Robo Hobo Homo #102

I got the mail, which included the phone I ordered on eBay. I really liked the lobby shift. It was basically barge work plus standing a watch. I managed to take some phone calls, remind guys when they had mail and laundry, and otherwise just do stuff for two hours straight. I really liked it.

I also finally got around to doing my laundry. I had forgotten on Thursday do it, and in all of the confusion had to put it off Friday and I finally got a heap o' stuff washed. Bono called in and he said he was going to be working late with his disabled brother and wanted me to pass that on to Yesbert, who—as I'd suspected—told me that a phone call about that shit wasn't enough.

A lot of folks here are recovering from drug problems so it's important that they not be able to vanish for a night and simply come back in the morning. Purgatory House doesn't want to help folks that are just going to crash here between getting high, so suddenly going on an unauthorized absence with no notice is a red flag.

I rebuilt the personnel list and discovered that I didn't have a card on file. You know what they say, the misfile you find may be your own. I kind of miss me being on lobby because everyone since then has misspelled my name.

Lunch rolled around, and I guess Dennis is adamant that folks on lobby can't duck out to get food. I'd like to stay on his good side, so I was resigned to not having any, but Wheelchair Guy offered to get me some. Heart of gold, that guy.

Between being on watch and having to shake people down for watches, I've been learning a lot of people's names.

Robo Hobo Homo #095

There was still the matter of chores. Washing dishes from five to seven pm is a big chunk of time, but it was—and still is—the best chore I could have for the schedule I have. Dinner that night was spaghetti.

If you don't do dishes often, let me tell you about tomato-based sauces; they fuck up your dish-doing. They form a film on the top of the water that coats everything you put into the sink. They leave an invisible residue on dishes. They sink into wood. Spaghetti is a pain in the ass.

We do have a restaurant setup here. As a shelter, the kitchen has to operate to code. We've got a rinsing station. We've got a sink for washing, a sink with a bleach soak, and a rinsing sink. It's the whole nine yards. Tosh recently got us pH strips so we can log the effectiveness of the chlorine solution in the bleach soak. It helps a bit.

I didn't get any spaghetti that night, but I did have to wash a lot of it.

Robo Hobo Homo #094

Another guy, let's call him Jesus, offered me a lot of button up shirts that didn't fit him. I was taken aback by it because I had him pegged as a bravo.

Y'know, I spend a lot of time classifying people in one way or another. I like having a reference point for these things, but it does occasionally lead me to forget that most people are generally good.

There's another guy, Aubert. He wears frosted sunglasses inside, big, colorful shorts that are too big for him, and a sleeveless undershirt as a regular shirt. He dresses gangsta, is what I'm saying.

Aubert doesn't acknowledge people in the halls. He doesn't follow the rules. But he does realize why the rules exist and acts within those parameters. A lot of the guys here roll their own tobacco. When they do it inside, they usually create a tobacco-y mess. So the caseworkers made a rule that it wasn't allowed. Aubert still does it. He picks up after himself though. He breaks the rules and he projects a certain image, but he's still a good guy who responsibly acts as a member of the shelter.

Again, once—perhaps especially—you get past the labels, most people are good.

Robo Hobo Homo #091

After my sandwich break, I needed to get to the business of interacting with a lot of people. I needed engage with people and ask them the favor of swapping watches with me at the last minute. It was awful, but I did my best at it.

It wasn't very effective. I finally had to get with Mike, the guy who handles the lobby watches, to take care of my shift that night and I knew I'd still be spending most of the next day taking care of my Sunday shifts.

The next issue was getting an overnight pass from a caseworker. They're pretty strict about curfew. I guess they don't want guys skulking around at night and doing drugs. Daryl was out for the weekend. The thing is that there aren't any caseworkers here on weekends, so you can't get an overnight pass on a weekend. Plus it was Memorial Day Weekend, so it'd be Tuesday before anyone came back. Down here, you gotta be nimble to take advantage of opportunities that come up and holidays are not nimble.

Fortunately, Brandi was there late. Is three pm late? Whatever the case, she wasn't sure on the overnight working paperwork, but Yesbert, the house coordinator, was familiar with it and helped us through it.

I also made some handwritten copies of my schedule to distribute to Dennis, the chore coordinator, and my case worker. It didn't occur to me that that half of that schedule would have passed by the time Dennis saw it, but I was lucky to get anything done.

It sounds really easy, but there was a lot of running around and anxiety about it. Everyone I've mentioned and at least that many people who are unnamed were performing their own duties, trying to get away for the weekend, or trying to get work of their own.

Worth it though.

Robo Hobo Homo #075

For the record, someone pays for this place. They let me keep my stuff here, including my bloody carcass. I don't have a rack; I'm allowed to sleep on someone else's bed. I don't have a locker; it's permitted that I put my clothes in their locker. I'm a guest in their house and chores are a way of me keeping their house in good order while they're not here. 

Daryl and the other case workers, as much flak as a I give Daryl, are in charge of managing this place that we are allowed to stay. None of us are honored guests; they're trying to keep us from wrecking this place until more people can come through here. None of that is predicated on the assumption that case workers craft perfect law.

Robo Hobo Homo #074 Troy's Bong

So one of the guys here, Troy, has a hookah. You might remember him from the racist incident. He was carrying it around. Someone called it a bong because that's what a hookah looks like when you're carrying it around a homeless shelter full of guys who are recovering from drug abuse.

Troy stopped by and corrected everyoneso that they definitely knew this thing he had was a hookah and not a bong. I just happened to be around.

So during our meeting on Thursday, Daryl covers a few basic areas; don't pee in the bushes outside, we still haven't gotten a maintenance guy to look at the hot water knob for the kitchen, only smoke in front of the building between ten at night and four in the morning. Any questions?

Robo Hobo Homo #071

Have I mentioned we're shorthanded? Some guys left. I think one of them got kicked out. Another one I think got his own place. Pally's getting his own place so he's moving out soon. One of my other roommates never quit doing drugs and was just staying here. He claimed the drugs helped him write and that for the first time since his girlfriend died, he was writing again. He also said the drugs were a way of him killing himself, but then he just left today because he figured he'd gone long enough without them.

At this point I'd like to note that if I talked to people, I'd know just what kind of drugs he was talking about. Man, even when white people are homeless and surrounded by people who know from drugs, we still don't talk about this stuff openly.

So there were some extra lobby positions. I initially volunteered for the 0200 to 0400 spots, since they were nice and quiet but I forgot that things run later on weekends. Plus I picked up a 2200-0000 watch because of dudes that left and that one is, I think, the worst.

I've got to make sure folks are in their racks. I've got to write up people who arrive after curfew. I've got to sign up people to get kicked out if they come in too late after curfew.

I do not want to be in this spot and I predict nothing but disaster.

Robo Hobo Homo #067

I also had my weekly interview with Daryl today. Since we're both going to be indisposed tomorrow, we opted to do it today.

Even though I'd already looked up the things he wanted me to look into, it was a struggle to get that across to him. I told him I'd looked up the information on how to order my birth certificate, the cost, and the ways I could pay. Then he rolls right into a bit about how I can order my birth certificate. No lie. That's exactly what happened.

Nothing says, "I'm a professional, I care, and I'm here to help" like a halting speech telling me how to look up the thing that I already did that I just told you about.

In all honesty, I was almost proud of him when I mentioned in passing that I was going to the Mental Health Office and he asked why and just as I was putting the words together he excused himself to take care of another issue with another guy. When he got back, he changed the subject entirely. It was epic.

He told me to spend my first paycheck on getting all of that paperwork in order (Social Security card, birth certificate, and new driver's license). I get the feeling he spends a lot of people's first paychecks checking off boxes on his own paperwork.

Robo Hobo Homo #068

As Daryl often does though, he did give me a sliver of actual help. Well, mostly help for his quest to get all of my paperwork. I like paperwork and I think it is a good idea for me to have a lot of it. I get that. Being poor, needing social services, and having copacetic documentation all go hand-in-hand.

He knew a guy at the local helping people find employment office who might be able to get me a fresh copy of my DD214. That's the second reason I'll be stopping by there after the bus pass thing.

In the end though, he said I was doing a good job of doing the things he wanted me to do so, bravo zulu I guess?

Robo Hobo Homo #062

While I was at the library on Wednesday, the problems with my computer were getting worse. It was freezing up and I had to reboot it every ten minutes. After I hiked back to Purgatory Shelter, the window was even smaller. I couldn't even access the files I'd saved from the library earlier (RHH #045) for my Elance project.

I tried again in the morning with no luck. It was still freezing and crashing. It seemed to use other files okay--not great--but the data dump was impenetrable. Over the course of about three restarts, I got it to move the dump to my jump drive.

I checked the dump on the jump and my computer locked up again. I wasn't sure what was up. I couldn't even access the folder they were in. Dejected, I gave up and waited for staff to come in so I could use the shelter computers.

When I did, I could access the data dump, putting my mind at ease. I only got an hour of work out of the system before Kay, the only case worker on site, had to leave. I left my things with the computer, thinking that she'd only be gone for a moment. The lobby guy let me know that she was going to be gone until one or so and no other staff would be in until noon.

When I did get back in it was only briefly because Dennis had to do an incoming meeting with another guy in that room. The computer room doubles as the conference room. I was out again and it became pretty clear at that point I just didn't have the resources to tackle the job ahead of me.

Whenever I got access again later that night, I had to let the client know I wouldn't be able to complete the work. Given my euphoric high of the previous day over the news, I might have expected a really big fall from that, but no, it was more of a feeling of resignation.

Another avenue of escape was shutting itself down.

Robo Hobo Homo #056

It’s unsettling how quickly you get used to things. There aren’t any paper towels here. Strange, right?

There is a roll in the kitchen. There is (usually) a roll in the bathroom. There’s also some toilet paper, but my best investment ever (a $2 package of 84 moist tissue wipes) is seeing me through most of that.

It’s not there for when you wash your hands. It’s not there when you eat a bagel at 1400 in the afternoon. It’s not there when there’s a little smudge on the table and you need to wet a napkin to get it off. It’s not there when you eat corn on the cob and everything is sticky and buttery.

I never thought of a life without paper towels. It’s not bad; it’s just different.

It’s one of those things you get used to quickly.

Robo Hobo Homo #050, The 'Stache Saga, Part II

I went to get Tosh, the guy who runs the kitchen, and there’s another misadventure there, but when I got back, I let ‘Stache know that we didn’t have his meal and that Tosh would be up to get something for him. ‘Stache was angry and asked point blank if there was no meal and I told him no. There wasn’t. That it had been put aside, but someone else had eaten it. He’d signed up just like he was supposed to, but we fucked up.

I should have let Tosh know that ‘Stache didn’t want a consolation prize, but I didn’t think about that. I was just angry that I’d kept such poor control of my watchstation and that now a person was suffering for it.
 
Sure 'Stache was making himself a salad and he was being kind of a jerk about things, but he was right: if he signed up for the meal then he should have gotten it. I was the only person in charge of the kitchen after he cook left and it was my fault he didn’t get his meal.

Whenever Tosh arrived, instead of backing down when ‘Stache vented at him, he bowed up. The two yelled, ‘Stache yelled a little angrier, and eventually things got quiet. I had returned to doing the dishes.

Later, Tosh came in, asking if ‘Stache had yelled at me. He explained that he’d written up ‘Stache for their altercation and wanted to put the screws to him. I evaded, simply saying that I considered ‘Sache’s actions towards me to be reasonable given the context.

A guy shouldn’t get written up twice because we couldn’t make good on our commitment to him.

Robo Hobo Homo #049, The 'Stache Saga, Part I

So I might have mentioned that I do dishes after dinner. It usually takes me about two hours. I need to cut it down to something reasonable like an hour and a half, but it’s a work in progress.

There are a lot of guys in the kitchen at night. Sometimes the breakfast cook comes in to make something. Sometimes cleanup crews come in. Sometimes the guy that runs the kitchen comes in and…I think I’ve griped about this before now that I come to think of it.

One of the things the night cook does is check the sign-up sheet on the door to see who needs a late dinner. The goal is that everyone gets a job so they can move out, right? Well, the shelter still provides dinner even if you’re working during dinner. It’s pretty sweet.

Well at night I’m sometimes the only person in the kitchen with the evening meals. Now, I don’t have any specific authority over it, but I’m the only person ‘on the clock’ while folks are getting their meals. I’ll usually notice when someone saunters in to get a meal, but I generally do my job and assume everything goes to plan.

Until Tuesday night, whenever a guy, ‘Stache, didn’t get his meal. He came in an asked about it, but I didn't see it on the table for late dinners. I felt pretty bad and checked around the kitchen for it, but if it wasn’t on the table, then someone ate it.

Robo Hobo Homo #041

One of the actions brought up by Daryl during the House Meeting was the subject of boxes. Apparently, we have a recycling dumpster that's nothing but cardboard boxes. It didn't get picked up last week because the last two dozen or so boxes weren't broken down properly.

I had gotten a lot done Monday. As I finished washing the dishes I took out the kitchen garbage. Someone had cleaned out the fridge and there were three moldy plates of food in there. The garbage wasn't that full, but I figured it was for the best just to take it out anyway.

As I left the back door, making sure it was propped open so I could get back inside, I saw the recycling bin overflowing with cardboard boxes.

After I put a new bag in the kitchen, the only thing I had to do for the next thirty minutes was to break down boxes. I got my boxcutter out of my backpack and walked outside.

One of my first jobs was as a stock guy at Radio Shack. A lot of it included breaking down and reshaping boxes in the alleyway behind the store. I really liked doing that and it was cathartic getting to do it again. Some of the boxes were tougher, but nothing I couldn't handle.

It was about twenty minutes of work, but after I was done the dumpster was at about 60% whenever it had been an abundant 120% when I'd come out. It was good to have a job done and to see the difference it made.

Despite all of my other setbacks and halted steps forward of the day, it made everything seem okay for a bit.

Robo Hobo Homo #040

The lobby is also the guy who signs people in. He gives folks their first orientation, checks their names against those of known sex offenders, asks them about weapons, sets up their bedding, issues linens. It's important stuff.

Granted, you're not quite an authority. Everyone here is pretty much on the same level. One of the guys working desk, I'll call him Mark Trail for reasons you'd agree with if you ever saw him in person, asked another guy, Troy, to leave the desk area. Now, I only picked up this conversation after they started yelling at each other, so I don't know how it started.

None the less, Troy didn't appreciate being asked to leave and Mark didn't appreciate him not leaving when asked so they argued about it and eventually Troy accused Mark of being a racist which marked the point where you knew there wasn't going to be an amicable solution.

I was within earshot, but in another area at the time and it was the first argument I've heard since coming here. As I continued working on my executive sales position application, I heard them continuing to snipe at each other over the course of the next few hours.

So I'm not worried about standing desk because at least there's a bottom on this thing.

Robo Hobo Homo #038

After the house meeting, I had to learn how to run the desk in the lobby. It was the standard fare; a demonstration of rules in writing followed up immediately with how 40% of that gets ignored. And I, a robot, get to figure out which 40% that is with no social intuition whatsoever.

For example, you're not supposed to be sleeping during the day unless you have permission. This guy on my left is sleeping in a chair in the dining area. Folks aren't waking him up, but then I don't know if a staffer, like Daryl, were to come by, if they would wake him up and give him a warning, give him an infraction straight up (one of the five needed to kick you out), or simply ignore him. I just don't know because it's all arbitrary to my robot senses.

Anyway, lobby training was pretty iffy, but all my shifts are from 0200 to 0400 on weekends, so I'm not too worried.

Maybe I'll do some ride-alongs in the evening as my schedule permits though.

Robo Hobo Homo #035

The last two things my case worker brought up were actually about finding work. 

Do I have a resume and a social security card? No. I lost my resumes with my good backpack at a gay bar in the city the night before I arrived. I didn't tell him that; I'm not an alcoholic and the how isn't as important as the now.

I'd already told him what happened to my social security card, but he'd forgotten. I told him that I'd destroyed it and he made the exact same face as when I'd told him the first time. He still never asked why, but instead told me to get another one. I'll be doing that Wednesday.

I'm not sure about the copy of my resume. I'll talk about that more later.

Finally, he told me a thing that would help me work to get money from a third party! There's a company that hires folks to work in their lodges during the tourist season and moves them around to different locations year round. If I was willing to travel it was an option.

I said yes.

So he set me up with a computer and I went to their website. Of course their only opening was a fantastic executive sales position so of course I applied to it.

I also took the opportunity to reapply to SafeLink. My application on Saturday had ended on a vague error message asking me to call them. I'd called that afternoon while waiting for Daryl's schedule to clear (no matter what else I say about the guy, he keeps busy) and they didn't have any record of my application.

Starting from scratch, I applied again, this time getting stuck when they asked for me to upload a picture of my Food Stamps card. Now my laptop doesn't have photo capturing software and I don't have a phone to take pictures with, so in order to get a phone to make calls, receive calls, and take pictures, I need to ask someone to take a picture of my Food Stamps card and sent it to SafeLink. It rubs me in exactly 359° of wrong directions, but it's doable.

Eventually, it was time for dinner and I had to take off.

Robo Hobo Homo #034

When I wrapped up at the thrift store, Vivian said I'd done a pretty good job and she'd be happy to have me back. That was pretty nice.

I took a different route home. Usually, 8th St connects the east side of the town to the west side. It's a bit of a hike; seven blocks up and about twenty over. There's also an industrial road which runs along the shoreline before it cuts down into the neighborhoods around L St. I decided to see if that was any quicker than 8th.

It wasn't much quicker, clocking in at about seventy-five minutes instead of the ninety it usually takes. However, I did pass by a lot of industrial buildings and I got some names and numbers to plug in for phone calls Tuesday.
   
When I got back, I needed to meet with Daryl, my staffer. On Friday, he'd given me a “Goals Sheet” and requested I get it back to him Monday. Friday afternoon had been slow, so I gave it a pass and when I found him hanging around the building, asked him if what I had down was the kind of thing he was looking for. He didn't bother looking at it and without an encyclopedic knowledge of the masturbatory, make-a-difference movies social workers watch, I'm not sure where the line “It's not about what I want; it's about what you want,” came from.

I want to know so I can put a name to this hate.

He didn't have much to say about it Monday. “I want a job, and that's fundamental to the following plans,” was self-evident. There were also some things about doing my jobs around Purgatory Shelter and doing researching into housing.

The next topic was getting my California driver's license swapped over to Washington State. According to him, it would only cost “$35 or something.” You know I mentioned that I sometimes don't fight the social current hard enough? This was definitely one of those times. My driver's license is from Louisiana and I'd need to multiply my cash-on-hand about nine times over to have thirty-five dollars, much less be able to spare it.

But of course, I'll be going to the DMV Wednesday to look into it. It is a good idea. Having a local driver's license can be an asset and it doesn't look like there's much to it besides a fee that I pay (and taking a picture and I certainly don't feel like taking pictures right now).

At least it's something I can aim for in the future.

Robo Hobo Homo #020

Earlier I mentioned shutting off my phone service. I waited until the last minute because I knew it was essential to finding a job. It wasn't until I'd exhausted all hope that I shut it down and even then it was like tearing off an arm.

I was so incredibly right. Now that I don't have one, I have so many obstacles to overcome. I don't ever know what time it is. That means I'm never quite sure if I've missed a bus or not. Also, if I miss a bus, I can't call Purgatory Shelter and let them know I'm coming. So I have to plan to catch the 4:20 bus instead of the 4:40 bus if I want to eat or not miss curfew.

When employers are interested in calling me back, what number do I give them? Purgatory Shelter. That doesn't put a smiley face in the “Hire” column guys.  When they do call, you have to remember that Purgatory Shelter maintains strict confidentiality, so I have to leave a note with the guy in the lobby to answer any questions that people ask when they call.

No, that's too broad. Just answer the questions that the companies I've put in applications with have. Well, them and the hiring agencies. Well, maybe I should just say “anyone” then and waive confidentiality goodbye. Assuming, of course, that whoever is on duty reads my note, remembers it, and recognizes the name as my name when someone calls.

Fingers crossed!

Robo Hobo Homo #019, Gas Exchange

I can't emphasize enough how lucky I was to pick Purgatory Shelter. Sure, I had my pick of the litter, but I selected it--

1

--based on its proximity to the park and because it had a website. That's it!

This place has individual shower stalls. I only got soap, but they do issue hygiene gear. They were out when I arrived, but they issue bus passes. I have a free place to stay and limited internet access to find a job. There are standards of behavior that my fellow homeless people are held to so there's no shouting or fighting and everyone takes showers and stays focused on finding work.

It's a really great--

2

--place.

But there is a downside. It's full of a bunch of dudes. Now that doesn't mean it's inevitable. I hung out with plenty of guys on barges offshore and this kind of thing doesn't happen. Homelessness is definitely a factor here. Bravos. Animals. Silence. Mumblrs.  I've seen all of 'em doing it.

It's like...oh yeah, the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles. I just doesn't fucking stop unless you leave the--

3

--building. Each of those numbers is someone burping or farting since I started writing this. I type seventy-five words a minute. Luckily, I'm in the dining area, which like holy ground where farts are concerned, but that last one was a loud, open-mouthed burp in the kitchen. I was Mike-Mark. One of the bravos.

The night I got here, there was a guy, “T,” and he did nothing but fart peanut butter farts all night. Seriously, one of them woke up everyone in the room in the middle of the night. It was fucking heinous.

My roommate has SSI, an iPad, and no compulsions to get out of bed for anything short of cupcakes or a full-on stop at the restroom. It's a problem.

Look, we've all got gas. I get it. Occasionally, one will slip out. All I really ask for is a covered mouth--

4

--that was a fart. I'm not making it up. It was a quacker.

So all I'm really asking for is a covered mouth. Maybe an “excuse me.”

Or hey, if it's not too much to ask, a job where I don't have to live with twenty guys all at once.