Jamie on the Brink

Thirty-eight degrees, wind and rain braced me as I exited the grocery store on a Wednesday morning. I looked right and Jamie, a charter member of the Old Crow Book Club, came riding up on a toy bicycle towing an improvised wagon crammed full of soaked possessions.

I called out to her. She smiled and waved. She got off the bike, hustled over, and greeted me with her typical exuberance. You know, it's nice when someone hustles up to meet you. I only get that nicety from homeless people in my neighborhood.

We hadn't seen each other in well over two months. At that time, I was considering buying her a flute so she could busk with it during the holiday seasons, but it didn't work out because I didn't know what model she preferred and it was impossible to locate her and ask.

Jamie looked exhausted and dangerously pallid. She was drenched. She gave me a half hug and told me she was really glad to see me. It rang totally true. I was equally glad to see her.

What ensued was a 20-minute conversation in the parking lot that I will present in riffs here because that's the only editorial method that seems adequate to capture the essence of this urgent moment. It's as accurate as my mind recorded it (and wrote up two hours later), so who knows the real percentage of truth. I will say this for certain: the dialogue is exactly what was said because I seem to have a photographic memory for what members of the Old Crow Book tell me.

Riffs:

Someone standing near Jamie in a church parking lot overheard her telling someone she needed a flute for the holiday season. The person overhearing this rushed home and dug out a high-end piccolo and rushed back to give it to Jamie. The piccolo wasn't really a great solo instrument and Jamie was looking to trade up for a flute; the piccolo was worth some serious dough.

She'd slept in the rain last night. She had experienced symptoms of hypothermia. Someone from the neighborhood let her dry her clothes in a dryer a while back, but they got wet again real fast.

Jamie kept being swept out of the wildlife refuge (wetlands). She felt safe in that encampment with other friends around her. But the sweeps had taken their toll and she couldn't take it anymore. She wanted into housing.

An ex boyfriend was stalking her. She felt unsafe. He had his spies around reporting on her whereabouts.

“I'm suicidal,” said Jamie. “I'm thinking about it. But if I die, I didn't do it. I'm telling you that Matt. I can't do that to my friends and family and if I do end up dead, I didn't do it.”

She had had visited the Willamette Center, the women and couple's shelter a half mile away that had recently reopened to great fanfare. They had room. She and her dog were on a list of some kind. She'd received an assessment from a Street Response Team and it was in the system, so she qualified for admittance, or so she thought. She wasn't sure. She had to call the main homeless services center in Old Town and check in with a caseworker whose number she had. Jamie produced the number. It was soaked and almost illegible. Her phone was no good for calls. Could she use mine? Yes. I dialed the number. Jamie took the phone and navigated prompts, and then navigated more prompts. She finally got a voice mail and left a simple and lucid message outlining her identify, dire situation, and her desire to get into the Willamette Center. If the caseworker would approve it, she could walk over there as soon as it was green-lighted. Jamie gave the caseworker her email. She apparently couldn't make or receive call with her phone, but it could receive an email.

We discussed the convoluted and vague process she had to endure to try and save her life. She was homeless and bedraggled but needed an internet connection and a phone or a friend with a phone or a stranger with a phone to find housing. She also needed a clear head.

Jamie wasn't sure she was doing everything right to get into the nearby shelter a half mile away. She had made a trip downtown. She had visited the shelter. She had left messages. This was one homeless woman's story about trying to get off the streets and advocating herself.

Would that advocacy amount to anything?

It hadn't for Mark.

Jamie is someone who wanted out—right now!—and the system created at massive expense to help her didn't help in a timely manner, if help at all, and for that, heads should roll, but they never do.

The forecast called for snow and possible record low temperatures in a couple of days. She might die from exposure. She knew that.

“I used to be a hot mess,” said Jamie. “Now I'm just a mess.”

I said, “You get yourself together and warm and healthy and you'll get that all back.”

“I'm so cold.” She was shivering.

I fished out a $20 bill and handed it to her. “Get something to eat. No beer!” I said. You've got to be able to respond fast if the word comes down.”

“I'm staying sober,” she said. “Just a few sips of beer this morning.”

“You know if you drink outdoors in this weather and get wet, you're going to die.”

“I know. Oh thank you Matt. You know we all love you and what you are trying to do.”

“I haven't got Mark into housing. You're not in housing.”

“You are trying. We talk about it all the time.”

I almost started crying.

“You know,” said Jamie. “I really love your last name. It suits you.”

“It's served me well over the years,” I said. “I think it's informed who I am.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

I gave her my card and told her to call me if she gets into shelter. I would purchase anything she and her dog needed and would drop them off. She thanked me again.

I asked Jamie if she still had the Swiss Army Knife that I'd traveled all over the world with (Pre 9-11) and given her over the summer when she was robbed of everything.

She patted a pocket in her coat. “I'll never lose it. I'll kill someone if they try to take it.”

We laughed.

Would Jamie gain admittance?

Would she call me for supplies?

Would she even be alive next week?

All I could imagine for her was a bunk bed in a warm room, her dog by her side, and playing the piccolo to entertain other residents.