Until They Have Faces: 110 Interviews With the Homeless People of Auburn, California

Author

Introduction

A Life-Changing Project That I Fell Into by Accident

The basic ache of loneliness is everywhere. I have seen it all over this country. I have seen it all over the world. I have seen it in every culture, and in every corner of human existence.

That’s why, when I saw it in homeless people, it did not surprise me. Seeing the basic ache of loneliness in homeless people was how I knew that they are the same as you, and the same as me.

Except, of course, that they are also different from us. They have no homes.

I am a moderately-conservative business lawyer. Writing a book about homeless people was not a part of my plan for my life. I fell into this project by accident.

I am so grateful that I did.

Interviewing the homeless people in my small town has changed my life.

Or, maybe it would be more accurate to say that it has changed my heart.

The changes have been deep, and profound. There were times, after I interviewed a homeless person, that I cried. I didn’t cry for just that one, homeless person. Sometimes, I cried for myself as well. Sometimes, I cried for all of us.

There were times when I would lay awake for several nights after interviewing a homeless person, just aching for them, just worrying about them, just wishing something better for them.

After a lifetime of being a cynical business lawyer, I was surprised to find myself suddenly becoming so grateful for everything. I became especially grateful for all of the little things that I used to take for granted.

Many homeless people told me that they miss being able to get up in the morning and take a hot shower.

One man told me that he misses being able to get up in the middle of the night, and go to his refrigerator to get a late-night snack.

A woman told me that she misses having a safe place to lay down her head to rest.

Because of my new-found gratitude, I am a much happier person. These days, I spend more of my time saying little prayers of thanks. Actually, they are big prayers of thanks, expressed for little things.

But gratitude is only one of many changes that homeless people worked in my heart.

I hope that as you read this book, the homeless people work changes in your heart as well.

How did I get into this unlikely project? My friend, Robert Frew, has a college-aged son, Ryan, who wants to be a film maker. Ryan made a short documentary film about the homeless people in our area. He wanted to show the film at the local theater, and use the money raised by the showing to help the homeless.

I volunteered to help Ryan put on the showing of his film. Since I am known to be a writer, the film promotion committee asked me to promote the film by going out and interviewing a few homeless people, and posting stories about them in the local media.

Those first interviews got me hooked. I was fascinated by everything that I learned about the homeless people. In many ways, it was like discovering that a whole different tribal culture existed right here, in my own home town.

As a boy, when I read National Geographic, I dreamed about becoming an anthropologist, and going into the jungle to discover and study a mysterious primitive tribe.

I never got the chance to go into the jungle as an anthropologist. But now, I discovered that there was a mysterious, completely different tribe of human beings living right in my own, small town.

If you have any doubt that homeless people have their own, separate tribal customs, read the article in this book called, Strange Tribal Customs of American Motor Nomads.

So, at the beginning of this project, I approached the interviews as if they were an anthropological study. I smugly thought that when I finished all of the interviews, I would catagorize my homeless people by a small number of stereotypes, such as those who were alcoholics, those who were drug addicts, those who were mentally ill, those who had just fallen off of the economic edge, etcetera. But the interviews quickly humbled me, and cured me of any thought that homeless people could be neatly catalogued into a few classic stereotypes.

What I quickly realized that it is just as unfair to try to catalogue homeless people into four or five stereotypes as it is to try to do that to anyone else. While we all may have certain characteristics in common, in the end, each one of us is extraordinary and unique. So, I did not end up with five categories of homeless people. Instead, I ended up with 111 extraordinary and unique individuals, each one with a fascinating story to tell.

I have made no attempt to organize these stories by catagories. These stories are presented in the same chronological order that they were presented to me. Let these homeless people, and their stories, speak for themselves.

I found homeless people to be magnificent teachers. Again and again, I was humbled by the profound lessons that I learned from a homeless man or woman.

I was also surprised by how much I came to love them.

Most of the homeless people I met are so courteous, so gentle, so kind, so generous, and so cheerful that it’s difficult to understand how they ended up being homeless... until I remember that many of them also have a drug, or an alcohol addiction, or a mental illness, and that, like most of us, they also have a dark side.

Dark side or not, I came to think of many homeless people as dear friends. Now that I have stopped doing these interviews and am spending most of my free time editing this book, I am surprised by how much I miss them.

The showing of Ryan Frew’s documentary film about the homeless was a great success, showing to sold-out audiences. But after the film project was over, my interviewing project seemed incomplete. There was so much more that I wanted to learn. Also, I discovered that just doing the interviews seemed to be a great benefit to some of the homeless people. And being able to help these people really warmed my heart.

I discovered that it wasn’t giving homeless people money or food that helped them the most. Instead, it was the simple act of really listening to them.

Like everyone else, most homeless people long to have a voice, to tell their stories, and to be heard.

So, after Ryan’s film was shown, I set a goal to interview at least a hundred local homeless people, and see if I could gather enough material to write a book.

The primary purpose of this book is not to tell the world how to fix the problem of homelessness. Nor is it about the wonderful volunteers who help the homeless. Nor is it about the politics or the policing of the homeless.

Instead, the primary purpose of this book is to give homeless people a voice. Let their stories be told. Let their voices be really heard.

Their stories are both fabulous and horrifying. Their stories are as fabulous as the story of the homeless man who took the shoes off of his own feet to give them to the homeless young woman who was limping along on bare feet in the dead of winter.

Their stories are as horrifying as the story of the homeless woman who had to stand by and watch her friend being raped, helpless to do anything about it.

Their stories can be as hilarious as the story of the one-armed alligator man, and as inspiring as the man who is so cheerful and so grateful, in spite of the fact that he has nothing.

There is one homeless man named T-Bird who has horrible burn scars all over his legs and one of his hands. He got those scars when another homeless man literally set him on fire. T-Bird told me that on some nights, he sits up all night, crying. He sits there, alone in the dark, asking over and over again, Why me, God? Why? When T-Bird sits there in the darkness, asking those questions, is he really alone, or, in some strange way, are all of us also sitting there with him?

The British Broadcasting Company aired a fantasy television series about a mysterious and magical culture of beggars who lived beneath the streets of London. These beggars are able to go anywhere in the City, and get away with doing anything, because they are invisible.

All of the other people in London have chosen not to see them.

So now, London’s beggars are invisible.

As in London, the saddest thing about America’s homeless people is that most of the time, we choose not to see them.

They become invisible.

To be fair, we often choose not to see homeless people as a part of our own defense. We choose not to see them so that we don’t have to give them money... money that we know is likely to be mis-spent. We choose not to see them so that we don’t have to feel guilty about their plight, so that we don’t have to worry about them, so that we don’t have to stop and help them.

But the fact that we are engaging in a form of self-defense when we choose not to see another human being might not make it all right.

George Bernard Shaw said, The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity.

So, let the fabulous and horrifying stories of our homeless people be told. Let their stories be told again and again, until we reach a point where every homeless person has a voice, and a face, and a name.

Maybe then, our homeless neighbors will no longer be invisible to our hearts.

Chapter One: March, 2012

The first three homeless men I met. From left to right: Silent Dave Ward, Chuck Halterman, and Red Anderson. March 11, 2012

1. THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD...

You often find Auburn’s homeless people walking along Bell Road. They travel between the county government assistance buildings at the Dewitt Center, and the woods at the airport end of Bell Road, where some of them camp.

When they are lucky enough to have enough money for a cup of coffee, they stop at one of the fast-food restaurants near the corner of Bell Road and Highway 49. On cold winter days, they sit inside for as long as they are allowed, just trying to get warm.

It was a miserably cold and rainy Sunday Afternoon, in March of 2012, on the first day that I went looking for homeless people to interview.

I spotted three wet and raggedy-looking men standing near the Burger King.

I parked my car, got out, and walked over to them. I was more than a little bit nervous, just to approach them.

As I approached them, I could see that they were just as nervous about me. The first question that I often get asked when I approach a homeless person is whether or not I am a cop.

I ask the three homeless men if I can take their photographs and interview them.

At first, they are stand-offish. But when I explain that I am trying to promote Ryan Frew’s documentary film about the homeless, one of them remembers talking to Ryan, and they relax.

I offer to pay each of them a $20 fee for the photographs and the interviews.

What happens next reminds of a time when I was snorkeling in Cabo San Lucas. As I swam out from the shore, I didn’t see any fish, at first. But then I crumbled up some crackers and released the crumbs into the water. As soon as the crumbs were in the water, I was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of hungry fish that were gobbling up the crumbs.

Before I finished taking photographs of the first three men, the word had somehow spread that I was passing out money. And suddenly, about a dozen homeless people were swirling all around me.

They seemed to be circling around me like the fish at Cabo San Lucas. The Christian symbolism of the fish did not escape me.

I photographed as many people as I could. But I soon run out of twenty-dollar bills.

Even more homeless people show up, all hoping to be photographed, and to get some money.

It makes me sad that I haven’t brought enough money for everyone.

Some of the homeless people walk away disappointed.

I remember thinking, If Jesus were here, instead of me, he would not have run out of money. He would have had more than enough money, and more than enough love, to go around for all of them.

But as for me...I ran out of money.

I say a silent prayer. Hopefully, I will not also run out of love.

Two more homeless people I met on my first day: Michael Harrison, and Jolena The Protector Mitchell. March 11, 2012

Pat Farber - A self-proclaimed advocate for the homeless. March 11, 2012

MEETING A HOMELESS ADVOCATE THE FIRST DAY

One of the tallest of the men tells me that he tries to serve as an advocate for the homeless people in Auburn. His name is Pat Farber. He is homeless himself.

Pat says that homeless people can walk freely all over Auburn, as long as they aren’t wearing a backpack. But as soon as they strap on a backpack, they will be stopped by the police and questioned.

Pat wants to tell me all about the plight of the homeless people in Auburn.

He tells me that he has just come from church.

I am feeling guilty because I skipped church on this Sunday Morning, so that I could start on this project. I didn’t expect that one of the first homeless people I met would be making me feel guilty about my own conduct.

Pat is 62 years old. He notices that I am left-handed, and mentions that he is also left handed.

He is a very intelligent man, and an eloquent speaker.

I can’t help wondering, how did such a bright man end up being homeless?

I place my hand on his heart, and tell him that I am also 62 years old, and I am also left-handed.

Pat wants to meet with me later in the day, to advocate for his homeless friends.

I ask Pat where I can meet him.

He says that he doesn’t know. Later in the day, he has to go looking for a place where he can get out of the rain for awhile, to get dried out and warmed up.

He tells me to look for him over at the Placer County Welcome Center (at the Dewitt Center) on a week day, when the center is open.

As Pat walks away, he says, God bless you.

God bless you, too, I say.

As I watch Pat walk away, I can’t help thinking, There, but for the Grace of God, go I.

There is a more detailed interview with Pat, later in this book.

I offer to buy lunch for the remaining homeless people so that we can go into the Burger King and get out of the rain. While we eat, they can tell me their stories.

They are eager to go inside and talk. It’s not just because of the rain, and it’s not just because they are hungry. Like most people, they just want to be heard.

LORNE CLEMENT - Bright, talented, courteous, eloquent, and homeless. March 11, 2012

2. A MAN WHO COULD DO ANYTHING

Lorne Clements is 41 years old, and homeless. He is a handsome man, with piercing blue eyes, and a gentle smile. He is highly intelligent, and an eloquent speaker. In fact, he speaks more eloquently than most lawyers I know.

He is a remarkably talented man.

I ask him how he ended up being homeless.

His answer is simple: drugs.

Lorne was born and raised in the nearby small town of Newcastle, California. He went to the Lincoln Way Elementary School, then to E.V. Cain Middle School, and then started at Placer High School.

When Lorne was twelve, his parents divorced. His father left, and never came back. His mother was forced to work to support the family. So, after school, Lorne and his twin brother sat at home alone, watching Scooby-Doo cartoons.

Lorne says that he and his brother started getting into trouble because they had no father figure around.

Lorne’s twin brother has also been on drugs, and has also been in and out of prison.

On Lorne’s third day of his Sophomore year at Placer High School, he got into trouble. He was then transferred to Chana High School, which is the alternative high school for kids who are facing special challenges.

He got kicked out of Chana High School for selling marijuana.

After that, he spent about two years in a group home in Applegate.

Lorne says that his drug problems got serious after he took pain medication for a spinal condition called espondalo lesticesus - the bones at the end of his spinal cord do not meet properly.

Lorne’s drug of choice is meth.

He argues that meth is not all that bad. He argues that meth is actually just a kind of diet pill that gives you a little extra pep, and helps you lose weight.

But, isn’t meth highly addictive? I ask.

Lorne doesn’t want to talk about that.

I ask Lorne what he would do if I had a magic wand that could fix anything, and he could go back and re-do his life, and could do or be anything that he wanted.

Lorne says that he would like to be a cop.

Lorne’s desire to be a police officer surprises me.

Other homeless people frequently complain about mistreatment by the police.

I ask Lorne why he wants to be a cop.

I like the discipline, Lorne tells me. My father was a captain in the Air Force. So, I like the uniforms, and the military bearing.

Somewhere in Lorne’s voice, I hear the longing of a twelve-year-old boy for his missing military father.

My heart then aches for Lorne. My own father was a Colonel in the Air Force. He was gone for long periods of time to far away places, like Viet Nam. My parents never divorced. But I know the feeling of a boy’s lonely ache for his father.

I look at Lorne... a polite and eloquent, forty-one-year-old meth addict.

There, but for the Grace of God, go I.

Lorne has so much talent. If he were clean and sober, he could do just about anything.

But my heart wants to deny what my mind is telling me...that Lorne...bright, promising, gentle Lorne...will never be a cop.

FOLLOW UP ON LORNE CLEMENTS:

I saw Lorne, from time to time, over the next ten months. For a few months, he seemed to be improving his life. He worked as a volunteer at a church, helping other homeless people. He seemed to have a renewed sense of his own value. And I was hopeful that he might eventually get himself clean and sober.

But the last time I saw Lorne, it was a cold Saturday Morning in December. It had been pouring down rain for a week. The homeless people were exhausted from trying to sleep on the muddy ground while soaking wet and freezing cold.

Lorne was sitting at a table at the free breakfast at the Seventh Day Adventist Church.

I overheard him making an angry, frustrated growl to one of the other homeless people.

I mean, he said, If I don’t see some kind of major change in my life by the end of this very day, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Lorne’s gentleness and courtesy was gone. He sounded so desperate that I worried that he might do harm to himself, or to someone else.

In Lorne’s battle to take back his life, on that morning, meth won.

CHUCK HALTERMAN - Homeless for the past 35 years. March 11, 2012

3. A MAN WITH A MESSAGE

Charles Chuck Halterman is 54 years old. He has been homeless for the past 35 years. He is a big, burly man, with a friendly smile. But he is missing most of his teeth, which makes his smile slightly unnerving.

I’ll tell you what homeless people need, here in Auburn, he says. We need a Mission, a laundromat, and a work center, he tells me.

I ask Chuck how he first became homeless.

Well, I came from the moonshine State of West Virginia. My Dad weaned me on beer, and I had my first mixed drink when I was seven years old, Chuck answers.

My Dad was an old-school biker, Chuck says. "He used to beat up Hells Angels. His arm muscles were so big that he could pick up a man while he was riding his Harley, throw the man over a table, and catch the man on the other side of the table, while still riding his Harley.

Dad owned three different carnivals during his life. He used to ride his motorcycle in the motordrome - that spherical steel cage.

Chuck goes on telling me stories about his father until I finally have to cut him off.

But, what about you? I ask.

Chuck tells me that out of the six children in his family, Chuck was the only one who lacked a certain, hereditary bump on his earlobes.

So, Chuck’s father suspected that Chuck was illegitimate.

Chuck’s father beat him brutally, almost every day.

He also forced Chuck to do miserable, degrading work.

Once, when the principal of Chuck’s elementary school was trying to get Chuck removed from his home, he lifted up the back of Chuck’s T-shirt to show a local official that there was not a one-inch space anywhere on Chuck’s whipped back that the principal could touch without also touching blood.

Chuck eventually ended up in a foster home in Michigan.

His mother came and got him out of the foster home, promising that she would be responsible for him.

But after about six months, she kicked him out.

After that, Chuck worked in the oil fields in Odessa, Texas, until the crash in 1983.

At about that time, he and several of his just-laid-off-oil-worker friends were together in a bar. They each had $400 of final pay in their pockets.

"And we decided that we would liquidate it," Chuck said.

Chuck lined up a whole row of boiler makers on the bar. He drank them all.

Then, he stumbled outside.

He saw a nice car parked outside, that had a bass boat in tow.

He stole the car, and was still driving it around when he got arrested.

He went to jail for 120 days.

That doesn’t seem too bad, I said. A hundred and twenty days isn’t too long.

Yes, but that was jail in Odessa, Texas, Chuck said. In Odessa, they put wires, glass, and cockroaches in the food.

I ask Chuck whether he lost his teeth from fighting.

A few were lost from fighting, he says. But then, rather shamefacedly, he admits, But the rest were lost from drugs.

If Chuck had a magic wand, and could do anything, he would buy some acreage with some gold on it. Then, he would build a nice little house, buy a nice car, maybe find a wife, and grow some nice vegetables.

I asked Chuck if he had a chance to deliver a single message to the world, what would his message be?

Chuck said his message would be, Believe in Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit.

He says that since he and his buddy, Dave, have been going to church over at the Seventh Day Adventist Church (a church where they have substantial services available to help the homeless), it seems to him as if, each day, God has been providing them with just enough of what they need, so that they are able to get by.

I think about my Rotary friend, Dan Appel, who is the Pastor over at the Seventh Day Adventist Church, and I hope that Dan gets a chance to hear what Chuck is saying.

Chuck is still looking at me. That would be my only message, he says.

I promise Chuck that I will do my best to get his message published.

Dave Ward Silent Dave March 11, 2012

4. SILENT DAVE

There is a dangerous-looking facial expression that I call Prison face.

One of my best friends had it for a while, after he served several years in Folsom Prison.

My friend and I went off to Boy Scout Camp together for the first time, when we were just eleven years old. A few years later, we became Eagle Scouts together.

Then, I went off to West Point. But my friend stayed here in California.

He went through an ugly divorce, and then, got into drugs. Then, he went to prison.

When it was time for him to be released from prison, there was no one to pick him up. So, my wife and I drove over to Folsom Prison to pick him up.

The guards brought the prisoners out to the parking lot in a small white van. They opened the back of the van, and the prisoners began climbing out.

The first expression I saw on my friend’s face was fear. His eyes searched the parking lot desperately, trying to find us. If we weren’t there to pick him up, he might not be released.

When he finally spotted us, his face lit up with joy and relief. He knew that he was going to be released. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

But as we drove him home, his facial expression returned to the face that he must have worn in prison. It was a constant, dangerous-looking scowl.

I had never seen an expression that dangerous-looking on my friend’s face before. It was a bit frightening.

I call that facial expression Prison Face.

It’s a look that warns people, If you mess with me in any way, I’ll tear you apart.

It’s a facial expression that comes from being afraid, day and night, for a long time.

Prison is a dangerous place.

My friend was out of prison for many weeks before his Prison Face finally began to fade away.

This first time I saw Dave Ward, he had the same, dangerous-looking prison face that I had seen years earlier on my friend. Dave is shorter than most of the other men. Maybe the tough look on his face comes from being bullied because he is smaller. Or, maybe he wears a prison face because he has actually been in prison.

I might never know.

Dave didn’t say a single word during the whole time that I interviewed his buddy, Chuck.

I know that Dave can speak, because earlier, he gave me his name to fill in on the interview release form. Dave is so quiet that he makes me think of that movie character, Silent Bob. Only...there isn’t anything funny about Dave.

When I finish my interview with Chuck, I turn to Dave, and ask him if he wants to tell me his story.

Dave looks at me with his scowling, prison-face eyes and says, No. I don’t want to talk.

I know that look on his face.

It’s not a look to question.

I politely tell Dave that it’s fine if he doesn’t want to talk.

Dave and Chuck walk away together.

Later, I feel badly because Dave’s story may never be told. Dave may die alone in some cold, rainy field, and no one will even know his story.

No. Dave probably won’t die alone. His buddy, Chuck, will be with him.

In my imagination, I visualize Dave, lying in a damp field somewhere, dying. But he is being held gently in the arms of his gruff old buddy, Chuck.

I try to shake off the mental image of Dave, dying in Chuck’s arms. It’s an unrealistic vision, created by an incurable romantic.

But then, I think no...given the surprisingly high level of camaraderie that I have seen among homeless people, Dave might really end up dying in just that way.

That wouldn’t be such a terrible way to die.

At least, you wouldn’t die alone.

And who knows? Dying in a damp field in the arms of an old friend might be better than dying in a sterile, white hospital bed, wrapped only in a confusing tangle of needles, tubes, wires, and monitors.

Besides, if Dave dies without me ever knowing his story, is Dave any different from all of the other people who slip in and out of my busy life, without me taking the time to hear their stories?

Not really.

All of those people will also die, and I will never know their stories either.

Isn’t that what happens to most of us...as we pass so quickly through each other’s lives?

DANIEL MEYER - Young Ghost March 11, 2012

5. YOUNG GHOST

Daniel Meyer is only 26 years old. He has a friendly smile, and proudly holds up his new Bible as he poses to have his photo taken.

He looks so young and so small that you can’t help worrying that he may be in danger, being homeless, and alone.

It’s a cold, rainy day. Daniel’s cheeks are flushed red from being outside. (Well, okay...maybe his cheeks are flushed from other things too.)

Young Daniel tells me that he was born in Oakland, but he grew up in Weimar.

When I ask him how he ended up being homeless, his answer is, Meth.

Dan has been in prison for burglary... not just for burglary of commercial buildings, but for residential burglary as well.

When he says the words, residential burglary, I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Residential burglary means he has the potential to invade my home. It also means that his drug addiction has pushed him into one of the most dangerous crimes of all. Residential burglars often get shot dead.

Young Dan has prison-looking tattoos lettered across the backs of his fingers.

There is something about seeing those tattoos on such a young man that makes me sad.

Dan tells me that he is worried about his girlfriend, who lives up in the Grass Valley area. His girlfriend also has a drug problem. Dan is worried that some bad guys up in the Grass Valley area may be hassling her.

He wants to go check on her. But it’s tough for him to get all the way up to Grass Valley, without having a car.

Dan tells me that he has been reading his new Bible, and it helps.

I ask him where he got his brand-new-looking Bible.

Someone gave it to me, right out there, on that corner, he says. He points outside to the corner of Highway 49 and Bell Road. I’m not sure who it was that gave it to me. I thought that it was you.

When he says this, it gives me a slight pang of guilt.

It wasn’t me that gave you the Bible, I tell him.

Oh, he says. Well, I thought it was you.

Back in the days when I was a member of the Gideons, there were times when I stood out on street corners with my Gideon Brothers and handed out Bibles. But I haven’t done that for years. I gave up the Gideons when I got too busy with practicing law, and helping with other charitable projects.

A homeless woman whose street name is Z comes between Daniel and I. She is intent upon telling her story. She keeps talking to me for several minutes. I can’t find any polite way to withdraw from the conversation, and get back to Daniel.

While the woman is talking... Daniel just disappears.

Like a ghost.

He has a brand-new, twenty-dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket. And he is gone.

It was a mistake for me to give Daniel his interview fee before I finished his interview.

As I wrote in the introduction to this book, the British created a television series about a mysterious group of homeless people who live beneath the streets of London. Because of their status as homeless beggars, they were able to travel anywhere in the city and remain invisible to everyone else.

No one chooses to see them.

I look around for Disappearing Daniel.

He is gone.

I wonder...do we make the homeless people invisible, or do they choose to make themselves invisible to us?

CASSADY McMULLAN - One of the most tortured homeless men I ever met. March 31, 2012

6. EAGLES AT LAKE OF THE PINES

Those of us who live out in the Lake of the Pines area are so excited that the great Bald Eagle that visited here a year or two ago is back.

We are not nearly so excited about the two homeless men who have come to beg at the intersection of Highway 49 and Combie Road.

The people who live in the Lake of the Pines area have paid a premium to live out in the country. Here in the beautiful, wooded foothills of the Sierra Mountains, people tend to resent anything that makes their woodland paradise seem more urban. Two street-corner beggars are more urban-looking than anything Lake of the Pines has seen for a long time.

Cassady McMullan is one of those two men. He is 42 years old, and has been homeless for about 15 years. He was born and raised in Sacramento.

When asked how he became homeless, his answer is drugs... meth.

But Cassady claims that he has been off of meth for six years now.

He and his partner, Dave, have made a pact. They don’t do meth any more. But they do drink alcohol.

Cassady says that he can’t be around anyone who uses meth. Every time he gets around someone who uses meth, it gets him into trouble.

Cassady has never been married. He has no children.

When asked what he would do if he could do or be anything, he says that he would change his early years of doing drugs, and his time in jail.

When asked what message he would like to tell the world, he says, I don’t know. I guess just be happy.

Cassady seems like a really nice guy.

But he seems empty inside.

He seems so beaten down that he no longer even dares to dream.

He is standing on the corner of Highway 49 and Wolf Road, holding up a cardboard sign that says, Need work.

I stand there with him while we talk.

A man in a small, black pickup truck stops next to us at the traffic light. He looks over at us and sneers, shaking his head in disgust.

The level of the driver’s hostility takes me by surprise. Suddenly, I feel uneasy standing on this street corner beside Cassady. Suddenly, I wish that I was somewhere else.

But Cassady has been standing here, on this same corner, all day long.

He points to his cardboard sign and says, "These days, I only fly this sign that says, ‘Need Work.’

"I used to fly a sign that said, ‘Homeless. Anything helps.’

But I think that this sign is a bit more respectable.

As he says this, I feel his shame.

For Cassady, the shame of standing on a street corner and begging has never gone away.

Yet, here he still stands, chained to a street corner by his addiction.

Cassady is like Prometheus, chained to the rock. Tomorrow, the sneering drivers will be back again. Tomorrow, the eagles of shame will return to tear out Prometheus’s liver once again.

Chapter Two: April, 2012

DAVE DeROSA - Mustache Dave - Says he is homeless, in part, because of women. April 1, 2012

7. BEARS AND BLACK SPOTS

Dave DeRosa is one of the two homeless men who hang out near Lake of the Pines. His street name is Mustache Dave. He is 57 years old, and has been homeless for about 16 years. He grew up in San Jose.

He blames his homelessness on drugs, and, rather bitterly, on women.

He had a girlfriend, years ago, but she ended up going to jail for welfare fraud.

Then, he started going with his former girlfriend’s sister. She stayed with him for about ten years, even while he was homeless.

But in the end, she couldn’t stand being outside all of the time. She got a chance to get back indoors, through her brother, and she left Dave.

Dave doesn’t blame her for leaving him to get back inside.

But he still misses her.

He thinks about her every day.

He has one son. He hasn’t seen his son for about eight years. The last he heard, his son was stranded somewhere up in Canada, and needed $3,200 to get home. Dave couldn’t give his son any money because he still owed the Placer County Court $6,000 in court fees from being arrested.

Dave worked for about ten years as a mechanic at various muffler shops, including one in South Auburn.

But eventually, he got involved with cocaine, and free-basing, and then meth.

He pawned all of his tools to buy drugs.

Since then, he hasn’t had a regular job.

Lately, he and his buddy, Cassady McMullan, have been working for a local property owner cutting fire wood.

He and Cassady have a tent. Most nights, they sleep in that tent.

But during the recent heavy rains, they got about four inches of water coming through their tent. Everything they own got soaked.

Dave laments the loss of their radio, which got ruined by the water. No big screen TV’s in Dave’s tent.

When Dave and Cassady got rained out of their tent, they got permission to stay inside, at a friend’s house, for a few nights.

Dave is a short man. As we stand and talk, I tower over him, and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. I look for some place near the busy street corner where we might sit down, to talk for a few minutes. But there is no place to sit down.

Besides that, Dave is holding his cardboard sign, and he is working. I don’t want to keep him away from his work for too long.

I ask Dave, what is the most scarey thing about being homeless.

Dave says that the scariest thing that has happened to him is that one night, he and Cassady were camping up behind the Raley’s in Auburn, and he woke up with a bear standing right at his feet, nosing through some garbage.

Later, I talked with some other homeless people who also saw the bear that roams around behind the Auburn Raley’s. Homeless people in the Auburn area encounter bears from time to time.

One homeless man up in the Truckee area was awakened one night by a large bear that was standing over him, peeing on him.

The homeless man who told me that story laughed, and said, And what can you do, when you wake up and see a huge bear standing over you, and peeing on you? All you can do is play dead, and lay there, and just keep right on taking it.

It’s a funny story. A homeless man, being peed on by a bear, just laying there in his sleeping bag and continuing to take it.

But later, it occurs to me that the homeless man being peed on is a lot like American Middle Class Families, during the past few years.

The bear is like the oil companies, the credit card companies, the mortgage banks, the Congress, the California State Legislature, and the public employees unions.

The bear pee just keeps coming down on us, and what can we do?

We seem to be playing dead.

We lay there, on the ground, hiding in our sleeping bags, and we just keep taking it.

Not so funny, when you look at it that way.

Dave and his buddy, Cassady, have been friends for about fifteen years.

I tell Dave that I am almost jealous of the depth of the friendship that he has with Cassady. They have endured the hardships of being homeless together, and those hardships have served as bonding experiences.

Many homeless buddies I have met seem to be as deeply bonded as soldiers I have known who were bonded by shared military hardships.

Dave’s answer to my comment is, We take care of each other, out here.

One time, five or six of Dave’s homeless friends all went to jail at the same time. They had to serve about nine months for beating up a drifter who came into their camp and attempted to rape one of the women in the camp.

Dave knew that when his buddies got out of jail, they weren’t going to have anything...not even sleeping bags.

So, Dave wrote on his cardboard sign, Need Sleeping Bags.

He was able to get donations of five or six sleeping bags, and was able to provide each one of the men with a minimal set of gear when they got out of jail.

Dave also says that sometimes, he and his homeless buddies provide useful public services. He says that he and his buddies have assisted the police in capturing two or three child molesters that the police were searching for.

In one case, they recognized the molester, and Dave kept giving the man beer and kept him in the camp, while his buddy sneaked off and got the police.

When asked what he would do if he could do anything he wanted, Dave says, I like it just the way it is right now.

What message would Dave like to send to the world? He says, Stay off of drugs. And get yourself a decent woman.

Then, he laughs and says, And wear a condom.

As I shake hands with Dave to say goodbye, I notice some black spots on the back of his hand that look suspiciously like skin cancers.

But I can’t tell for sure what those spots are. I am not a doctor.

I wonder how long it’s been since Dave has seen a doctor.

For several days after meeting Dave, whenever I close my eyes, I see those black spots on the back of Dave’s hand, and I wonder what they are.

LORETTA TALBOTT, and her boyfriend, RUEBEN GARMAN April 1, 2012

8. GUILT OF GANDHI, EYES OF CHRIST

When I first spot Loretta Talbott, she is standing near the exit from the Safeway Shopping Center, holding up a cardboard sign indicating that she is homeless, and asking for help.

She is gracious and polite when I introduce myself.

Her boyfriend, Rueben, immediately from out of nowhere, to see if Loretta needs to be protected. But as soon as Rueben sees that I mean Loretta no harm, he relaxes. More about Rueben later.

Loretta is 47 years old, and has been homeless since about 2007. Most of that time, she’s been here in the Auburn area.

Prior to coming to Auburn, she had been traveling and camping in her van. But she crashed her van near the railroad tracks on Auburn Ravine Road. She has been here in the Auburn area since she crashed her van.

Before she became homeless, she worked as a waitress for about 25 years.

She was married, for a time, and has three children who are now grown up. She is able to stay in touch with two of her children, through her sister. But one of her children is missing. She has no idea where that child is, or how that child is doing.

Loretta met her current boyfriend, Rueben, just a few months ago. She looks up at him and says, I’m glad you came along when you did.

It’s obvious that she and Rueben are in love.

Love is a beautiful thing, wherever you find it.

Most of the years that Loretta has been homeless, she has been alone.

I asked her if it was frightening, being a woman and being alone and homeless.

No, she answers. Because I walk with the Lord. So, most of the time, I’m not afraid.

I ask her if she’s had a lot of cruel treatment, being alone as a homeless woman.

She answers, Oh, yes. But even before I was homeless, I had a lot of cruel treatment.

I ask her if a lot of the homeless women she has met have a history of being treated cruelly when they were young.

She says yes. In fact, most of the homeless women she has met were treated badly when they were young. Earlier that same morning, a woman told her a story about how her father used to lock her up for days at a time.

Loretta is quiet for a moment. Her face shows her concern for the women who told her that story.

She and Rueben have been sleeping in a tent.

It has been pouring down rain, on and off, for the past week.

I ask them what it’s been like, sleeping in a tent during all that rain.

She tells me that they got a little soaked, but it wasn’t too bad.

When it looked like their tent wasn’t going to hold out the water, they moved into someone else’s tent.

They didn’t get too cold, except for their feet. Once they were able to get a donation of some warm, dry socks, they felt much better.

Loretta told me that among the homeless, a pair of warm, dry socks are like gold. Putting on a pair of warm, dry socks makes you feel like a whole new person.

I remember the luxurious feeling of a pair of warm, dry socks from my army days. So, I know she’s right.

Loretta is very bright. She is perceptive, gracious, and an eloquent speaker. I can’t help wondering how someone who is so bright ended up being homeless. So, I ask her how it happened.

Well, she says, "Several years ago, I got a phone call from my sister. She told me that my brother was out in Colorado, dying of cancer. And someone needed to go out there and take care of him. So, I went to Colorado, and I took care of my sick brother for eight months.

"But after eight months, I needed a break. So, I decided to go camping for a couple of days.

"But when I got back from camping, I found my brother, dead.

"I’m the one who found his body.

After that, I went back to camping. And I’ve just kept right on camping every since.

As she tells the story about finding her brother’s body, tears begin forming in the corners of her eyes.

Her pain reminds me of the story about Gandhi, when he was caring for his dying