Looking for My Client
Today, I had the opportunity to wander the streets of the Tenderloin in San Francisco. It's not something I do everyday.
I had an appointment with a client who I am assisting with a disability claim. He is homeless, older and a bit depressed. I don't mean to state the obvious, since anyone reading this online somewhere under a roof, warm and protected from the blustering wind pushing in an Alaskan front, probably would expect that homelessness might breed depression, but then, they might not.
Homelessness breeds depression, among other things. Fortunately for my client, and for me, he is relatively calm in his depression. He worries, mostly, gets a little angry and becomes anxious when he starts to think about dealing with the many layers of bureaucracy he must slice if he wants to obtain General Assistance from the County, or food stamps, or a place to live, or his birth certificate, or identification, or Social Security card, all of which are interrelated and require each other. The absence of one of these items slides all the others just out of finger's reach. Thus, the depression, then the worry, then the anger, then the anxiety, then the bureaucracy, the depression, the worry, the anger, the anxiety, the depression. And all of this outside, in the gusts of wind picking up all the dirt of the city and swirling it around through the wind tunnels of downtown San Francisco, and throwing it down again on the drops of cold Arctic rain. Welcome home.
My client came to his appointment, and I was happy to see him because I knew from a couple sources that he had followed through on all the tasks I had given him. He had to see a doctor, start the process of requesting his birth certificate (complicated by the fact that his hometown is New Orleans, where the records are either soggy, missing or destroyed), and re-negotiate his shelter space with a Veterans' association. Oh, right, did I mention that he's a Vet? That probably went without mentioning.
I saw him in the waiting room and he smiled. He likes the way I laugh and it warmed my heart when he told me that. He's got a lot of southern charm about him; he likes to keep well-organized, he tries to remain pleasant and he always looks nice. He folds important pieces of paper up tightly so he can secure them in his overworked, but underpaid, wallet. He always looks like he just brushed off his clothes and cleaned up his face and hands when he arrives. He plays down most of his problems.
We chat for a bit when we start our weekly meeting. He tells me about some aches and pains, some new developments in his progress, some sadness he's been feeling at the difficulty of all this life he's living. Then we review his case together. I made a chart of the things we have to do to get it all done, and he likes to see me cross off our chores.
Today, I was excited to meet up with him because he had a birthday this week. I bought him a sandwich and made him a card.
I said hello and asked if he could wait a moment while I got some paperwork out. He smiled again and said, "fine, fine." I said, "how you feeling?" He said, "ooh, you know." I laughed and he laughed and I went into the office. One of the other workers, this one an actual employee, had some information to share with him about his food stamps. I watched her tell him the good news and when I looked up again, he was gone.
We think he thought that was all for the week, that he was done, we were done, happy friday and he was off. We chased him down the stairs, but we were chasing air. He has a limp and rolls a piece of luggage behind him, but he was fast. We checked a few locations but he was gone. And he didn't come back while I was in the office, despite my mental will calling to him: "Come back for your sandwich. Come back for your sandwich. Come back."
When I finished my research, I decided to find him. I thought I could find him. I walked through the Civic Center and into the Tenderloin. I walked along Market and down Mission. I walked it all twice. I saw men who looked like him, and men who didn't. I saw men sleeping on the sidewalk and women getting sick. I saw people arguing, buying drugs, pushing carts, drinking from papersacks, huddling against the wind, talking, singing, dancing, waiting, watching. I saw one man who I thought might be dying, but I hoped otherwise. Later, on my second loop, there was an ambulance attending to him. I didn't find my client.
I returned to my car and decided to try his shelter. It doesn't open until later; it's a gym in a community center that converts to a small barracks after dark. The doors were locked and the location remained in that limbo between play and sleep, as it does every afternoon between 5 and 9. My client was nowhere I could see.
And so I called off the search. I will see him next week. I'll get him a sandwich then, and maybe an apple. He wanted some codliver oil because it's a good fat. Maybe I'll get him that for his birthday. I still can't believe I didn't find him. But, really, it was like looking for a needle in a neighborhood of needles.
I had an appointment with a client who I am assisting with a disability claim. He is homeless, older and a bit depressed. I don't mean to state the obvious, since anyone reading this online somewhere under a roof, warm and protected from the blustering wind pushing in an Alaskan front, probably would expect that homelessness might breed depression, but then, they might not.
Homelessness breeds depression, among other things. Fortunately for my client, and for me, he is relatively calm in his depression. He worries, mostly, gets a little angry and becomes anxious when he starts to think about dealing with the many layers of bureaucracy he must slice if he wants to obtain General Assistance from the County, or food stamps, or a place to live, or his birth certificate, or identification, or Social Security card, all of which are interrelated and require each other. The absence of one of these items slides all the others just out of finger's reach. Thus, the depression, then the worry, then the anger, then the anxiety, then the bureaucracy, the depression, the worry, the anger, the anxiety, the depression. And all of this outside, in the gusts of wind picking up all the dirt of the city and swirling it around through the wind tunnels of downtown San Francisco, and throwing it down again on the drops of cold Arctic rain. Welcome home.
My client came to his appointment, and I was happy to see him because I knew from a couple sources that he had followed through on all the tasks I had given him. He had to see a doctor, start the process of requesting his birth certificate (complicated by the fact that his hometown is New Orleans, where the records are either soggy, missing or destroyed), and re-negotiate his shelter space with a Veterans' association. Oh, right, did I mention that he's a Vet? That probably went without mentioning.
I saw him in the waiting room and he smiled. He likes the way I laugh and it warmed my heart when he told me that. He's got a lot of southern charm about him; he likes to keep well-organized, he tries to remain pleasant and he always looks nice. He folds important pieces of paper up tightly so he can secure them in his overworked, but underpaid, wallet. He always looks like he just brushed off his clothes and cleaned up his face and hands when he arrives. He plays down most of his problems.
We chat for a bit when we start our weekly meeting. He tells me about some aches and pains, some new developments in his progress, some sadness he's been feeling at the difficulty of all this life he's living. Then we review his case together. I made a chart of the things we have to do to get it all done, and he likes to see me cross off our chores.
Today, I was excited to meet up with him because he had a birthday this week. I bought him a sandwich and made him a card.
I said hello and asked if he could wait a moment while I got some paperwork out. He smiled again and said, "fine, fine." I said, "how you feeling?" He said, "ooh, you know." I laughed and he laughed and I went into the office. One of the other workers, this one an actual employee, had some information to share with him about his food stamps. I watched her tell him the good news and when I looked up again, he was gone.
We think he thought that was all for the week, that he was done, we were done, happy friday and he was off. We chased him down the stairs, but we were chasing air. He has a limp and rolls a piece of luggage behind him, but he was fast. We checked a few locations but he was gone. And he didn't come back while I was in the office, despite my mental will calling to him: "Come back for your sandwich. Come back for your sandwich. Come back."
When I finished my research, I decided to find him. I thought I could find him. I walked through the Civic Center and into the Tenderloin. I walked along Market and down Mission. I walked it all twice. I saw men who looked like him, and men who didn't. I saw men sleeping on the sidewalk and women getting sick. I saw people arguing, buying drugs, pushing carts, drinking from papersacks, huddling against the wind, talking, singing, dancing, waiting, watching. I saw one man who I thought might be dying, but I hoped otherwise. Later, on my second loop, there was an ambulance attending to him. I didn't find my client.
I returned to my car and decided to try his shelter. It doesn't open until later; it's a gym in a community center that converts to a small barracks after dark. The doors were locked and the location remained in that limbo between play and sleep, as it does every afternoon between 5 and 9. My client was nowhere I could see.
And so I called off the search. I will see him next week. I'll get him a sandwich then, and maybe an apple. He wanted some codliver oil because it's a good fat. Maybe I'll get him that for his birthday. I still can't believe I didn't find him. But, really, it was like looking for a needle in a neighborhood of needles.
posted by your friend at Friday, April 14, 2006
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