Where the ragged people go

When I left my home And my family I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers In the quiet of the railway station

Running scared . . . Laying low . . .Seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places Only they would know

Beneath Seattle's Alaskan Way Viaduct a community of three tents and two supermarket carts

It was after 7:30 p.m. Monday night. I added two more lunches to the two already in the fridge, packed them in the large bag and headed out into the night, cold at first, despite the bundling. The street seemed vacant and I wondered whether I would find anyone. But there's probably always going to be someone. Over time, I will know where to look for them.

Tony

I saw him by the Bank of America cash machine. He was wearing a large coat and seemed to be limping, as he spotted, retrieved, and examined some tan object on the ground by the machine. Was it someone's checkbook? No, it was a glass case, he said, as I introduced myself and asked whether he was hungry. He was.

Tony is from the south and has lived here for twenty years. Most recently he was performing manual labor -- temporary work -- but he's out of work now. He might have tried a shelter for the night, but he met a woman at "The Morrison," and he was heading her way to see if he could find better lodging for the evening. He said he needed bus fare to get back downtown. We stopped into Mad Pizza so I could break a $20 bill (and get him out of the cold for a bit). We sat and he told me the story you've already heard most of. Tony said he weighs 190 pounds and is six feet. Under his coat he had only a T-shirt, so naturally he was cold. Although he looked like he was limping, he was just walking that way to shake off the chill, he explained.

He asked whether I could spare a couple more dollars. I could, and I suggested we walk in the direction of my condo. There are clothes I haven't worn for years, and he's my size, I thought. But by the time we reached Broadway he wanted to take off to his friend's place. He didn't want to miss the possibility of a better place to stay for the night.

And as he left, he thanked me for the meal. Several times.

The messenger.

I don't know his name, but I call him "the messenger," because he sits at the offramp of I-5 at Madison passing out pieces of paper with information on them and hoping for donations. Here's part of his message:

Yeah, it doesn't make any sense, does it?

This didn't make any more sense than the last piece of literature he gave me, which appeared to be a table created in a Microsoft word document that was filled with gibberish, and neatly folded and stapled to make it easy to present to drivers who stopped to make a donation. A lady who told me she lives at the YMCA said he believes there's a building nearby with communists...well, it goes on from there.

I first met him some time ago when I climbed the hill from Ivar's and gave him the rest of my fish and chips. The next day,  I was summoning the police to arrest him as I watched him flailing at another "street person," who was on the ground beneath him, apparently over the use of this particular corner.  I had been walking toward the water front when I witnessed the assault,  and that was when I learned how really off kilter he was. Well, actually, it was after I went home and retrieved the "literature" he had given me that I realized he was off kilter.

But on this night he was calm as I approached him, and he gently suggested that I work the other side of the street. I explained I was only there to give him a meal. He was OK with that, and he didn't assault me.

Shane

Shane was in the tent with the orange top  in the photo at the beginning of this post. Since all the tents were buttoned up and it was past 8 p.m. I walked by at first, not sure just how you approach street people in their tent. Then I doubled back, stood a few feet back and said in a reasonable voice, "I have some meals if anyone wants one." A voice came from the middle tent, and Shane opened the "window" to greet me. Surprisingly, I could feel warmth coming from the tent. (I never thought to ask whether he had some sort of heater in there.) Shane explained that he was up from Florida by way of Louisiana and Illinois. He is disabled with a lung ailment that required some surgeries and which made it difficult to live in a hot climate where even sleeping at night was difficult because of the heat. ("Eventually you pass out," he said.)  Seattle's climate is a lot better and he can walk a few more blocks up here than he was able to in the South.

Another reason he came to Seattle was that people had told him it was friendlier here. Still, he never feels safe. You sleep with one eye open, he said.

Shane accepted one sack meal and asked for a second for the folks in the adjacent tent. They look out for each other and probably will move as a group across the street to a sidewalk location, he said. I asked him about his tent. He explained that another person like me wanted his story, too. That individual  took photos for his church. The next day he returned with a tent from Target that replaced Shane's make-shift tarp. On first glance it looked like an expensive tent. But it costs under $40, Shane explained. But the folks next door have the REI tent, he noted.

While he was explaining this, a young man stopped and leaned down to hand me an energy bar and an orange. I think he thought I was part of the community. It's a natural mistake. The poor frequently aren't  much different that the rest of us.

Meals distributed so far: 9.

Ubuntu