|
Food and water under the bridge
I fed some homeless people tonight. This is going to take a while to explain so hang with me. Some of the homeless camps under bridges in Cincinnati have become elaborate, with tents, furniture, radios and even pets. Cincinnati mayor Charlie Luken says they've become eyesores and wants them cleaned up. "NO TRESPASSING" signs went up yesterday and police warned residents of their makeshift homesteads that if they didn't move by Friday, police would remove them. Here is the story from the station's web site. I put up the link because a man named Robert Anderson stumbles across it and calls the station. The picture of the homeless man Steve Anderson stuns him, he says. "That's my brother," Robert tells me. "I haven't seen him in 15 years." He called the station to find out where Steve was. He lives in Hamilton, Ohio, about 40 minutes north of Cincinnati. Last he'd heard Steve was in California. Married to a lawyer out there, he was, Robert says. And Steve was no dummy himself. "Most people I know would kill for his intelligence." Mental scars from service in Vietnam still haunt his brother, he says. "I know he has had issues with being vagrant." But he had no idea he lives less than hour away. Steve also lives less than a mile away from the station. Robert says that he plans to tell the rest of the family -- eleven brothers and sisters -- and then go meet Steve tomorrow to see if he can help. "Our family is pretty well off. He doesn't have to live like that." Steve does not dispute that. "Anybody (who) wants to get off the f---ing street, unless they're totally f---ing psychotic, can get off the street," he says. Photographer Jon Atkinson and I had gone to his encampment under a bridge along Third Street. Cantankerous, foul mouthed and drunk, Steve allows that he has family in the area, though he only remembers having nine siblings. "Turn that thing off!" he yells at Jon before asking me for "Bobby's" phone number. "I'm kind of the black sheep of the family. Of course, I don't have to say that, do I?" Steve is one of six people who call the underside of this overpass home. They have collected things like large wooden cable spools that serve as tables. They have chairs, blankets and cushions. They have two pet kittens. One of them even has a cell phone. With help from the Coalition for the Homeless, they have collected white posterboard, magic markers, paint and plywood to make signs. They're going to protest the city's decision to roust them from their refuge. "I don't feel like I'm an eyesore down here," says Don Henry, spokesman for the group by virtue of the fact he's the only one willing to talk on camera. He supervises as girlfriend Judy draws letters on a posterboard spelling, "DON'T HIDE THE HOMELSS, HELP THEM" She remembers the other "e" in homeless in future copies of the poster. He says the city is wasting its time. "I'm not bothering nobody," he says. "There's a lot of people aren't bothering nobody. Go back up to Washington Park and start bustin' the drug dealers and leave me alone." Steve adds nothing to the effort. "I'm not part of that sh--," he swears but he later tells us that we should be there Friday when he refuses to leave because it's going to be quite a show. "No one can tell me where to go," he says. He shows us the tomato plant he's growing, playfully posing with his arms oustretched beside it. "Homeless guy with a tomato plant," he says. "Did you grow that yourself?" I ask. "Of course. You think it just fell from the sky?" The wit has survived though he has marinated his brain in alcohol for who knows how long. Alcoholism and homelessness go together like baseball and steroids. Though it's a shame that the man could have done so much more with his life than he has, he seems to be doing what he wants with it. How many of us can say that? As he so colorfully says, anyone who wants to can get off the street. "Get a f---ing job!" he says. That includes him, he knows, but he doesn't want to stop drinking, he doesn't want to get a job and if that means sleeping under bridges his freedom is worth the price he pays for it. We wrap up and get ready to leave but Steve's not quite finished. "If you come back," he says, "bring food." He's never going to see us again, he figures, so he's probably expecting us to nod our heads and retreat to the news van when Jon trips him up. "What do you like?" Jon asks him. He's not ready for that. "You put me on the spot," he says before thinking a moment and deciding. "Bologna and cheese," he says. "And I like picklebread." Jon and I get in the van with the same crazy idea. How much would it cost to buy a couple loaves of bread and some lunchmeat? We drive the half-mile or so back to the station where I'm going to screen the tapes while Jon goes on his dinner break. "I'm going to go to Kroger and buy some stuff. You want to contribute?" he asks me. I pull a five out of my wallet and hand it to him. Steve doesn't know what to make of us an hour later when we drive up, get out and hand him grocery bags filled with bread, bologna, peanut butter, pototo chips and a 3-gallon jug of water along with a warning to eat the bologna before it gets too warm. "Don't ask me why we did this," I tell him, "because I don't know why." That's true. He and the others don't care why. "Thank you," they tell us.
 E-mail John
|
