I walked into Chewy's. Its interior was cavernous and unremarkable. The usual suspects of décor dominated: posters and neons advertising mass market alcohol products and corporate universities educating its students to better ruin the planet.
There was a younger woman standing behind the bar. An older man played slots on a lottery machine. That was it.
I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a craft malt liquor. I opened my notebook and whipped out a pen.
The bartender brought over my beer. I launched into my story of discovering the encampment by accident and how it had flabbergasted me. I told her I was a writer working on a book about Oregon's homeless crisis and asked about the encampment.
She hadn't seen it, but added, “I need to see it.”
“Yes, you do,” I said.
Her name was Heidi and she didn't know much about the encampment. She was new to town.
She called out to “Ron” who was playing the lottery machine. She said he'd know.
Ron walked over to the bar and I gave him my story.
He then filled me in on what he knew. He worked at a local grocery store a few blocks away and was in fact wearing his shirt uniform and taking a break.
Sweet Home's homeless had been moved to old city hall property. He didn't know who moved them or how it worked. He said the downtown businesses were sick of feces and needles and people sleeping in doorways and alleys. They'd been there for about six months and he didn't know how long it would last.
Ron was getting a little worked up as he relayed this information.
“Are you happy about it?” I said.
“No I'm not,” he said. “The cops are called all the time. There are fights and drugs and stealing.”
“Isn't it better than having them roaming all over downtown and the shit and needles around?”
He waited. He thought. “Yes, I suppose.”
I asked Ron about who the residents were. Did he know anything about them?
He said they'd been bussed in from Portland.
“Did you witness that?” I said.
“No,” he said, “but it was in the paper.”
“What paper?”
“The Tell and Sell. I read it.”
“Come on. That's impossible. Portland doesn't bus homeless people out of town and dump them in Sweet Home.”
In fact, I had read exactly the opposite, how cities like Seaside and Astoria had given bus tickets to Portland to some of their more bothersome homeless people.
“It's true,” said Ron.
“I think it's a myth,” I said.
“Well, more are coming.”
“You think the word is getting out?”
“Hell yes.”
I offered to buy him a beer but he declined. He had to go. I thanked him for his time and he left.
Heidi and I spent the next 20 minutes discussing the issue. At one point I asked her, “Have you ever been homeless?”
“Almost,” she said.
I suspect many Americans can say that.
Heidi mentioned that the mayor or caretaker of the encampment came into the joint every now and then. She didn't know his name.
The mayor?
I formulated a plan. It went like this: I'd write a note to the mayor asking to speak to him about the encampment. The note would include my phone number and $10 bill for a beer or try at the slots. Heidi would deliver the note and earn a $20 tip (right now) for her service.
Heidi agreed to help. She promised to follow up. A customer entered and she went over to take his order. He told her he was feeling terrible from drinking but ordered a drink and said he was getting on the wagon after this weekend.
I wrote a few notes and drank my beer. The mayor. The mayor. I could talk to him and set up an onsite interview. Think of the doors he might open. This would be so much better than traipsing in and asking questions. This was my way in.
Would he call?
Would Heidi do the legwork?
I left the bar and drove home. I searched the Internet for information on the encampment. Nothing. Just some brief news tidbits about another plan by Sweet Home city officials for a temporary encampment of sleeping pods or sheds at anther city-owned site that was delayed and delayed and mired in controversy.
But somehow, some way, someone or some folks in Sweet Home had made something decent happen, and it was a positive development, a start. That is, if the residents of the encampment wanted a start. Or was this merely the end of the road for many of them?
(Note: A month later, and the mayor still hadn't called.)
Keep on keepin' on. If you're too hesitant to walk in there yourself, tag along w/ Heidi. I dig reading your interior monologues, but if you cut it out these first-thought notes & put it all together, you've almost got the start of a first draft. Glad too hear you come out & say there's a book in all this. Ya gotta write about what's in front of you now.