tears, coming into Seattle from a family trip on the east coast. I opted to take a Greyhound bus instead of flying the last leg from Seattle to Pasco; either way I was going to have a long layover until departure, and I didn’t want to pay for a hotel. I had ten hours to kill.
I could have done what I did on the way out and chosen to stick it out in the airport all the while, but the fact is that airports are intolerable. What was once a miraculous leap of humanity’s imagination-made-real has been made into a circus of irritation. Walking through an airport, all eyes are avoidant. Airports are queues of careless, mechanical groping, and shopping malls for hostages. It’s an expensive purgatory.
In comparison, a bus trip costs a fourth the price of a plane ticket, although there are other elements that enhance this value. On the bus, you are jostled into awareness of the humans surrounding you, and it takes too much energy to simply ignore them the entire time. There is no industry enabling your escape from the reality of other people. There’s little fortune to extract from people who travel this way. There is no white noise generator on the bus, aside from the road noise. Oftentimes, there aren’t even functioning charging ports or wifi. And although the driver weakly discourages it, they aren’t paid enough to stop those who resort to playing sound directly from their phones into the shared air, since there certainly aren’t free earphones provided. Oftentimes, you overhear unexpected and fascinating conversations — or join in on them. It wasn’t my first such trip, and I admit I looked forward to it. It always feels much more alive to me.
But before the bus trip, there’s the wait. Unlike the airport, there is no temperature-controlled 24/7 warehouse between stops. Only occasionally is there an official building; sometimes, it’s just a convenience store; other times, a street corner. Invariably, it’s not in the ‘nice’ part of town. If there is a station, they lock their doors early. If you’re lucky, the stop has a bench. But even if there is a bench, it probably doesn’t have room for you. Unless you can afford otherwise, you become a luggage lugger when you wait for a long-haul bus.
I knew all of this going in, and considered my options as the light rail took me from the airport into town. Seattle in 2024 has few options for the streetbound. Institutions that were previously always open have cut hours, or have simply gone out of business. I used to live in Seattle before the COVID times, and thought the grungy-posh ever-open diner 13 Coins would remain an exception to this fate, but discovered upon arriving at 11pm that they’d be closing at 2am. And my bus wouldn’t leave until 9am. Anyway, they were never going to tolerate someone sitting around that long. I stretched the act of eating my meal and drinking my coffee as long as I could, searching my phone in vain for any other businesses that could hold me over.
At 1am, I stepped into a 40-degree, drizzly seabreeze, newly a Seattleite street-person.
1am: “Go Away”
Splitting the path alongside 4th Avenue is a streetlamp covered by various scripts in black Sharpie. It was ironically well lit by the blazing pink neon of the Century Link stadium behind it rather than by its own light. “Go Away” is written by one hand, and a poem by another, in response:
I will Go Away
but I nEEd a ‘32 sLoop
MAYBE!!
Sail Boat To Sail Around
This Earth Fully equiped
CostGard Aproved sea worthy
And A Wife To Sail with Me
Away From The USA Becuse you
All Failed Me, Mr. Cris L Smith
Now bouth my son’s R Dead
And their is 4 more killers
oF My Son Michael Anthony Smith
“You Know” Please Help Me Go
Away And We Need a Facebook
Go Fund Me page, Please oh
And transpertastion “Truck”
Then we will Go Away! TY
♥︎
PS I Have No working Phone
Rest in peace
I love you son
Cris L. Smith
Its words were still sinking in when I heard someone approach, the sound of their rollator (a mobility walker on wheels) poorly handling the typical decaying and uneven pavers of the sidewalk on this side of town. She put a great deal of her weight onto it, and her breath was heavy with the effort of standing and walking. Her wrinkled, black skin was damp with sweat from the effort. As she approached me, she said her name was Gabby, and she needed help. She asked my name, but instead called me ‘Gorgeous’. So of course I said I would do my best to help her.
Gabby has diabetes, but had to get to Whidbey Island to her granddaughter, who had been alone since her mom — Gabby’s daughter — died of cancer. I cannot remember if she said how recently, but it felt recent with how she wept. She wept also for the pain in her feet and legs, which were swollen and fluid-filled from congestive heart problems. I told her I had hours to spend, and I’d keep her company and walk with her to wherever she needed to go.
Our walk was slow, as we often had to stop so Gabby could catch her breath after an aggressive coughing fit (emphysema, she explained). Judging by the coughing, I believed her. She spoke of divorce proceedings and endless, expensive doctor’s visits, and how cold she felt, but that she had to get to her granddaughter all the same. She didn’t say how she aimed to get there, but trudged on. She also said she was so hungry, so I offered to buy her something at the nearby convenience store. Maybe a burrito, and some sour patch kids. That wasn’t so much.
Along the way was a typical Seattle street accident, in which a bewildered couple newly in debt to a nice-but-not-very-nice car was given a brand new insurance fiasco by someone (I suspect without insurance) who had smashed in their wheel well and bumper, and immediately fled from their own car on foot, leaving all the doors open to a trunk filled with sleeping bags and overflowing with garbage as the only evidence of their existence. Gabby stopped to make sure they were okay, and we directed them to the same store we were headed to, just around the corner.
Our shopping wasn’t meant to be. A scene was unfolding at the security slot — seemingly routine, judging by the bland expression of the clerk. A shirtless man had fallen out of his wheelchair and was screaming into the slot about the injustice of his card declining when he just needed cigarettes, screaming about how the world fucked him endlessly, and screaming about sexually forcing himself on the female staff. Only his clear disadvantage (it seemed he lived in that wheelchair and was going to have a hard time getting back into it from the ground) made the threats idle. The couple, trying to stay focused on their own misfortune, argued hushedly nearby. All the other onlookers walked away, and Gabby decided it was wise for us to do the same.
On the last block of our walk together, Gabby spoke about how the doctors said the water on her lungs and heart meant she likely had maybe a year, a painful one, left. All the while, a night watchman evicted a person in a sleeping bag from the sidewalk of the public transit station, and we watched it happen together, feeling helpless. It was there that she insisted that her guilt from making me walk away from the bus station was simply too much. We said farewell with a surprisingly strong hug, and I filled her tired, shaking hand with a bit of the cash I had as I sent her off.
We’d only walked four blocks, she and I, but more than an hour and a half had passed. It was only another ten minutes before I was beneath the freeway where the bus station stood suspended in the streetlight. Gloom settled in my chest as the temperature around me dipped closer to freezing.
3am: Going away
The single bench under the covered bus-bay of the Greyhound station was fully occupied by a sleeping bag with sandaled feet sticking out of the side, along with a couple garbage bags tucked tightly between the bagger and the back of the bench. I gave them space, and instead wedged my luggage and backpack into a corner where the covered parking met the fence along the property line, and then wedged myself against it in turn, as snug as a bug on the curb.
I foolishly thought I might manage a nap, but in the little time it took for me to pull my travel blanket out of my pack and over my shoulders, I was visited in succession by three new people.
The first came shuffling — no shoes, only socks — and had two big backpacks in tow. Sitting on the curb a few feet from me, he asked if I wanted to vape. I said no. He asked if I liked to smoke. I said no. He finally asked if I had a vape or cigarette. Again, no. Unphased, he offered me some unopened bags of snacks he’d found in the nearby dumpster. When I turned him down, he abruptly stood up and said he needed to go grab his shoes, and wandered off, leaving his bags and a pile of clothes behind.
Not minutes later, a second person came up — this one dragging loud shoes — and also asked (straight to the point) if I’d give them a smoke. Barely pausing to be told no, they immediately began digging through the first person’s bags, took the candy, and after beginning to step away, reconsidered, deciding to take one of the backpacks, too. He didn’t hurry.
Comically timed, as the bag-taker left sight around the corner, the shoeless man returned (still shoeless, still shuffling) and observed that his bag had been stolen aloud. Before I could explain anything, the other scooted right back up from the other side of the street and, without a pause, took the other bag, right in front of its owner. One followed the other, oddly still in no hurry. They did not return. I abandoned the idea of sleeping and pulled out my phone.
Not much time passed before Junior approached.
Junior forcefully rolled a big suitcase with a couple full plastic shopping bags tied around the extended handle, which he pushed in front of him like a wheelbarrow. Junior had a nice sports cap on, half a dozen gold chains around his neck, and wore two or three sleek black leather jackets, one atop the other. Though I stared at my phone, he still asked about whether it was Kamala or Trump for president. I said that the vote counting was still underway, and this was justification enough for him to explain to me how eager he was to escape the “lawless” West Coast.
Junior gave me the impression that he was someone who believed he’d worked hard for what he had. Now in what looked to be his late 40s, he had a furled scrunch to his brow at all times. His two sons lived in Florida, and he was looking forward to returning there, where — in his words — “the Cuban-ran state government” wouldn’t tolerate the “disgusting piles of drug-addicted and disrespectful homeless” like they do on this side of the states. No, Junior said in his smoke-crackled Miami accent, the Floridian police would kick them across the border line — which is what “all those Haitians” deserved.
I had to trust Junior, Black himself, about his experience of Florida’s character, he let me know. In fact, I had to take Junior on his word about a lot of things about a variety of racial groups, as I didn’t get more than a couple words in during the proceeding hour. What I learned is that Junior was sure that Seattle, Portland, and Sacramento had all robbed him of opportunities, and it was this side of the country’s inability to clean up the streets that was to blame. Taxes were going to waste, going to junkies who couldn’t quit their vices.
When I stood up and let Junior know I was stepping away to get some coffee (I certainly was not going to be getting sleep), he invited himself along. When the Jack-in-the-Box was closed, Junior said that the ampm up the road had a really good Colombian roast (“Not like that Ethiopian shit”) and that Starbucks and its bigwig CEO made this city a joke, and that Junior hated McDonald’s but loved their Big Breakfast (he talked about this for a long time). Then he reiterated how lawless everything here was, and that Disney owned Florida but that was okay because the state would squeeze them for taxes on the best real estate, and that where he came from in Miami, if someone spat on you, the DA said that was sufficient grounds to shoot them for making a threat on your person. “That’s just how it should be to keep things in order.”
Past the bus station and away from Seattle proper, we moved towards the industrial side of town, with its low and decaying old square single story buildings. We stayed mostly on the scarcely-lit street, because there were no cars and it was easier for him to push his baggage, and after what was about a mile, I approached yet another convenience store.
5am: The marathon
Inside, I offered to grab Junior a drink and a snack, which he gratefully accepted, but he separately asked the station attendant to grab him a pack of cigarettes. A lanky, nervously smiling man behind the counter (wearing what I assume is a Sikh dastār head dress) tried to navigate to the correct pack of cigarettes by inference as Junior cursed at him for not speaking “goddamned English”, especially when being asked what the price was. This was despite the fact that the attendant was pointing at the price repeatedly and bowing apologetically, again and again. I can only guess that Junior had a hard time seeing or reading numbers.
The cursing about the attendant and his inability to communicate continued until we stepped out of the store on our way to the bus stop just outside of the ampm. He said he needed to change his shoes since these ones really sucked at keeping his feet warm; I noticed and mentioned to him that it looked like the sole had just come straight off and was sitting between us and the entrance to the station.
He shrugged casually and opened his massive suitcase, revealing that more than half of its contents were various pairs of similar shoes. They looked like Nike, though Junior said he didn’t pay Nike prices for them. It was left to me to throw the sole and the discarded pair into the trash (though Junior did say thank you), then he resumed complaining about the cheapness of foreign-made products for a few minutes longer.
By then, we had moved to ORCA public transit bus stop. Junior didn’t want to walk all that way back because he was short of breath and he wanted to smoke. He discovered while reaching into his second jacket pocket that he already had half a pack of smokes there and laughed, saying that he guessed he didn’t need to buy more after all. Besides, he was in the process of quitting.
I imagine that I would have learned more about the world and its people from Junior, as it was still another 30 minutes before the public transit would arrive, but a new person limped across the arterial street (the traffic wasn’t yet waking up). The smaller figure stepped into the shadow of the power pole that the bus stop sign was fixed to, gesturing at us both with an open can of something, and quietly asked us one at a time if we had a fork. He giggled softly when he told us that he was eating sardines. “Just training for the marathon,” he said. With his impaired gait, bandage-wound fingers, several dirty coats, and torn up shoes, it was clear this was a joke, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him.
Junior didn’t really laugh at the joke, but he must have understood it to be one, since it inspired him to give the newcomer the nickname of ‘Bozo’. I now wish that I had asked his name, but I didn’t; and being that his brown-toned head was shiny and bald except for the tight, messy curls that poked out above his ears, I guess it’s apt. We directed Bozo inside the store, while Junior began a new string of curses about being asked for anything by people who aren’t good for anything - but soon enough our new friend returned, enjoying his meal.
Bozo hadn’t been able to work for a year; it was the anniversary of his unemployment today, he said with oddly good cheer. He said he still worked hard, anyway, to pick up the trash on the side of the street as he found it, even if he did happen to occasionally be high on meth or dope. And he still said he’d do his best, despite having recently just gotten out of the lockup after being picked up by the Belleview sheriff; apparently he was too close to the Chick-fil-A, and complaints had been called in. But he’s found a good place to sleep at the shelter nearby, and he believes in the good things people can do for one another.
I had to stop Bozo briefly amid his gently spoken optimism because he was going to drink from an abandoned coffee cup that someone had left by the bus-stop. I said I could get him some fresh, hot coffee. I did, and also came back with some cash to give him (which Junior seemed silently upset about), but Bozo balked at this. He didn’t like holding onto cash much, he explained, though he shifted about with a little dance that felt like gratitude to me; and, as other street-people started to show up nearby, he stepped away to intercept them (particularly a rather cold looking guy in far too light a hoodie for the temperature) and gave them money to go buy some food from the convenience store. They both came back, with Bozo’s friend chowing on a breakfast hotdog. Bozo gave him his outermost jacket, too, gently helping the lanky, blond, viking-looking pale man put it on, arm by arm.
Bozo bought a few cigarettes from Junior, who originally wanted a dollar each, but when the entirety of what little cash was left was passed over, Junior softened and gave over the remains of the already open pack he’d had from earlier, and even added a lighter, too. (“It’s fine, I’m quitting, I’m quitting.”)
I wondered what kind of life Bozo had had before he’d been cast onto the street. He was humbly articulate in a way that suggested it hadn’t always been this way for him. But his lack of complaint wasn’t the most surprising thing about him. It is his soft smile that sticks out most when I look back. It wasn’t clown-like at all; it seemed to bring me a kind of peace.
Then the public transit arrived. All of us piled into its heated interior, and for the first time that night, no one had anything to say to each other. We were moved to silence by having shelter and somewhere softer to sit, however briefly it happened to be. Then, when we arrived at the bus station, Junior and I parted ways with Bozo and crew. I did, at least, get a farewell fist bump from Junior as I wished him luck on his five-day trip to where he felt he belonged, and that was the end of that. The morning sun had broken the spell.
9am/pm: To shelter
I left. It was another five hours to get home from Seattle to Ellensburg to Yakima to Sunnyside to Pasco. Although uneventful, It was nice to be moving towards my goal.
I did not regret the previous night’s experience, but I was tired of people. I speculated, then, about how ceaseless days of being tired of people might make me particularly bitter, and I wondered whether I could keep my own sense of humor if I was no longer in the warmth of the daytime sun.
The bright day passed in a sleep-deprived blur. I blinked and was outside again at night, in the arms of someone who could hold me and reassure me, only a few minutes’ walk from my own warm bed, where I knew I could tuck in and sleep without effort or fear. My tears fell beyond my control, all the vulnerability overwhelming me.
There are people there, as real as people can be; but the noise of cars and commerce, of businesses and easy exchange of money, and bright and optimistic murals that cover locked buildings to distract from police sweeps that leave only lost belongings and not the people who wish to belong — all of it keeps us from seeing them.
I did not have to keep an eye open for these real people, nor stare into poverty’s wrinkled face, nor endure ceaseless slurs, nor be asked for another cigarette, nor shiver in the uncertain and uncaring wind. I am learning that I must be vulnerable in order to really be around and understand the vulnerable. I could have afforded a plane ticket or a hotel, but I would have remained ignorant about the reality of the lives of others — Gabby, Junior, Bozo, and every other life that intersected with mine — if I had.
Perhaps disability justice means more than ambiguous funding, and instead means walking very slowly, hearing a body ache from unceasing pain, catching your breath while a mobility aid proves insufficient against crumbling public infrastructure, and understanding that food deserts are all equal parts distance, risk, cost, health, and threat.
Perhaps empathy means more than simulating a feeling, and is closer to literally putting yourself in someone else’s shoes and watching the soles drop off counterfeit Nikes at an ampm at 5am in the soggy morning, and is also just listening about how the injustices pile up and become unbearable and turn into a habitual lashing out at the only ‘others’ who are there to hear you — those who share your little fortune.
Perhaps reducing harm means more than a cell or a bunk or a safe injection site, and it also means witnessing and celebrating what good people do by whatever methods they have, and allowing them the means to build up their own community, to which you might then be invited.
Perhaps real solutions begin on a basis of shared experience.
Perhaps we could all use the perspective of a night without shelter.
Magpies have shown the ability to make and use tools, imitate human speech, grieve, play games, and work in teams. Write to one at bluewhiteblackbird@gmail.com.