No Name

#79 - He looked at me through vacant eyes. He was gone. In a stupor. Trance-like but occupied in thought, somewhere.

Welcome! And thank you - I’m glad you are here.  

Better is not good enough, the best is yet to come! May you have your BEST NEW YEAR yet!  

       No Name 

Last week, I wrote about Sasquatch, who by choice, is living in isolation. Though alone in the wilderness, he was not homeless. 

There is a man nearby who is also living in isolation. He is homeless, physically and mentally. He may be broken. His eyes are very far away.  

“No Name’s” home is on the asphalt edge of a Waterfront Road pullout, just past where it goes under the highway. It’s near the on/off ramp. It gets a lot of traffic. 

Waterfront Road goes through marshland and tidal flats, and high tides can cover the road. Same with too much rain too fast. 

I’ve been by there four times in the last couple of weeks, at different times of the day, and No Name was there. Sitting there, in the same spot, legs crossed under him yoga-like.  

He looks small, engulfed in a big green puffer jacket and hood. Dirty jeans. Scrubby hair and beard.  

The authorities would be aware of him. And his condition. But he hasn’t been run off. He’s accumulating a lot of trash.  

There are other “campers” further down the road in tents and cars and vans and RVs.  

The third time by, I thought I’d give him a few bucks.  

I called out to him, waving the money. He looked over briefly, then went back to what he was doing.  

I called again. He didn’t answer.  

I pulled over and parked and went over to him.  

His “space” consisted of a small tent, bags of stuff, a 24-count case of water, and a shopping bag full of what I took to be food. The place was a mess.  

His eyes were on a goldfish cracker he had fingered from its bag.  

I’m thinking he has money for food. 

I said, “Hey, are you okay?”  

He looked at me through vacant eyes. He was gone. In a stupor. Trance-like but occupied in thought, somewhere.  

“Yes,” he said in a meek voice, looking down. 

Probably on drugs, or the result of them. I couldn’t tell. Maybe just numb from the cold, and his situation. 

Up close, I could see he was older than I had thought. Maybe sixty. 

I didn’t think he could function. There was no way he could have gone to a store. 

Surely the water and food were dropped off by someone. 

He needed help. - But he had been there for a while, getting by. 

“Do you need anything?” I asked, while thinking “He needs everything.” 

He looked up, said “No”, and looked back down to the goldfish. 

“Here!” I said. “Here’s a few bucks.” 

He shook his head, still looking down. 

For sure he wants to be alone. He wanted nothing to do with anything. That was my take. 

I left but had occasion to be in the area again. He was still there. I tried again but got the same response.  

What to do, if anything? 

It’s now winter, and damp and cold. It’s not the cold winters of most places but it’s cold enough to die in if ill-prepared or in some way compromised. 

I’ve gotten used to seeing the homeless around here. A lot of “campable” space follows Walnut Creek as it flows toward Suisun Bay.

The asphalted Iron Horse Trail along the creek is a major thoroughfare.  

I’m on that trail often. 

I’ve seen some regulars for years now, and some come back again after being gone for years.  

A shelter is nearby but most choose not to use it. 

Along Walnut Creek many are camping. It is wide and swift when the rains come.  

The police move them out every few months and do a big cleanup, but they gather again. 

Under overpasses, they build living quarters from wood pallets and all manner of material and carve out rooms in the now dry creek bank.  

On the flats, tent communes grow. They become communities. A culture. 

Most get on welfare. Anything they need is available through the system and at the nearby flea market. 

All have cell phones; none are lacking food or other necessity. Fast food, Starbucks, and convenience stores are easy walking distance away. 

There are more and more women. A couple of them were “in the trade”. 

I rarely see children. 

Those who can avoid the drugs are doing alright. They might find work and change their futures. 

It’s just their “home” situation that is the rub. 

Drugs, shopping carts, bicycles and parts, and trash is their ‘hood. It looks like a ghetto. But compared to Oakland, or any other inner-city homeless camp, it seems better by far. 

For many, it’s the life they’ve come to choose. 

Winter rains destroy all along the creek. It rushes in torrents. 

Most campers stay until the very last, taking only what they can. Accumulated junk and weeks of refuse remain. The rising waters wash it away and is now part of the creek. 

What’s left is for someone else to clean up. 

The welfare system is broken and gamed. Staying in the system is easy. It’s a lifestyle. 

How people come to be homeless, from have, to have not, must be a painful journey. 

The circumstances, and decisions made.   

I can see how, with the best of intentions, events can turn, and I/we could be in their place.  

What to do? 

I kept thinking about No Name.

I wondered what his story was. Family? Do they miss each other?  

Can he pick himself up, or be rescued, saved??  

It has been our coldest weather so far. He seemed so very far away. Weak and fragile.

I gathered a bag of food items and sundry goods and drove over to him.  

- - He was gone. The mess was still there but he was gone.

I hoped he had found his way home - for Christmas. 

part 2

Thank you for reading Before I Forget . . ! Please leave a Comment. I much appreciate it! 

For my newer Subscribers - an earlier post from Mar. 3, 2023 - 

More posts for your perusal are in my archive. Check them out! 

Image by Me 

See you next week, my friends.  :)