Doing it hard

My wife wants to give the City Mission $1,000 towards food and bedding for people on the street. She’s on the phone.

My first response ‘A Thousand Bucks ! That’s heaps … jeepers, it could come out of the tax account, but a thousand bucks ?? !!’

I did the maths on how long that’d take to make up in work hours.  

Then I thought back a few years, when I was working for a few weeks in the States. We stayed in a hotel across the road from Santa Monica pier, a comfortable beachside suburb in LA.

Days I spent on work, nights I spent out on the street observing scores of homeless people living rough. I was intrigued. One of my kiwi colleagues dismissed the situation with ‘it’s their choice…‘  Ohh Kaay.

Scarce by day, prolific by night, they rolled into downtown at dusk to settle for the evening.  Most had supermarket trolleys for their possessions, at least half of them flew the stars and stripes. Like saying ‘I belong too.’ 

Cardboard on the ground then a sheet of plastic stretched tent-like from trolley to ground.  Function over form on the design brief, urban camping 101.

Many came to score left overs from food halls that workers put out in the back alleys. The last of the day’s pizza/chips/curry etc from under the heat lamps. 

It was a community of hundreds, spread across the blocks of outdoor malls.

Age, race and gender were revealing.

There were the stereotypes; the drugbaked ex-army vets, the disheveled and dispossessed.

But there were all these others - middle aged koreans, young indian women, well dressed – if grubby. Chinese, Japanese, South Americans, African Americans, Europeans, old, young, male, female, you name it. Full counsel of united nations.

How had they got here ? What were the circumstances ? Did they have family that could care for them ?  What words would they have for us, the comfortable with choices ?

I engaged a few with small talk but never plucked courage to drill deeper. And me with a warm hotel bed waiting, wife and children tucked up safe in New Zealand.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm back in Auckland.

One of my pub-pickups as my wife calls them, sleeps rough downtown Auckland – or used to, he’s been missing lately. He came back home for the odd night on our sofa. He stank.

Takamai owned little more than his gold card.

His life was one of violence and loss. When he found my city car had a towbar he pleaded with me to go round to the mongrel mobs digs and steal back his caravan. Not today bro.

Last time he was here he lifted all my rechargeable batteries.

All good Takamai.

Last time we caught up I visited him in Te Whetu, the mental health unit at Auckland Hospital. He had food, shelter and a handful of people caring for him.

Takamai is the player sitting at the monopoly board who’s getting smoked. You know the feeling - There's a player with all four utilities and boulevards of hotels, slicing you closer to the bone with each circuit.

Collect $200, lose $2,000. Winning player offering a few crumbs of benevolence to keep you in the game – one must have others to validate one’s largesse.

But you know the noose is tightening and you’re a fringe dweller about to be disestablished.  Takamai knew that to be his lot.

A week back we had a cold snap. It’s 10pm, band break time at my irish pub downtown, and there’s a homeless guy over the road punching a passerby for no reason and good reason.  He’s after shelter for the night and when the paddywagon turns up 5 mins later he bounds up into the back like a sheepdog.

The bouncer on the door tells me it’s a common trick some homeless use. They get food, shelter and attention. When you’re losing at monopoly, jail is the safest place to be. The last chance.

I phone my wife back.

Of course give the City Mission $1,000