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Yesterday morning I got back from my morning walk to the grocery store to find a Black woman in her thirties or forties on the walkway that leads from my street to my place and East Neighbors'. She was... sniffing the wooden fence. No, there's nothing fragrant on the other side of the fence, even if there are some big, beautiful plants.
People cut through there all the time – there's a parking lot and an apartment building east of my East Neighbors – and I don't get my undies in a bunch about it. I've done that kind of thing. But then I saw the collapsible wagon with a blanket on top underneath my front stairs. 'OK,' thought I. 'Let's hope that's temporary.'
And it was, until I got back from my evening trip to the grocery store*. The wagon was back, and a couple of hours later, she was in a sleeping back on the concrete steps (!) down to the Wendling's apartment, right below my front step. I told her, "Hey! My son lives there!" I didn't catch all of her reply, but she asked if I had a dryer she could use on her blanket.
I started working the phone. Calling 911 on a Black woman who's not acting threatening is... not great. It could lead to someone getting shot. So, I called the police non-emergency number, which referred me to the crisis line, which I called. They took my info and someone took my info. Handled, right?
But neau. An hour goes by, and my inner Karen makes me call the crisis line again. "How late should I stay up?" I ask.
"We don't have an ETA."
Wayell, I woke up at 0515, and she was still there, now huddled against my son's front door to get out of last night's light rain. He opened the door and had words with her that I couldn't make out. I finally have enough and call 911. Our visitor packs up, but continues to hang out.
She skedaddled just minutes before the policeman showed up. I gave him the lowdown, and in return he told me this about the crisis line: they only have the resources to send people out between noon and 2100. Said the cop, if she comes back, call again.
First, that's not right. Of course people are going to call about homeless on their doorsteps when I did. That's when everybody looks for a place to sleep. Gosh, it's almost like a conspiracy to give the cops more to do. Second, information about the current state of this suckage would have been nice before or during my phone call with the crisis folks. Christ on a pogo stick!
And yes, I did call 911 on an apparently harmless Black woman with my expensively altered face. I'm aware of the optics. But you know what? My son shouldn't have to step over anyone to go to work.
Speaking of my son, he handled the whole thing with unexpected and admirable calm, sweeping up the visitor's cigarette butts and hosing down his doormat. He always seems to come through when I really need him to.
My place, and in particular the entrance to the Wendling's, are probably particularly attractive as a place to sleep outdoors: they're not visible from the street. Heaven help me, I'm wondering what I can to do to make it less appealing.
*As instructed by the Sculptor.
People cut through there all the time – there's a parking lot and an apartment building east of my East Neighbors – and I don't get my undies in a bunch about it. I've done that kind of thing. But then I saw the collapsible wagon with a blanket on top underneath my front stairs. 'OK,' thought I. 'Let's hope that's temporary.'
And it was, until I got back from my evening trip to the grocery store*. The wagon was back, and a couple of hours later, she was in a sleeping back on the concrete steps (!) down to the Wendling's apartment, right below my front step. I told her, "Hey! My son lives there!" I didn't catch all of her reply, but she asked if I had a dryer she could use on her blanket.
I started working the phone. Calling 911 on a Black woman who's not acting threatening is... not great. It could lead to someone getting shot. So, I called the police non-emergency number, which referred me to the crisis line, which I called. They took my info and someone took my info. Handled, right?
But neau. An hour goes by, and my inner Karen makes me call the crisis line again. "How late should I stay up?" I ask.
"We don't have an ETA."
Wayell, I woke up at 0515, and she was still there, now huddled against my son's front door to get out of last night's light rain. He opened the door and had words with her that I couldn't make out. I finally have enough and call 911. Our visitor packs up, but continues to hang out.
She skedaddled just minutes before the policeman showed up. I gave him the lowdown, and in return he told me this about the crisis line: they only have the resources to send people out between noon and 2100. Said the cop, if she comes back, call again.
First, that's not right. Of course people are going to call about homeless on their doorsteps when I did. That's when everybody looks for a place to sleep. Gosh, it's almost like a conspiracy to give the cops more to do. Second, information about the current state of this suckage would have been nice before or during my phone call with the crisis folks. Christ on a pogo stick!
And yes, I did call 911 on an apparently harmless Black woman with my expensively altered face. I'm aware of the optics. But you know what? My son shouldn't have to step over anyone to go to work.
Speaking of my son, he handled the whole thing with unexpected and admirable calm, sweeping up the visitor's cigarette butts and hosing down his doormat. He always seems to come through when I really need him to.
My place, and in particular the entrance to the Wendling's, are probably particularly attractive as a place to sleep outdoors: they're not visible from the street. Heaven help me, I'm wondering what I can to do to make it less appealing.
*As instructed by the Sculptor.
