After living in a suburb for most of my life, when I moved to a major U.S. city the first thing I noticed was the feces. At first I assumed it was dog poop, but my naivety didn’t last long.
One day I saw a homeless man waddling towards me at a fast speed while holding his ass cheeks. He turned into an alley and took a shit. As I passed him, there was a moment where our eyes met. He sheepishly averted his gaze.
The next day I walked to the same place. There are a number of businesses on both sides of the street that probably all have bathrooms. I walked into each of them to investigate.
In a coffee shop, I saw a homeless woman ask the barista if she could use the bathroom. “Sorry, that bathroom is for customers only.” I waited five minutes and then inquired from the barista if I could use the bathroom (even though I hadn’t ordered anything). “Sure! The bathroom code is 0528.”
The other businesses I entered also had policies for ‘customers only’. Nearly all of them allowed me to use the bathroom despite not purchasing anything.
If I was that homeless guy, I would have shit in that alley, too.
I receive more compliments from homeless people compared to the women I go on dates with
There’s this one homeless guy—a big fella who looks intimidating—I sometimes pass on my walk to the gym. The first time I saw him, he put on a big smile and said in a booming voice, “Hey there! I hope you’re having a blessed day!” Without making eye contact (because I didn’t want him to ask me for money), I mumbled “thanks” and quickly walked away.
I saw him again a few weeks later. With another beaming smile he exclaimed, “You must be going to the gym—you’re looking fit, my man!” I blushed and replied, “I appreciate it, have a good day.” He then added, “God bless you, sir!” Being non-religious, that made me a little uncomfortable.
With our next encounter, I found myself smiling as I approached him. This time I greeted him first, “Good afternoon!” His face lit up with glee. “Sir, that’s very kind of you. I appreciate that. God bless you!” Without hesitation I responded, “God bless you, too!” I’m not sure the last time I’ve uttered those words; I don’t even say ‘bless you’ after people sneeze.
We say hi to each other regularly now. His name is George.
Is that guy dead?
Coming home one day, I saw a disheveled man lying facedown on the sidewalk.
He’s not moving. I crouched to hear if he’s breathing. Nothing.
I looked up and saw a lady in a car next to me stopped at a red light. We made eye contact and I gestured towards the guy as if to say what the fuck do we do? Her answer was to grip the steering wheel and aggressively stare in front of her until the light turned green and she sped off.
Not knowing if I needed to call an ambulance, I asked him, “Hey buddy, you okay?” I heard back a muffled, “AYE KENT GEEUP!”
Well, at least he’s not dead.
“Uhh, what was that? You doing okay?” This time a more articulate, “I CAN’T GET UP,” escaped from him. Despite his clothes being somewhat dirty and not wanting to touch him, I helped him to his feet.
With one look on his face I could tell that he wasn’t all there. I asked him if he knew where he was or if he needed help, but he could only reply with gibberish. It could have been drugs; it could have been mental illness. With confirmation that he wasn’t dead and was able to walk around, I went home.
Who’s giving Brazilian waxes to the homeless?
I was walking behind a homeless man the other day. He was wearing an extra long flannel and sagging his pants low.
Suddenly, he noticed his (one and only) shoe was untied and fixed it promptly by executing a full standing pike. I wasn’t expecting him to have the flexibility of a gymnast.
In doing so, his flannel lifted up to reveal his dick and balls. The strangest thing? Fully shaved. Who’s going around giving pro bono Brazilian waxes to the homeless?
Crazy people talk to themselves because no one else will
Walking to the library one day, I noticed a homeless woman muttering to herself. There was an aura of urine about her. She was missing several teeth.
When she spotted me, she asked for twenty dollars. My father taught me to never give homeless people money because “they’ll just use it for drugs and alcohol.” I wasn’t busy, so I sat down next to her on the sidewalk and asked, “how’s your day going?”
She launched into a tirade about why her life sucks—it was mostly incoherent and I assumed she was crazy. After about ten minutes, she paused. She skittishly made eye contact with me and said “sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Well, sometimes I ramble. But that’s because I have no one to talk to.”
“It’s probably lonely living on the streets.”
“Yeah.”
Once she realized I wasn’t going to abruptly leave, she asked me about myself and a conversation ensued. Over the next thirty minutes I learned that in the course of her life:
- She used to be a groupie for famous rock bands in San Francisco during the 1960s.
- Living the groupie lifestyle, she experimented with different drugs until she became a meth addict (hence the missing teeth).
- Broke and addicted to meth at forty years old, she moved back in with her parents.
- While living at home during this time, her brother began to rape her regularly. He told her that if she spoke up he would tell the police about her meth stash.
- She spoke up. Nobody in her family believed her that her brother was raping her. Her brother stayed true to his word and reported her to the authorities. She served multiple years in prison for possession of meth.
- When she was released, she had nowhere to go since her family had disowned her. She’s been homeless ever since. Sometimes she’s woken up by strangers raping her.
At the end of our conversation, she wished me well and said, “enjoy the library!”
“Have you forgotten how our conversation began?”
“...yes.”
“You were asking me for twenty dollars.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What did you need the money for?”
“My bike’s inner tube is punctured and I’d like to buy a new one.”
I gave her twenty dollars. She shook my hand and said, “God bless you.”
Her name is Teresa.
Part 1: I would have shit in that alley, too
Part 2: A City Within a City
I've always felt a mix of fear, compassion and guilt when it comes to homeless people. In the UK, both London and suburbia (where I'm from) have seen the issue visibly intensify over the last decade or two.
Here as anywhere, it's a number issue. After discovering the YIMBY movement maybe half a decade ago, I began to realize, the next big social justice movement, has go to be whatever reframing of <this whole thing> -- housing and urban policy -- is required to ensure society never again returns to this kind of supply shortage and general climate of stagnation and political innumeracy with regard to permitting. Even down to our journalism, the tables are stacked in an incredibly conservative, and just generally anti-progress, anti-growth, direction.
I think it fails to collect political traction because most people are just completely unable (and maybe emotionally incapable) of fully grokking and computing the scale, even, of each component of the problem, whether it be
The swathes of people who would benefit from partially supervised living conditions, either for their safety, health or broader social fulfilment. The number of people nihilistically satisfied to burn through their bodies on drugs like candles. The number of people trapped in relationships of convenience to save on housing costs. The number of people unable to move to an area more suitable to their career or lifestyle, especially the effect this has on artistic and intellectual scenes. Each of these "deaths by a thousand cuts" to the fabric of human happiness and productivity.
I was briefly excited by Keir Starmer's seeming embrace of the YIMBY movement in this country, and might feel optimistic about the tide changing in the USA too. I lost interest in the tech career I'd previously been pursuing as I noticed that, a little weed and this and that was doing things to my creativity that allowed me to see the edges of "reframings" - the kind of Tone you would need in a film, or a song, or a tiktok even, that would reposition the average view on homelessness a bit towards "oh, THAT'S how big the problem is??". I am semi-seriously writing a musical premeptively entitled "TENT" that might hope to at least be farcically fresh on these subjects, inspired by essentially defecting from the responsibilties of living with my mum and instead going out to Brighton to regularly meet and hear the various stories of people who've been through or orbitted this situation, which is a large cohort of my generation. I am also allowing myself to develop a rapper alter ego that may be able to tackle this in a way that is culturally and aesthetically appealing. I do constantly kinda hope someone has a better plan, tho.
I am unconvinced it will take much less than a wholesale reorientation of the current way we see planning as a state responsibility, and housing as a general commodity, to not just adequately sate the shortage but allow enough slack in the market for places devoid of life or industry to become lively again. But it's an inherently partisan and charged subject and I'm wary the level of delusion that can creep into any viewpoint in such a complex domain.