Lunch in the garden today was so upsetting for me. I am in angry tears. The real-feel temp right now is 27° It’s been raining and a cold wind is blowing from the north. Several of our friends living in tents did not venture out to lunch. They would rather stay under their warm blankets than eat. 

We are grateful to some dear friends who brought hot, homemade chicken noodle soup and breadsticks. The rain let up just in time and held off the whole time we were serving lunch. We are so grateful for this too. Sigh.

I arrived with a carload of blankets, stocking caps, warm socks and Hot Hands that were donated by another dear friend of our community. The small crowd was so appreciative. They even had their choice, as one claimed, “Blue is my favorite color,” and another, “I want black, please.” One of the guys gathered a set of Hot Hands for the folks in the tents. 

A #lovegang guy is sick with flu-like symptoms. His head is full, he’s coughing, body aching. I handed him day and night cold medicine and instructed how often to take it. Imagine having the flu in a tent in this weather!

Two ladies from the neighborhood that often join us for lunch had not come out in the rain, so one of our women ran across the street to find out if they wanted to eat. They did, so a couple of bowls were taken to them. 

One of the guys came to me and whispered, “So-and-so has been having diarrhea real bad since last night. Could you take her down to the convenience store to use the bathroom?” (Imagine living in a tent and having diarrhea!) We jumped in my car. 

While I waited for her, I made a bottle of essential oils for one of the guys who was bitten by a dog in the camp last night. 

Another of the men eating with us today just became homeless this week. He got behind on his bills. (He is a felon and couldn’t find adequate work to pay court costs, probation fees and rent.) I gave him a tent and blanket two days ago. Today, he helped carry things back and forth from my car.

Brandon, and Mental Illness

The struggle and the beauty welled over for me in my new friend, Brandon. Brandon was back with us again today. He had no socks and no jacket when he arrived. He was wearing the same shirt he’d worn for two weeks. Before I arrived, the group had shared a light coat with him and rounded up a thin blanket to cover his lap. Those hospital bracelets are still on his wrist, and I now wonder if they have become permanent jewelry.

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As Brandon eats his chicken noodle soup, we put a hat on his head. Someone hands him a pair of those warm socks, and the new guy wraps a warm blanket around his shoulders. Snot drips from Brandon’s long nose. 

Brandon never stops talking. Much of what he says is disconnected pieces of information, but he keeps coming back to a friend named Tony where he could stay. He says the name of the street crossing several times. It’s not far away. So I ask him, “Brandon, do you have a place to go? Some place where you can be inside out of this cold?” 

He says, “Sure I do! My friend Tony’s place. He works at a repair shop.” 

I ask if it is a business or a house. 

He says, “A business. My friend owns the business.” 

“He will let you stay there?” 

“Yep. In the shed out back. There’s heat and everything.”

I know Brandon can’t stay in the camp down the street. They have to lie low there in order to not be kicked off that property, and he is definitely not the lying low kind of guy. He also can’t sit at the garden the rest of the day. It’s so cold and wet. He has to have shelter. 

“Brandon, gather up your stuff and come with me. I’m going to take you to your friend Tony’s place.” I don’t know if Tony is real or if Tony will even take Brandon in, but it is worth a try. As we drive, Brandon continues to talk. 

A conversation with Brandon

“My friend Tony was in the army. He got 2 million dollars from the VA ‘cause he has shell shock. You know, that thing that makes people mean and abusive. Like my dad. My dad was in the army and he beat my mom and me.” He starts to cry. “Why did he do that? Why would he beat me like that? I was four years old.” 

“I’m sorry Brandon. That’s terrible.” 

“It is. But I’m okay now. You know my sister Mitzy? She is the Wicked Witch of the West you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep. But my sister Susan is my girl. She’s the best.” 

I drive to the street crossing Brandon has told me and he directs me to turn left. 

“Keep going,” he says, “It’s down here somewhere. That’s May May’s house there. She has fourteen kids.” 

“Wow!” I say. 

“Yep. She’s a fertile myrtle.”  

We drive slowly through the neighborhood until Brandon recognizes a truck in a carport.

“That’s Tony’s new truck. The VA paid for that truck. Tony was in the army.”

I wait while Brandon goes to the door of the house. I can’t see the door, so I don’t know if it opens or if anyone comes to the door, but Brandon comes back to the car and informs me that his friend Tony has just gone to get a room at the hotel by the freeway. I know the place, so I tell him I can take him there.

On the way, Brandon points out the cars and businesses he has owned. “The VA gave me two million trillion dollars, but I told them that was too much money. What would I do with all that money?” I ask if he was in the army himself. “No. They wouldn’t let me. But they gave me money because of what my dad did to me.” 

Somewhere in the middle of the rambling, Brandon says, “I have lots of children. More than two trillion of ‘em.” 

I laugh. “What?! Two trillion? That’s a lot of children, Brandon.” 

“Yep. I’m a fertile myrtle myself!” He laughs out loud—the most raucous belly laugh.

At the hotel, Brandon goes in the lobby while I pull his things out of my car, but he comes back out immediately. “They said that Tony already came and couldn’t rent a room ‘cause he needs to do it in my name. They said he went that way. He’s probably going to Connie’s house to wait for me.” 

I sigh. “All right. Get back in. Where is Connie’s house?” Brandon directs me down the street, then a right turn down a winding road, telling me it’s a little white house up here on the right. “She better let me stay there. I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t let me in.” 

“Brandon, have you stayed here before?” 

“Yes, but she took my money and then sold the house right out from under me.” 

The little white house is there. Right where he told me it would be. But it is dark and the front gate is locked tight with a padlock. 

Searching for an option

I ask Brandon if he has an I.D. (The Rescue Mission requires an I.D. for someone to stay there.) He tells me he has a driver’s license, but Tony has it. Then he regales me with a long story of the nice ladies at that tag agency. He says, “They’d probably make a photocopy for me if you take me there.” Sigh. 

I end up taking Brandon to the Day Shelter on the other side of town. I know he can stay there the rest of the day. On the way there, it becomes clear that Brandon has been to the Day Shelter before. He knows the neighborhood well. In fact, he has owned “that pink house” and managed “that car repair shop” on the way there.

Brandon thanks me for the ride. He tells me he has millions of dollars and he will give Joe’s Addiction a whole bunch of it. “Joe’s Addiction will be a castle by the time I’m done with it,” he says. (If only.) 

I left Brandon where I knew he could be warm for the rest of the day, but the real temperature will be 40° tonight. The emergency shelters don’t open until the temperature is 32° or below. I don’t know where Brandon will sleep tonight. 

It’s just not right. Brandon should be able to live somewhere he is taken care of. I don’t know Brandon well enough yet to know his true story. I don’t know if Brandon has family. I don’t know who has tried to help Brandon before. I don’t know what bridges have been burned behind him. I have known enough Brandons to know that there is never an easy solution for his needs. But I also know—and this I know for f@#$ing certain—it’s just not right.