Today we were cleaning out bum camps.
This is my public work service. I’ve been doing it every
Monday and Thursday. It’s never been too bad once check-in notices and I
realize they still haven’t recognized my name. We’ve done trash clean up,
clearing brush, library work. I won’t say it’s not tedious, but it’s not the
worst either.
Today was hard, though. We were at a park, down the hill a
bit from where anyone could see. I guess during the day is the best time to go
because they’re pretty empty at those times. It wasn’t empty though. There was
one guy, so strung out he may as well have been a bit of furniture. The officer
literally picked him up and moved him. But there was a woman there and she was
in hysterics.
She wasn’t allowed to pick anything up or take anything with
her. We were told it was all trash. She was told it was all trash. It was
illegal that it was there at all.
A lot of the stuff was junk, re-appropriated and turned into
blankets, tools. There was a pillow made out of plastic bags stuffed in another
plastic bag. It had blood stains on it. Old clothes were laid out and flattened
to work as a mattress. There was a twelve-pack soda box that had used tissues
and toilet paper overflowing from it. Beer bottles were hung from old appliance
wire around the camps perimeter so the people would wake if someone came in the
middle of the night.
“You can’t do this! That’s my home,” she was shouting from
the other side of the officer. “That’s my fucking home!” She was yelling and
pointing at me. At the end of her sleeping area where a wadded sweater doubled
as a pillow (which stung a bit because that’s exactly what I have been doing in
the Bronco) she’d built a headboard with broken plywood. Pasted across it were
pictures of… well, they were old pictures of her and a little boy. I don’t know
who. They were crinkled, darkened and still covered in bits of paste.
“Pick it up,” the officer shouted at me. “I ain’t doing this
for my health.” There was a knife under her sweater-pillow, and a curled picture
of her in a hospital gown holding a baby. “You ain’t getting no credit if you
don’t get to cleaning!”
Getting “credit” means it’s another day they strike off what
you have to do. If you don’t do it, they abandon you on the side of the road
and you make a new enemy in addition to not getting credit for the day. “Time
to make a choice,” he shouted.
So I stuck the picture in my trash bag. I put the knife in
there, too, even though I am required to report finding something like that. I
put the headboard in the bag. I put her whole life in the bag.
Now I’m sitting in the backseat of the Bronco and the sun is
setting.
I don’t know what to do.
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