When I'd signed up for Food Stamps, there was the option to sign up for cash as well. General assistance I guess. I was too proud then to ask for it, but as the sliver of gel in my deodorant got just a little thinner Monday morning, I was kicking myself for that.
A bus trip costs $1, transfers are $1, and a day pass is $3. If you need a transfer to get where you're going, then the day pass is your way to go. With just $5 in my pocket I could afford a trip to the transfer station downtown and a lot of walking after that.
My first stop was the local welfare office. I signed in electronically. A few minutes later, my name was called and the lady at the information desk left me with the distinct impression that she'd actually read my file. She acknowledged that I'd successfully filed online and that I'd wait until I was called.
A few minutes later that was what happened. At window number six, another nice woman honestly complimented my jacket and asked me a lot of the same questions that my Case Worker had. She asked how I'd ended up here and I began my story, edging ever closer to tears. I'd traveled to the city, it hadn't worked out, I had no other options, the mountain was here and--
--repeating a pattern equal parts funny and sad, she politely said she understood before I could finish the details of my intention to commit suicide.
We did a few other things and she explained I'd get a food card and I could pick it up at window one when they called for me. I thanked her and left.
Showing posts with label The Mountain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Mountain. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Robo Hobo Homo #014
I've been doing dishes after dinner since my second day here. Everyone staying at Purgatory Shelter signs up for a chore on Monday or Sunday, then they do that chore from Tuesday until the following Monday.
On Thursday night, the guy who signed up for washing the dishes after dinner on Monday wasn't able to do it anymore. I guess with a lot of guys coming and going, those things are bound to happen. I volunteered to help a guy named Nick out with them. He showed me the ropes and we did a bang-up job of it.
So the next day someone asked me to take over full-time on the dishes and I accepted. It's basically like a restaurant; scouring, washing, soaking, rinsing, drying, then putting up dishes for a full dining floor (plus pots, pans, serving trays, etc).
It takes its toll on my hands and my back, but the hardest part is keeping the kitchen secure. Germs can spread easily from the kitchen, so it's important to keep it clear of any unnecessary people who come in.
Folks still stroll in though. Most of them have a good reason. They keep a hot water pot, the garbage bags, and late meals back there. People need access to those things for the sake of keeping the shelter going and it makes sense for someone to jump in, get them, and jump back out again instead of not having them.
Other times, people just want to eat things that they aren't supposed to be eating. I even had the guy in charge of coordinating the kitchen come in just to play some music. If the people who are in charge of enforcing the rules aren't doing it, who will? As the guy doing chores in there, I'm the only one who has a right to be there, but then this isn't an environment where I can simply push back on principle. I mean, I could, but then I'd be climbing the mountain the next day.
I'm learning though and we'll see how well I can secure the perimeter tonight.
On Thursday night, the guy who signed up for washing the dishes after dinner on Monday wasn't able to do it anymore. I guess with a lot of guys coming and going, those things are bound to happen. I volunteered to help a guy named Nick out with them. He showed me the ropes and we did a bang-up job of it.
So the next day someone asked me to take over full-time on the dishes and I accepted. It's basically like a restaurant; scouring, washing, soaking, rinsing, drying, then putting up dishes for a full dining floor (plus pots, pans, serving trays, etc).
It takes its toll on my hands and my back, but the hardest part is keeping the kitchen secure. Germs can spread easily from the kitchen, so it's important to keep it clear of any unnecessary people who come in.
Folks still stroll in though. Most of them have a good reason. They keep a hot water pot, the garbage bags, and late meals back there. People need access to those things for the sake of keeping the shelter going and it makes sense for someone to jump in, get them, and jump back out again instead of not having them.
Other times, people just want to eat things that they aren't supposed to be eating. I even had the guy in charge of coordinating the kitchen come in just to play some music. If the people who are in charge of enforcing the rules aren't doing it, who will? As the guy doing chores in there, I'm the only one who has a right to be there, but then this isn't an environment where I can simply push back on principle. I mean, I could, but then I'd be climbing the mountain the next day.
I'm learning though and we'll see how well I can secure the perimeter tonight.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Robo Hobo Homo #002
I was told the night I came in that I'd be getting an interview with a case manager and that because of my background in the Navy, it'd probably be a female named Bay. Neither of those things were true.
In fact, nothing went to plan. Nothing ever does. I thought that maybe the spark of human kindness that had given me hope to stay in this place would be carried over.
Mais, non.
It was another place where well-intentioned people with limited resources just shuffled cases onto and off of their desk with a well-honed, reflexive set of words and projected emotions. Round stones sorted and shipped, square stones rejected as difficult.
I could see the problem. Some of the guys there were trying to start over after kicking an addiction. Some of them had mental illnesses. Others just didn't want to work ever again. I haven't asked many guys about their stories. I'm not usually one to pry.
My story is that I'm a shithead. I tried to do things my way, hard and for a long time. I pushed away people who could help me because I wanted to do things on my own or die trying. Now, my closest friends are these guys. Like every other person I've ever met, they're generally kind, but quick to take offense and vigilant about giving up what they have.
These guys, this place, and a few government programs are all I have to try to have my own life.
In fact, nothing went to plan. Nothing ever does. I thought that maybe the spark of human kindness that had given me hope to stay in this place would be carried over.
Mais, non.
It was another place where well-intentioned people with limited resources just shuffled cases onto and off of their desk with a well-honed, reflexive set of words and projected emotions. Round stones sorted and shipped, square stones rejected as difficult.
I could see the problem. Some of the guys there were trying to start over after kicking an addiction. Some of them had mental illnesses. Others just didn't want to work ever again. I haven't asked many guys about their stories. I'm not usually one to pry.
My story is that I'm a shithead. I tried to do things my way, hard and for a long time. I pushed away people who could help me because I wanted to do things on my own or die trying. Now, my closest friends are these guys. Like every other person I've ever met, they're generally kind, but quick to take offense and vigilant about giving up what they have.
These guys, this place, and a few government programs are all I have to try to have my own life.
Robo Hobo Homo #001
I came to Purgatory Shelter[1] on the 14th of May, 2014. I only meant to stay here for one night. According to the plan, I'd ascend the mountain the next morning and keep doing that for the rest of my life.
It takes a long time to check into a shelter. Especially if, like me, you hadn't ever done so before. I'd saved enough personal information and had an uneventful enough legal history that I could still check in. Small favors.
While I waited, I read things. It's what I do. I'm not very good with people; I like getting my information from reading things. It happens at my own pace and I don't have to craft a measured emotional response that satisfies the person I'm talking to that I am both understanding and grateful of what they've just told me.
There was a lot of stuff there. Most of it was put up years ago and the source and specifics had undoubtedly changed since then. It was ill-kept, but the overall message was clear: there were other possibilities. I suppose there are always...possibilities.
I got a rack and some linens and got a quick rundown on how things ran. There were chores, meals, shower times, rack times, rules, all things that were familiar to me. The Navy seems like the only sanely run place I've ever lived. Every other place I've been seems to have been a contest between a buyer wanting to pay as little as possible and a seller wanting to charge as much as possible. All of that exists in a pointless social mire.
Well, I say “pointless,” but that's something this whole journey has taught me and it's a subject for another day.
At Purgatory Shelter, I was greeted with a kind of humanity I just hadn't seen from temp agencies, potential employers, or professional contacts. I wasn't just a resource to be turned over, evaluated, and rejected at this modest homeless shelter on a coast I'd never seen before, I felt like a person surrounded by people for the first time in years.
It takes a long time to check into a shelter. Especially if, like me, you hadn't ever done so before. I'd saved enough personal information and had an uneventful enough legal history that I could still check in. Small favors.
While I waited, I read things. It's what I do. I'm not very good with people; I like getting my information from reading things. It happens at my own pace and I don't have to craft a measured emotional response that satisfies the person I'm talking to that I am both understanding and grateful of what they've just told me.
There was a lot of stuff there. Most of it was put up years ago and the source and specifics had undoubtedly changed since then. It was ill-kept, but the overall message was clear: there were other possibilities. I suppose there are always...possibilities.
I got a rack and some linens and got a quick rundown on how things ran. There were chores, meals, shower times, rack times, rules, all things that were familiar to me. The Navy seems like the only sanely run place I've ever lived. Every other place I've been seems to have been a contest between a buyer wanting to pay as little as possible and a seller wanting to charge as much as possible. All of that exists in a pointless social mire.
Well, I say “pointless,” but that's something this whole journey has taught me and it's a subject for another day.
At Purgatory Shelter, I was greeted with a kind of humanity I just hadn't seen from temp agencies, potential employers, or professional contacts. I wasn't just a resource to be turned over, evaluated, and rejected at this modest homeless shelter on a coast I'd never seen before, I felt like a person surrounded by people for the first time in years.
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