Not Yet Jim Rockford
After dropping Mark off at the sidewalk, I wasted no time preparing to go full on Jim Rockford to get Mark into housing.
I designed and printed a business card for Billy Jo Meeker, an Outreach Worker for a phony homeless services organization called Sellwood Transitions. I downloaded a homeless intake/assessment form off an Oregon municipality's website, made some modifications to suit our needs, and printed the altered form for Mark to fill out. It would appear totally official. My friend Michelle volunteered to recon the village to gather intelligence for Billy Jo's visit. I began rehearsing my performance and wasn't sure if I wanted to employ the country twang or not.
The next afternoon I walked to the sidewalk with the intake form, a clipboard and pen. Donny, Jacob and Sean were there, but not Mark. I was informed he was a few blocks away doing something. I gave them the lowdown on the looming Jim Rockford con and they ate it up with gusto. I even riffed Billy Jo Meeker (with twang) and they went nuts.
Jacob volunteered to rustle up Mark but I said that wasn't necessary and gave him the clipboard and pen to give to Mark. I said if we pulled off the Rockford con, it might punch all their tickets into housing, if they wanted that. They all did.
I continued on my way to the convenience store, intending to buy a special beer or wine to celebrate my good mood after the crushing defeat of the visit to Old Town. I rounded a corner onto the sidewalk of the store and nearly tripped over a young Black man sitting on the concrete and leaning awkwardly against a wall. Next to him were two spilled bottles of water. He had no other possessions around.
He looked almost entirely gone in the face but was clearly conscious. I apologized and was shocked when he replied, “It's no problem.”
I asked if he needed help and before he could answer two young women, one Black, one Asian, both wearing an emergency/medical service-type uniform approached the man and began administering to him. I stepped back and observed. Then I looked to my right and there was a brand new bitchin' white 20-foot van with Portland Street Response emblazoned on its side.
Right there, I got it. All of it. This was a team of the newly created organization to respond to street level mental health crises, behavior outbursts, and drug freak-outs. No cops. No fire trucks. A successful pilot project had convinced the city to launch more teams into action. And here they were! Someone had called 9-1-1 and requested the service. Something was working.
These two women were first responders who, according to everything I'd read on web sites and in emails, heard from 2-1-1 operators, and staffers at homeless service providers, could make the assessment/referral that Mark needed. They were fucking ten feet from Mark's fucking sidewalk and I didn't fucking call them and Mark wasn't fucking here!!!!!!
As one of the team administered to the man, I addressed the other and apologized to the man for getting in the way and he said, “No problem.”
The exchange with the responder went:
You're the Street Response Team, you respond to certain problems with the homeless?
Yes.
I'm trying to get a homeless friend of mine an assessment/referral to shelter. You can do that?
Yes.
You mean right now? On the street?
I was practically yelling! She was obviously annoyed with me for talking to her while she was trying to help someone in trouble. I didn't blame her, but I wasn't going to stop. Not after floundering in the abyss for a month and members of the Old Crow Book Club were dying in front of me and said they didn't want to die.
Yes, I can do that.
Okay, great. Thanks.
She gave me a Street Response card and began assisting with administrating to the man. I sprinted back to the crew holding up the card and channeling Billy Jo Meeker, “This is it motherfuckers! This is how we do it.”
They gathered around and I delivered the news about what had just transpired. Jacob walked around the corner to see the Street Response Team in action. Donny knew the young man's name, he was a newcomer to Sellwood, and was waylaid by a cocaine binge that landed him incapacitated in front of the convenience store.
We talked about the Street Response Team and that finally help was coming to Sellwood's streets. There were huzzahs all around. Fuck going downtown!
Five minutes later a taxi cab rolled up in the parking lot of the convenience store. A minute later the Black man walked to the cab escorted by the team. He got into the cab and it drove away.
Jacob knew exactly where he was headed: the very facility he'd ridden out his almost fatal meth/fentanyl overdose. From there, he'd find his way into shelter or right back on the streets of Sellwood. Probably the latter, like Jacob.
It was time to leave. I was walking away when I turned and said to Jacob, “This is the way out for you, you and Mark.”
He said, “I want out of this shit so bad. I want a place to live and get to work.”