Homeless In L.A.: Chuck

Doc Visit, Jogging and Chuck.

With all the bleedings, scans, biopsies and blood tests that have been going on the past month or so, I've not been keeping up with my exercise regimen. Just after the biopsy, it took me at least a week before I could do very much. 

So, my blood sugar has been testing a bit high. The thing is that when I work hard at maintaining my health, I can get to feeling normal. I forget about the virus and how easily my body starts to feel like it's coming apart when I'm not being diligent. 

When I saw Dr. Tony, we talked about the higher blood sugar and he said there were new drugs out there, etc. But something inside me just said, "You know, I'd rather fight this with exercise and diet. And then, if it doesn't work, we can start looking at medications." I just felt like I could do it.

One of the things I like about Dr. Tony is that he's aggressive. If something looks a little wrong, we hit it hard. Time is not on the side of a person with a damaged immune system. At this point, my total t-cells are still below 400. But then, they've been that way, it seems, forever. I guess this is my stabilization point, assuming there is such a thing among positoids and I think I'm basically about as sound as a person can be in my condition.

I decided there in the office that I would work this through by sheer effort. 

Last night, after we had dinner, I put on my shorts, t-shirt, socks and shoes, and went outside. It was about 7:30. The sun had set, but the sky was still light. I began speed walking. Since it's been awhile since I've run, I didn't want to go too fast. But to just listen to my body. And speed walking felt good.

Once I kind of settled into that and my breathing felt normal, I went into a jog. I had forgotten how nice it feels to settle into a nice jog. It can be like flying if you let it. 

One of the great motivations for getting out and running is my rediscovery of Kulak's Woodshed.

About the time, I was ready for a break, I was standing right there at the front door. The thing about Kulak's is that there's no cover. If you want to just drop in, it's like having an extra living room in your house. It makes me feel like there's a neighborhood here in this otherwise cold and dark street filled with blocks of apartment houses. 

It's just too weird that Los Angeles has the best weather on the planet, and no one goes outside. 

Remembering that James Lee Stanley was playing, but hadn't started yet, I plopped onto the sofa just to his right. Immediately, an adorable white poodle comes up to me and sniffs at my cuffs. I reach down and scritched her under the ears. She started rubbing against me, almost like a cat, so I patted the couch and she jumped up into my lap.

I had a four-legged companion for the show!

Then James Lee asked Paul Kulak, "Is it time to start?"

Paul said, "Anytime you're ready." (Everything is broadcast live over the net).

And there I was, less than six feet away from James Lee Stanley as he sang and did funny monologues for an hour. (His story about Star Trek underwear, from his days as an extra on the set of TNG is graphically hysterical.) 

Musically, he writes intelligent, witty and emotional lyrics and would probably call himself a folk singer, but to me, it's just great music. His guitar playing was intricate and edgy. For many songwriters, by the way, James Lee Stanley is close to godhood. And here he was kicking ass in this tiny funky space, hocking his CDs and making jokes about how "in Hollywood they line up to forget you." 

And I'm there as part of my evening jog.

I left after an hour. Stephen Bishop (!) was on next, but I needed to get myself moving again. I said goodbye to the doggie and hit the street again. Just about a block from home, I looked up and there he was. 

A stick figure wearing a baseball hat and pushing a cart jam packed with bags sticking out on all sides.

It was Chuck. 

Just as I approached, he held out his arms and said, "I can tell it's you from a block away. Old Thunderthighs."

I gave him a big hug. Chuck is a homeless veteran, by the way, for those of you who don't read this blog regularly. He dumpster dives, but only for cans and plastic items and the random treasure, and tries his best not to get oily or dirty. He is well known in the neighborhood by many of the merchants who will sometimes feed him. He freely admits to being an alcoholic, and he works harder than anyone I ever met, but he lives on the streets. 

He said, "I had a heart attack since I saw you last."

He did look thin, and he had a bandaid over his nose. His glasses are old and very thick.

He lit a cigarette. "I know I shouldn't smoke or drink, but this is my life. I'm not chasing death, but if it comes, it comes."

"I wrote a song about that once."

His face brightened. "Hey! I found a great place to sleep!"

"Where?"

"These guys have this business and the parking lot is behind and kind of protected. And they kind of know me from the neighborhood. I mean they know I'm not scary or threatening or anything. So, after they close, they said if I want to sleep back there, away from the noise and view of the street, it'd be okay."

"Wow! That's great! And it doesn't hurt for them to have someone on premises at night."

"They told me never to do anything, but that if I see something or someone snooping around, to tell them the next day."

"Sounds perfect."

"Yep. There's this one place just in front of the cars where I can stretch out and play my radio. Do you ever listen to 'Coast to Coast'?"

I said I did. It's a radio show with psychics and paranormal "experts" talking about the planet or the sun or ghosts or whatever.

"That's everything you need to know about me."

And I believed him.

"What do you think about this Sarah Palin?"

Now, this was interesting. One sometimes assumes that homeless people are automatically shut off from society. But Chuck stood there and gave me an analysis of the whole situation. She had only given her speech the night before. 

After I made it home, I realized that in cities like Los Angeles, there are little pockets of communities within communities. But you have to go out and find them. They don't come to you. You never run into people accidentally if you don't get out and look around. 

The problem is that these neighborhoods, created through zoning don't really make it easy. (That's why I support places like Kulak's and why I'm glad they've let it stay around. Too bad it's been such an long, hard, expensive ride for Paul. I'll be telling that story at another time.)

 I like having a neighborhood.

First Rehearsal, Kulak's, the Neighborhood & Chuck.

I wanted to be there so badly. San Francisco. A rehearsal hall. 250 male singers. My music.

It would be the chorus members' first time to hear it. I was so nervous back here in L.A.

I feel like "Pantheon" is the most personal work I've ever written -- and that's something coming from a man whose only two musicals are autobiographical. (duh)

So, I went down to Kulak's and was selected to go on first. I had planned to play something dark and dramatic, but instead opted for "Cool By Default." I mean an opening number should be, you know, upbeat. Or something.

I don't think it went over so well. Or no one was listening. I didn't stay long. I couldn't concentrate. Usually, I stay there the whole night, listening to the other singers, but I was too antsy. I was thinking about the chorus.

Between performers, I sneaked out and took a nice, slow walk back to the apartment. (Plus, Jim's home and I was missing him really badly while he was away).

You remember Chuck, my homeless vet friend? I ran into him a couple of times recently. Once, he saw me at the grocery store. He was working out back at the recycle bin, he said. (That's the thing about Chuck. He's not a lazy drunk. He actually works harder than most people who have actual 9 to 5 jobs. It's just that picking up cans doesn't really bring in that much.)

I saw him again when I was walking home from Kulak's. He was sitting under a bus shelter with another guy, African American whose name I missed. They were laughing and talking with each other. He, the other man, looked at me suspiciously until Chuck assured him I was cool.

So, we hung out and talked for about 20 minutes.

I think I've said this before, but having Kulak's there makes this a neighborhood for me. I wouldn't have had a chance just to run into Chuck or meet his friend. I think it's a mistake for everything to be zoned to eliminate opportunities for neighborhood interaction.

I'm saying all this because on Friday, there's going to be hearing on whether the City will let Kulak's continue operating. Right now, as I understand what I've seen on the Net, it's the Wendy Greuel, who's on the City Council, who has let Kulak's stay open.

Anyway, seeing Chuck was great. Being out on a beautiful night was great. (And the nights here are glorious. The sky has been clear. The ocean breeze is just making its way over the Hollywood Hills. The heat still in the ground warms your feet and ankles.)

And up in the most beautiful city in the world, a baby was being born. Yes, a lesbian and a gay man can have a child. (Thanks, Kathleen!)

The Defective Detective.

Yesterday, I spent most of the day in the car. The one thing about L.A. that you can count on is that if you really, REALLY need to get somewhere fast, you will be hampered at every turn on every boulevard. Dr. Tony was pleased that I had been faithfully keeping my exercise regimen going. I told him, "I ran 3.5 miles yesterday!"

I knew this because my friend Randy told me about the Google Map Pedometer. You can use it to mark your running route and it calculates how far you've run using a map. It's fantastic! You just zoom in click on your starting point and keep clicking on your turns, etc. and then back to where you started.

Dr. Tony was running late, as usual, so I barely had time to grab lunch -- "Hey, I'll take the Pad-See-Ew with chicken and the check at the same time!" -- which I wolfed down, and make it to Dr. Ruchi. I made it with minutes to spare. I had to inform her that I had declined to start on a new drug she wanted me to take on our last visit which was going to help with the triglycerides. (Sometimes I just don't want a new drug). Instead, I told him that I was going to buckle down and work on my "lifestyle change" to make it happen.

I proudly told her that, even on the road, I kept to my regimen. In Norwich, the hotel had a complimentary gym membership, so I was going to the gym every morning. And I was doing well with my diet -- only one pizza night.

So, this week or next I'll go in for a new blood test for triglycerides to see how well I'm doing. (It needs to be done after fasting all night).

By the time I got back over the hill, I had just enough time to get to the grocery store to get cat litter, then run by the bank to... Oh, I forgot to tell you.

I saw Chuck two mornings ago on my birthday. I was just making it back to my apartment complex after a long run when I saw him on the street with his shopping cart. He was wearing a hooded sweater.

"Hey, thunder thighs!" He said with a laugh. "I've been thinking about you! In fact I've been writing a song about you in my head. I'll sing it to you when it's finished."

I told him, "Hey! It's my birthday today and I have something for you."

I ran up to retrieve a huge bag of cans and plastic bottles. Then I thrust a bill in his hands and said, "Happy birthday to me."

He stopped me, "Oh, you don't have to do that." He always hesitates if I give him money. He might be homeless, but he "works" long hours picking up cans and bottles and he's very proud that he manages to feed himself this way.

"Hey," I said. "It's my birthday. I can do anything I want."

He took the money, thanked me and said it made his whole day. Then he said, "Hey, I've got something for you!" He reached under his cart and brought out a PDA, A Sony Clie. "I found this on the street. Cool, huh? It's for you!"

I hesitated. I knew he could get money for it at the hock shop.

"Naw. They wouldn't give me five bucks for this. There's no power cord. Take it. I want you to have it. Go on." He pulled out the sylus and showed me how it worked.

He said, "They backlight doesn't work, though. I dropped it."

He would not take no for an answer, and I didn't want to make him feel bad, so I took it. He was so proud that he could give me something for my birthday. I took it upstairs and noticed that there were a lot of names and numbers on it, so I thought I'd try to track down the owner and give it back.

But there was nothing that said, "Home" in the addressbook. I did notice that a lot of the listings were movie studios, location facilities, other stuff. Hmm, I thought. This guy or gal is in the movie business. Looks like he might be a location scout. I looked through a lot of the personal numbers and thought I could call them and ask if they have a friend who recently lost a PDA...

(I felt like a detective!)

Then I saw there was a entry for a bank. Next to it was an icon that indicated a "note." So, I pressed on the note and saw, "Account number..." And there was an account number listed. So, as I was sitting in Dr. Tony's office earlier yesterday morning, I called the number, told them I had this PDA with an account number and could I coordinate with them to return the PDA to its owner.

The bank person looked up the account number, saw that the owner lived in my neighborhood and gave me a phone number. She invited me to drop the PDA off at the bank, thanking me for being an honest person. So, I called the number but it was "no longer in service."

Okay, fast forward. I've done my doctor visits. I've run my errands. I've hit the grocery store and now it's 4:45. I'm circling this bank looking for a parking spot before they close, but it's crowded. Find one on the next block, halfway in the red zone and totally blocked in a Chrysler by backing up to his bumper, ran into the bank (which had this massive security door entry), found an officer of the bank, told them my story and delivered the PDA, made it to the drug store to get ear wax medication, cotton balls and an "ear irrigation bulb," and, finally, home.

Whew!

Chuck's Living Room

I was just at the end of my solid 45 minutes of running, listening to Robert Altman talk about how perfection is unnecesary and subjective, when I heard someone shouting. I continued on, but then heard the noise again. It was Chuck, my homeless veteran friend, pushing his shopping cart. He was on the other side of the big city street.

I pulled out my earbuds, waved at him, and then crossed over. It was about 6:30am. The sun had risen, but it was still too low in the sky to see and there was still a cool moistness from the ocean in the desert air. (I love L.A.)

"How's it going?" I asked him. He seemed a bit weak.

"Ah, doin' okay. Just tired. Wasn't feeling that good the past couple of days," he said, sounding exhausted already.

We were almost in front of our apartment, so I told him to wait a sec and I'd run up and get our recyclables, which he was dutifully collecting.

"You don't really get a day off, do you?" I said, upon returning.

He took the bag of cans, thanked me enthusiastically and then sorted them out in the various plastic bags he had hanging off his cart. He looked up at me, "I work seven days a week," he said sounding weary.

"Let's keep walking," I said. "I haven't cooled down yet." Now that I've made the decision to conquer this triglyceride problem through sheer force of will and hard work, my routine is to run for 45 solid minutes every morning without stopping.

"Okay, cool," he responded. We walked on down the block. But then, a few minutes later, after I had cooled off some, we saw a couch sitting on the sidewalk. Something someone had thrown away.

"Wow," I said. "This couch is nicer than the one we have in our apartment. Let's sit."

He said, "Turn the cushions over first. They'll be wet." So we turned them over and then sat down. It felt good to rest. Looking up at the apartment complex in front of us, I said, "Well, I love what you've done with the place, but the TV is too small."

He laughed and said, "Yeah! Welcome to my living room!"

I asked him if he was still living in the same place he was living in before, which he had described as a little room behind someone's house, the electricity supplied by an extension cord.

"Naw. She's selling her house and the real estate person said I had to go."

"So, where are you living now?"

He pointed to his cart. Beneath the basket was a plastic bag. "Right there. That's all my bedding. I found a little spot in the parking lot of a department store near where the electrical box is housed. I get there about 10pm just as the bigwigs are driving off and the lights go out. The maintenance men all know me. It's pretty nice actually, but I have to find someplace else when the rains start."

"You don't have a roof over the place?"

"Naw. But it's okay. No one knows it's there, so I feel safe. And I have this GREAT big blanket that I found in a bin not too long ago. You could cover this whole couch and it would still run 10 feet out in front of us."

I noticed that he looked a little less clean than he used to. Chuck has always taken great pride in not being dirty and always finding clean shirts for his excavations.

"What about going up north? You still planning to visit your friend and pan for gold in Oregon?"

"Only if my sister sends me some money. I have to buy some fishing gear and some camping equipment. I'm not sure. I'm okay right now. I like the two dollar movie house. You can get two hot dogs for two dollars."

It's hard to know what to feel at times like this. Jimmy and I have struggled a lot with bills over the years, especially after I got sick. But we never have had to sleep out on the street, even when we had to go to friends to borrow money for rent.

Chuck and I sat on the couch and talked awhile longer. "Hey," I said. "I haven't seen Saddam Hussein this morning."

"Naw, he's probably gotten his welfare check." Chuck refuses to get welfare or VA help. "When he runs that out, he'll be back out here. Meanwhile, I have the whole area to myself."

"Well," I said. "I need to get back home. I've been waitin' to hear about a job. I hope it comes through." I dug into my pocket and picked out a few bills.

He objected. "Oh, you don't need to give me money."

I put them into his cart, anyway, apologetically. "It's not much, my friend. Just a few bucks. Have a couple of hot dogs on me."

He got a twinkle in his eye. "Hey!" He said. "You know, what goes around, comes around. I have a few old, homeless friends and I'm always giving them a few bucks so they can get a sandwich or something. Now, you've given me a few bucks. This means good luck for you the rest of the day! That job is gonna come through. I just know it."

I smiled and said goodbye, but walked quickly away because my eyes were starting to burn a little. I stopped after a moment and shouted back, "Good luck, Chuck!"

He smiled his goofy, half-toothless smile at me, waved, and said, "So long, buddy. So long."

Chuck's Big Adventure

This morning, on my run, I saw Chuck my sometimes homeless Vet friend sitting on a retainer wall near the laundramat smoking a cigarette, his shopping cart tricked out with bags full of cans and bottles sitting nearby.

"Hey!" I said. "I got a bunch more cans for ya."

"Well, I guess I can follow you up the block," he replied, sounding a bit tired.

"No, no. I'm still running. I'll go get 'em and bring 'em back."

So, I did. I was near the end of my routine, anyway, so after I retrieved the "California Gold," as he puts it, I sat with him for awhile.

"You probably won't be seein' me around here after two weeks. I'm goin' up to Oregon."

"Oregon, huh? Escaping the heat?" (The San Fernando Valley has been blast furnace hot for the past few weeks.)

"Naw. Gonna go pan for gold."

"Gold?"

"Yeah, an old buddy of mine owns a piece of land out in the wilderness and there's a creek up there. He's gonna give me some money and I'm gonna pan for gold. It's lined with moss, see, and the little flakes of gold get caught in the moss. The dentists and the jewelers, they love that flake gold."

"Sounds beautiful."

"He's got a still up there, too. Best you ever tasted. Smooth goin' down. Not like that kind that..." and he made sound like a whistling bomb falling, followed by an explosion, pointing at his stomach.

"Gotta watch for bears, though. Black bears. They get mean. I'm gonna have two guns with LOTS of bullets."

"So, you're gonna cure the bear meat?"

"Naw. I know how, though, to salt meat. I'm only gonna shoot 'em if they try to kill me."

"So, you trying to escape the heat?"

"Not really. It gets hot and sticky up there. But I got a book I want to write. It's all in my head, except there's a little extra I might throw in where NASA refurbishes a space shuttle and gives it to me so I can go up there and guide the satellites. You know they got somebody here on earth who does nothing but pull handles to keep the satellites in position."

"Really?"

"Yeah, the book takes place on the planet Cycloptera where all the people have a third eye. And they have dinosaurs with eyes in the back of their heads, but they taste lousy."

I laughed. "The dinosaurs taste lousy?"

"Yeah, and the people wear their hair in bangs over the third eye. I'm gonna sit and write it and then hope some publishing company will want to publish it. I got 354 pages and it's all in my head right now."

"So when you leavin'?"

"Two weeks. Maybe a month. He's gonna get me a dog and a mule. It's four miles up the river. I'm gonna live in a tent -- you know, like..." and he drew and outline of a tent with a roof and sides.

"So, what are you gonna eat?"

"Oh, there's lots of birds and fish. But you gotta be careful about making bacon and eggs in the morning cuz those bears'll smell that 2 miles away and come lookin' for ya."

"What about your court thing?" (He was busted for taking a Coke can off a city-owned trash bin).

"Ah, they'll dismiss that. It's not like I shot somebody."

Tags: oregon,
veteran, homeless

Chuck's Fine

I saw Chuck, my homeless veteran friend, this morning on his daily rounds of picking up cans and bottles (which he calls "California Gold"). I gave him two big bags of bottles and cans and we chatted for awhile. I asked him how his court date went and he gave me a totally disgusted look as he hauled out a yellow sheet of paper.

"Look at this," he said, half-laughing.

I looked at the paper.

"See there?"

I saw a line that said "M 30."

"That's my fine. 30 dollars. But I owe them $249 total for all this other shit."

"WHAT?? What else is on here?" I grabbed the paper out of his hand and looked at it. (If you click on the image to the left, you can see the items, also.)

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. Hell, I had the $30. Or I coulda just done five days in jail or something. This is ridiculous."

I looked at it. $30 dollars for the fine. "$95 dollars for the court appointed lawyer? Are you serious? You have to pay $95 for the lawyer on a $30 fine? What's this other stuff?"

He said, "Turn the paper over. All the abbreviations are there."

I turned it over.
$35 installment fee (EIA).

PI is a Penalty assessment: $17 for every $10 of fine for a total of $63. Plus $6 for something and then another $20 for something else.

A grand total of $249 for a $30 fine for grabbing an empty Coke can off the wrong trash bin; one that was set up intentionally to entrap homeless people who are scavenging for food and shelter money. (Chuck does have a place to stay. It's doesn't have cooking facilities, but it does have a place for him to sleep and keep all his earthly possessions safe from other, more desperate street people.)

He grabbed the paper back and just laughed his Chuck Laugh, head tilted back. Then he opened his wallet and showed me more tickets. "Look here. I got a bunch of citations. They didn't even ask me about them at the court house."

"So what happens now?" I asked him as he stuffed everything back into his wallet and get ready to continue on his route.

"Same thing that happens every day, " said with a big grin.

And off he went down the road looking for another bin full of California Gold.

"It's a war on the homeless."

Longtime readers know that I've made friends with a guy named Chuck who mans a shopping cart out on our street. Chuck is a completely harmless guy with some missing teeth who is a Vietnam vet. Every morning, like clockwork, he mans his route with his tricked-out shopping cart, scavenging for cans and other items he can turn in for cash. He's been homeless at various times, but he has a residence of sorts these days, though he doesn't have a stove.

I caught him the other morning and gave him a treasure trove of our saved-up cans. (His eyes turn to saucers when I have a lot of them). But Chuck wasn't in a good mood that morning.

"I got ticketed," he announced.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I gotta go to court. And it's gonna cost me five hundred dollars."

"FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS??"

"EXACTLY!" He said, laughing and spitting at the same time. "How am I supposed to come up with that?"

"Well, how did it happen?" I asked.

"They trapped me. And I was stupid. I shoulda seen it. See, it's illegal to take cans from the city trash cans."

"Yeah, I remember you told me that."

"They set up a dumpster and then put a bunch of cans and bottles on top of it. Then, they wait for you to pass by, see the cans, grab one. And pow! They ticketed me for stealing from the city, pushing a shopping cart..."

"It's illegal to push a shopping cart?"

"See," he explained. "Most of the cops around here. They know me. I know all the guys that drive the garbage trucks. They know I don't cause trouble. I take showers. I always try to have clean clothes, even though the clothes get greasy from the edge of the bins..."

And it's true. Chuck never smells. He never bothers people. I remember it took me a few times of saying hello, passing him by as I was jogging, for him to even acknowledge me. He's very respectful and tries to stay as invisible as a person pushing a shopping cart full of cans and bottles can be.

"So this city council woman. She hires a guys full time to do nothing but harass homeless people. They've been shipping them in from all over the city to the shelter up north of Vanowen."

"Well, what are you gonna do?"

He got a gleeful look in his eye. "I'll go to court but I'll make sure the cop has to be there. And I'll make sure the city council woman has to be there. I can't pay this."

I felt woefully inadequate standing there giving him my soda cans.

"I am so PISSED at myself! I knew it was a set-up. I just wasn't paying attention. The bin wasn't in the right spot. I know all the bins around here. I got reckless."

"So, wait a minute. You're telling me that they've hired someone to do nothing but set up phony trash bins. Then they bait the bins with bottles and cans sitting on top, waiting for homeless people to grab the bottles so they can give you a ticket for stealing from the city?"

He looked at me and smiled knowingly. "You got it. I'm so pissed at myself. It's a war on the homeless and they got me."