I Want To Live

Chapter Eighteen

    Police officer Sid Barber pedaled his mountain bike along the pot-holed road leading to Gunney’s encampment. His partner, Carol Simpson, cycled beside him. Reaching the site of the cabin tent they braked, standing astride their bikes. Gunny stepped from the interior of his domain to greet them. 

    “Hey, Sid. How’s it goin’, man?” Both men shook hands cordially. “You don’t usually make rounds this way on a Tuesday. What’s up?”

    “Gunny, you know I respect what you’re doing here, maintaining a clean disciplined camp and all---I have to warn you.” 

    “You guys look serious. Warn me of what?” 

    “The mayor has a burr up his ass. He’s scheduled a major eviction of all known homeless camps for this Friday, starting at five a.m. when most will still be sleeping.” Sid shook his head. I don’t sanction this move, Gunny. As a public servant though I’m obligated to follow orders.” He paused to spit his distaste into the dirt. “If you all don’t pack up your gear and leave Seattle, you’ll be ticketed for loitering, arrested and carted to jail. You’ll have a felony charge against you. There’s nothing we can do about it. We could get suspended or fired for even warning you---I’m sorry.”

    “I understand, Sid. Carol. You have a job to do.” Gunny waved them off. “Thanks for the heads up.” 

    Major Goodman drove the Salvation Army van onto the site that Wednesday afternoon. She was surprised to see the veterans huddled in a group beside their belongings. All tents had been dismantled, bagged and stacked neatly in a pile. She stepped down from the van. Gunny walked toward her with a worried expression.

    “Major, I have a big favor to ask of you.”

    “Anything, Gunny. You know that.” Some of his men kicked at the dirt with their boots, clearly agitated.

    “You’ve told me in the past that your organization has a separate facility for veterans, where they’ll have access to mental health care, meals and a room, retraining for viable jobs. They’re suffering from PTSD, Major---”

    “We can provide help for them, yes. Are they willing to accept responsibility toward their rehabilitation?”

    “There’s going to be a raid on all homeless this Friday. They’ll be evicted. I need a safe place for my people.” Gunny tightened his grip on her arm. Pleading with his eyes. We’re not heroes. We’re messed up victims. Pawns of politics.

    Angela raised her finger. Pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. “Wayne, how many vacant rooms are available in the Veteran’s facility?” A long pause. “I see. For now, they’re taken. Thank you.” She pocketed the phone. “We have ten beds available. How many people are we talking about here?”

    “I have ten men, Major, and four women.”

    “Just a minute.” Angela fished the phone out again. Dialed the Women’s Shelter. Explained the situation with Bridget. A vehement “Bloody Hell” was heard. Angela shifted the phone away from her ear. Her lips thinned with determination. Posture ramrod straight. “You listen to me. No excuses. Have we got at least four beds over there?” A considerable pause. “Don’t argue with me. There’s a social worker and psych therapist on site. I’m sure they can handle whatever happens. Good. That’s my girl. Wouldn’t know what we’d do without you, Bridget.”

    Gunny laughed. “Did I hear ‘bloody hell’?”

    “She’s British. It’s like you and me using the word shit.”

    Gunny feigned a shocked expression. “I’m surprised at your language, Major.”

    Angela swatted his arm. “All right. Load ‘em up. Hop into the van. I’ll transport you now.”

    Gunny and Ron held back. She eyed them over her glasses. “You two aren’t coming.”

    “Ron and I are going to head in another direction. Catch the bus tomorrow morning. The mountains should look beautiful this time of year.” Ron nodded his agreement. “Use the tents and camping gear as you see fit. Take them to your Thrift Store.”

    “We can transport the stuff this evening. I’ll come back with some men.”

    “We’ll wait here. Keep an eye on the gear ‘till you arrive.” Gunny hugged her in gratitude. “Thank you, Major.” 

    Ron moved to bear-hug her as usual. “You stay put! I mean it.” Angela backed away with her arms out in a defensive posture. She hopped up into the driver’s seat. Shut the door quickly. Keyed the motor and drove off to the sound of their uproarious laughter.  

    Friday at five a.m. armed police officers brandishing nightsticks woke the homeless they could find, prodding them mercilessly. “Rise and shine. You’re being evicted!” Smashing their cardboard shelters with their boots. Strewing their pitiful belongings with abandon, grinding them into the dirt. Laughing like hyenas. Grabbing some of the women, kissing them roughly, then pushing them to the ground. Kicking some of the ragged men if they fell in their haste to get away.   

    They were mystified to find the areas under the bridges empty. No vehicles in sight. Even the veteran’s camp was vacant. No evidence it had ever been occupied. The paddy wagons carted those who resisted and put up a fight to jail. Overall, the consensus was it had been a disappointing day. The cops wanted more bloodshed. Many drowned their frustration with pitchers of beer in popular bars, frustrated that one of their own had probably spread the alarm.

   The mayor crowed on the five o’clock news hour. “My fellow citizens, our Officers did an outstanding job today ridding Seattle of the vermin in our streets. The homeless have gotten the message loud and clear, “You are not welcome here.” He was tired of the avalanche of threatening calls to his office, complaining about the homeless situation. Words of: “They’re a filthy bunch. Scaring away the tourists. Littering our parks and playgrounds. Begging for small change. Prostitutes hanging around the waterfront. Dumpster-diving in alleyways. Discarded syringes and wine bottles.” He was running for reelection come fall. Clearing out the homeless should bring him more votes.