W Is for Wasted

I shifted to Plan B. At Milagro, I turned right and drove to the homeless shelter. Harbor House was situated in the middle of the block. The lot is narrow, the building itself set back from the street. There were eight parking spaces in front, all of them in use. A metal accordion gate had been pulled across the front door and secured with a padlock. A hand-lettered sign pasted on a side window said NA SUPPORT GROUP MEETS MONDAY AT 2:00 .
    While Narcotics Anonymous might not meet on weekends, surely the shelter itself was open. I backed up six steps and peered in both directions. To the right of the building, a heavy-duty fence prevented passage. To the left, a double-wide drive ran between Harbor House and the service station next door. I followed the asphalt path. Tucked between the building and the drive, a stucco arch opened onto a courtyard where a small group of men and women had gathered to smoke. Landscaping was an afterthought: two palms, a few shrubs, and random patches of grass. Sand-filled coffee cans did double duty as receptacles for cigarette butts and freshly hawked-up goobers. Though I felt out of place, what worked to my advantage was that in turtleneck, jeans, and scuffed boots I looked like everyone else.
    A metal folding chair was planted in the archway, but no one manned the entrance and no one took notice as I crossed the patio to a door that stood open to the air. I went in, wondering if I’d be asked about my reasons for being on the premises. Being rule governed, I operate in a world filled with imaginary restraints. I’m happiest when signs are posted— NO SPITTING, NO PUBLIC URINATION, NO WALKING ON THE GRASS . I might not obey but at least I knew where I stood.
    For the record, I should say this: I don’t romanticize the plight of the homeless or project sentiment where none is required. My take on the indigent is that some are there because of temporary setbacks, some by default, and some for lack of an alternative. Some are needy, some are off their meds, some have opted out, some have been ousted from facilities where they might be better served. Many are there for life and not always by personal choice. Alcoholic, addicted, aimless, illiterate, unmotivated, unskilled, or otherwise unable to prosper, they sink to the bottom, and if they’re down for any length of time, they lose the capacity to climb back out of the hole into which they’ve fallen. If there’s a remedy, I don’t know what it is. From what I’ve seen of the problem, most solutions perpetuate the status quo.
    The room I entered was large, furnished with an assortment of couches and chairs, many occupied. The foot traffic in and out was constant. A handsome gentleman in his midsixties was perched on a rolling chair behind the counter to my right. There was a woman ahead of me in this two-person line and I waited my turn. She removed a laminated card from her jeans pocket. By shifting slightly, I saw that it bore her name, an ID number, and a photo likeness.
    She pushed the card across the counter. “Hi, Ken. Could you check to see if I have mail?”
    She leaned on the counter and peered over the edge. On the desktop below there was a ceramic mug full of toothbrushes, still sealed in cellophane packaging. “Can I have one of those?”
    By way of reply, he held up the mug and watched as she selected a red toothbrush and put it in her fanny pack. He said, “I heard you were sick. Feeling better?”
    She made a face. “I was in the hospital two days. I passed a kidney stone—little bitty thing about the size of a grain of sand—and I’m puking my guts out and shrieking like a banshee. The ER doc thinks I’m faking to score a few Vicodin and that pissed me off. I raised a stink until the other doc signed an order to have me admitted. I finally got a shot of Demerol, no thanks to the asshole who turned me down.”
    “But you’re okay now?”
    “I’d feel better if my check came in. I got two bucks left to my name.”
    He took her ID card and turned away, using his feet to scoot himself from the counter to a metal file cabinet behind him. He put the ID on top and began a finger stroll through the files. After a moment he said, “Nope. Not today.”
    “Can you go through the bin? Might be a big manila envelope with some other paperwork. They said it went out Tuesday, so it should be here.”
    He leaned down to a large white plastic United States Postal Service bin, where oversize and bulky packages were