A night spent in their shoes

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the last of the two-part series on homelessness in Costa Mesa that tells the story of City Editor Paul Anderson’s night on the streets.

I managed to get one of the last blankets, having been late to the pile because I didn’t know the routine, but I reasoned it was enough to roll up into a pillow.

I stayed in the hallway outside the sleeping room because I wanted the light to read. I wasn’t tired yet and had brought along James Baldwin’s “Another Country.”

I didn’t get much of a chance to read it, though, because Ken Robison, an assistant to the Lighthouse’s Pastor Dale Fitch came out to the hallway to keep guard at the door.

At that time anyone could leave, but it was too late to come in.

Ken’s a tall, husky guy with white hair. He’s got hound-dog eyes that often show a spark, especially when the topic turns to Jesus. At first we talked about music.

He shook his head in disbelief at the thought of the classic rock he used to listen to. Nowadays he can’t get enough of Christian music and regularly types it into search engines to find as much of it as he can.

I recommended he check out Sufjan Stevens’ “Seven Swans,” and he asked me to write it down for future reference.

He lit up again as he told me about the weekly Saturday afternoon dinners there at the Lighthouse church.

Volunteers from area churches come in, cook quality food and then serve the homeless like it’s a banquet hall or a restaurant — all part of Pastor Dale’s attempt to restore their dignity.

It was about 11:30 p.m. and Ken puttered around tending to chores here and there. I slumped against the wall and sat down. I still couldn’t sleep. I peered down at the mud-stained, faded carpet and thought how excruciatingly slowly the time passed. One of the guests had a radio on that he never turned off so I could hear the low chatter of a talk show and occasionally music. There was a stale, almost dank smell, probably a hint of mold — like that scent in a thrift store. It wasn’t overpowering or terribly unpleasant, just a reminder it’s an old building where they do their best to keep it clean, but could use an infusion of money to help restore it. All night long there was a parade of men going to the bathroom.

Ken returned and we ended up talking for nearly two hours about theology and his life story or “testimonial,” as he puts it. Ken and I argued about whether there’s a hell. I don’t think there’s a hell in the afterlife. Rather, I think people who turn away from God encounter a hell on earth, but Ken believes you’re headed for eternal damnation if you don’t accept Jesus as your savior. It was a friendly, rousing bit of jousting that I enjoyed, but I got the impression Ken worried about me. Christopher, who couldn’t sleep, got up and told Ken he’d like to take over for him. It was 1:45 a.m. and Ken was exhausted so he took him up on the offer, but he returned a short time later with an aluminum cot with a slender mattress for me to sleep on.

So I finally tried to sleep, but mold, dust or maybe a dog one of the guests brought assaulted my sinuses. I decided to stay in the hallway under the bright fluorescent lights and between the steady traffic to the bathroom next to me. Because of the low buzz of the transistor-sounding radio and my allergies I could only manage to doze a little. And, I’m ashamed to say, I was nervous. Everyone I met seemed friendly, but many of the folks I talked to that night repeated, like a mantra, that people are afraid of the homeless, and it’s true. Some might be afraid they’re crazy and will attack. Or perhaps they appear like a mirror to the future to some — lose your job, can’t make the rent, and that could be you out on the streets. It happened to one of my brothers once. He was renting a room and the crazy landlord hadn’t paid the mortgage for going on a year my brother discovered to his chagrin one afternoon when the sheriff showed up to evict everyone. He called me at work and said, “I’m homeless. What’ll I do?” He was lucky. He had family to turn to who helped him quickly get a new home.

Ken actually chose to be homeless. Pastor Dale and Ken figured out there are a few categories of homelessness, something that I had also reasoned out. There’s what I call the “circumstantially homeless,” like my brother was. Then there are the severely mentally ill who cannot function in society and don’t have a safety net. Then there are what I call “the drop-outs.” They are asocial and just don’t want to be on the 9-to-5 treadmill.

Ken fell into the last category. He chose homelessness. He was getting along just fine living with his mother, but then his sister, her husband and kids lost their home and had to move in. Eventually, they started getting on each others’ nerves and one day Ken decided to drop out. He was 38 years old. For the first year-and-a-half it was fun. Drugs, no responsibilities, no jerk bosses.

Then homelessness became its own job of sorts. And he developed his own routines. You get on a schedule, just like with a job. Go to Someone Cares Soup Kitchen to get lunch, go to Share Our Selves to get food at another time of the day, etc.

He often partnered up with a buddy, Mike, who was in a wheelchair. Ken said he lacked the talent to bum change, but with Mike and his wheelchair they could collect up to $20 in minutes rolling up and down outside a Home Depot.

What’s the most effective appeal for spare change? Honesty is the best policy, Ken learned. Just tell people you want money for booze and they’re happy to give it up.

One time, he came across a regular who stands at the freeway exit on Harbor with a sign declaring he’s a veteran and he needs help.

“How’s that working for you?” Ken asked.

Not too good, he was told.

So Ken suggested he write on the sign, “Will work for…” and then add with line-outs, “Food, shelter…” and finally, “Aw, hell, I just want money for booze.”

The next day Ken stopped by and asked if it worked. Business was booming.

Ken finds a lot of impish humor in this. But, strangely, it appalled me. I explain that what Ken did was recognize, at least subconsciously, one of the main problems the homeless have: they are invisible to us. With the outrageous joke, at the man’s own expense, he made the sign “pop” like a clever Super Bowl ad.

In other words, people weren’t responding to the human tragedy in altruistic terms, they rewarded him like you would throw marshmallows to a dancing monkey at the zoo.

One Christmas Eve a cop who recognized Ken told him his buddy Mike died.

“Awww man,” he thought at the time. “Why’d he have to tell me that on Christmas Eve?”

I guess there’s never a good time for bad news, I said.

‘That’s God working’

At some point Ken got sick and tired of being sick and tired and he said he literally fell to his knees and said, “OK, God. You win. Tell me what you want me to do. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll stop, but you have to give me a sign.”

The skies didn’t part, lightning didn’t strike, no bushes caught fire. As you might expect, nothing happened. So he just forgot about it.

The next day he headed over to the Lighthouse, one of his regular stops for breakfast and someone passing him by in the parking lot said, “Are you a resident here?” He had no idea what she was talking about. Another passerby asked him, “You live here, right?” A third person told him he was on the waiting list for the residency program.

Clueless, but clearly intrigued now about this residency program, he walked into the pastor’s office, something he had never done before.

The Lighthouse was just a place to get breakfast and crash sometimes. He told the pastor’s daughter a few people asked him if he lived there and he wondered what they were talking about.

“Funny you should ask,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, we do have a residency program here and some anonymous person put you on the waiting list.”

That was five years ago and Ken has been there ever since. It prompts one of Ken’s favorite expressions, “That’s God working there.” Pastor Dale usually limits the residency to one year, but Ken has become his assistant. It started one day when he offered to run errands for the pastor.

Ken thrived under the pastor. He recently has tracked down his family as well in another seeming miracle. He lost touch with them while on the streets and his family searched fruitlessly for him through Costa Mesa. Then one day Ken started putting his brother-in-law’s name into various search engines reasoning that since the bills were in his brother-in-law’s name it would be easier to find him. No luck. So he entered “search engine” into a search engine and eventually found a database containing a match for his brother-in-law’s name. He dialed the number and his mother answered.

“See, that’s God working there.”

A ‘pro surfing legend’ tells her tale

When the sun came up I decided I would never get any sleep and that it was time to go. I was about to leave when I saw the woman who claimed to be a “pro surfing legend” and asked if she would like to finish our interview. She smiled and said yes. We went to the McDonald’s nearby and I bought her hash browns — her favorite — and coffee.

She was insistent at first on outlining her plan to help the homeless. She has been homeless off and on since 1987, she said, when she went through a painful divorce she was reluctant to talk about. Eventually, she told me he beat her, breaking her arm in several places. Still, she stayed with him for several years. She talked about surfing all over the world, winning dozens of trophies, inventing tandem surfing, and even hanging with Dick Dale and the Beach Boys. The story grew more fantastic as I drilled deeper. She never had kids — six miscarriages. A friend of her common-law husband of 21 years raped her in November, she said.

As she yielded these details, one of their friends sitting with her husband across the way at a nearby table made appallingly lurid jokes in some sort of creepy flirtation that she appeared to at least superficially tolerate good-naturedly. Her husband, a short man with light, short, spiky hair and a mustache occasionally chuckled at his friend’s attempts at humor as he read a Robert Heinlein book. Later, when I was at the soup kitchen, he stomped up to me, his slightly askew eyes blazing, but not quite meeting mine, and said, “You want a story that’ll make your mouth water? Meet me at the park.” Then he swung around and went back to his breakfast. I never took him up on it.

I tried documenting what she told me, but several web searches through various databases like imdb.comfailed to back up her Hollywood claims. This saddened me. I also called several area surf experts, including one she said she knew, and some who were there in the glory days of the ’60s, but they did not recognize the name she gave me. It’s possible she’s telling the truth and she’s been robbed of the credit she deserves — not entirely out of the question in Hollywood, but I reluctantly suspect her stories even though she apparently believes what she says.

She insists she doesn’t want to be homeless and makes a convincing argument that Costa Mesa should develop an armory or some type of permanent shelter for the homeless, a central hub where the homeless can receive a variety of services. It’s a great idea, but unrealistic given the city’s tightening budget.

‘So much kindness’

It was close to 9 a.m. so I headed over to the soup kitchen to finish my day. I got in line like everyone else and waited for 20 minutes or so for a spot to open up. When I got in I found myself in the familiar bustle of the soup kitchen. Kim Haina, the weekend supervisor, manages it like a traffic cop at a demolition derby, but always smiling as if it’s the happiest day of her life. All of the volunteers there shower waves of love and affection on the guests, many of whom are regulars they know on a first-name basis. Really, it’s much like a gathering of old friends every day — like neighbors meeting up at a retirement community’s clubhouse.

Beth Khorey looked so happy when I asked her how she came to volunteer at Someone Cares.

“I’ve been doing this since the beginning of the year on Saturdays,” the Balboa Island resident said. The decorative artist recently lost her business and was feeling sorry for herself. The Talbot School of Theology divinity student heard about the soup kitchen through Rock Harbor church in Costa Mesa and decided she’d fill her suddenly open days serving the poor.

“My first day working here, the guests showed me so much kindness,” she said. “Certainly they’ve given me more than I’ve ever given them.”

Welcome to the jungle

From the soup kitchen I finally headed down to the jungle. I found myself averting the gaze of people out walking their dogs or taking their kids somewhere. You get nervous, thinking they’re going to be alarmed by the disheveled, bearded guy with the backpack and call the police. And this after just one night. I can only imagine how paranoid you get after an extended time on the streets.

I descended into the preserve and walked through the brush, looking for signs of camping. At some point I had to stop as the mud got too thick and slippery. As I headed back someone burst out of the brush, startling me. Was it a jogger? One of the late-straggling campers? I was so bleary-eyed I couldn’t be sure.

I trudged on and decided to take a right turn into some brush that appeared like a potential nest. Finally, I saw signs someone had stayed there — soggy, faded pages of pornography. I edged in a little deeper to see a soup can, a Reynolds Wrap box and an empty bottle of King Cobra malt liquor alongside, curiously enough, a dumped box of business cards. I took some more pictures, shinned up the incline to 19th Street, got in my car and headed back to the office to post something on my blog.

As I idled at a red light on Harbor I saw a young mom and her daughter hurrying to get across the street. Strangely, the woman wasn’t holding the toddler’s hand as the little girl struggled to keep a step or two behind mom. Then she dropped her doll and stopped to pick it up. The light would change soon, I thought. Mom noticed right away, picked up the doll and finally grabbed the girl’s hand and rushed the rest of the way to the curb. I got a little choked up at that image of the mother’s protective impulse, however belatedly, emerge. It seemed like an apt metaphor for how we treat the homeless: We catch them when it’s nearly too late.

City Editor PAUL ANDERSON may be reached at (714) 966-4633 or at paul.anderson@latimes.com.