Heavy with weariness, the winter sky rode low. The clouds, embracing the darkness, shed tears as rain. With a strong wind to its back, the punishing rain carried a sharp sting. I was lucky. I wore rain boots and a heavy leather coat, but I was still soaked. It didn’t take much to imagine what the homeless, who were scattered about, must have felt like.
For an hour I had been giving out ponchos, socks and a few rain jackets to those without homes who were trapped on lower State Street by yet another storm in a seemingly endless series of storms that had lashed Santa Barbara this past winter.
I actually like walking in the rain. As long as I know I can get out of the foul weather when it becomes too much, I can enjoy the solitude and strange peace of mind that comes along with it. After all, except for myself and the homeless I was looking for, the streets were deserted. The majority of the homeless who huddle under archways and in doorways during foul weather suffer from mental illness.
For the most part, the street dwellers were grateful to see me and took the rain gear I offered with graciousness and appreciation. They were also eager to share the camaraderie of the streets on such a day with anyone strange enough to be out in it. We shared stories, traded easy and self-deprecating jokes — anything that connected us to one another in the face of a winter storm that had laid siege to the city. But then I ran into “Steve.”
He sat under an awning in a soaking-wet white T-shirt that clung to his skinny body. No hat, no coat and no shoes protected him from the lashing rain. His dirt-stained white socks were soaked and were barely hanging onto his feet. His long, black hair, heavy with moisture, hung down to his shoulders.
“Hi, Steve,” I began cautiously, slowly. I had heard that he had lost his housing after years of successfully battling his mental illness to a standstill. Now it was obvious that he had again fallen victim to it.
The last time I had talked to him, he was in a jovial mood with a sparkle in his eyes that reflected his good nature. On this day, his eyes were dark with suspicion and guarded, his eyebrows slung low and his mouth was a thin line of barely controlled emotional pain.
“Buy me a pack of cigarettes,” he demanded. “You know I can’t do that,” I told him as gently as I could. “Then leave me alone,” his harsh voice ordered.
There was anger to his persona this day, but I knew Steve well. I knew of the terror of his disease that at times robbed him of his ability to relate to people, forcing him to withdraw into his private hell. In the past, I had stood with him in his mute mode when he just couldn’t force his voice to work. I also had stood with him when his disease turned his personal relationships into antagonistic ones.
“How about a jacket or socks?” I asked. His reply: “I told you, leave me alone.”
Looking up, I wiped the rain from my face. I was unable to do likewise with the despair that I felt.
“You’re soaking wet. You’ll catch pneumonia,” I pleaded. “Who cares,” he spat out. “I do,” I replied.
A grunt and a turning of his head was the response.
“Will you take a shelter bed?” Again: “I told you to leave me alone.”
His mood was as dark as the menacing rain clouds that hovered low over us, wanting to witness this tragic scene play out.
Looking up and down the street, I was half-tempted to leave the situation as it was. Then a gust of wind blew more rain into my face and a shudder rolled my body — not only from the cold. I looked down to catch him watching me, wondering what I would do next.
“Tell you what,” I said. “If you take the jacket and rain poncho, I’ll give you five bucks.”
His face showed his internal debate. Should he trust me or listen to the hard voices in his head? I shot my glance down the street to give him time. Maybe he could remember the better times between the two of us. When no answer was forthcoming, I dug the $5 from my pocket, put it on top of the blue jacket and plastic poncho, and handed them to him. He cautiously took them, but then his hands froze in front of his body.
“If you change your mind about the bed, let me know,” I gently told him and turned to walk away. I felt I had done the best I could in the moment. I knew he might throw the poncho and jacket away once I left. There are no guarantees in this business, but at least he now had a chance.
That night on my rounds with Dr. Lynne Janhke, we ran across Steve. The rain had reduced to a hard drizzle, but it was colder. He was wearing the jacket and rain poncho. His dark stare followed us, but this time he was reasonably dry. I vowed to track him down the next day and offer him a new pair of shoes.
You take the small miracles wherever and whenever you can find them. You take this job one step at a time.
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the past 30 years. He is the author of China White and Shattered Dreams, A Story of the Streets.
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