Prophet with a Drinking Problem

People experiencing homelessness have a unique take on truth. Are we ready to listen?

A prophet speaks truth to power.

They’re brazen, heavy-handed, demanding. Their vocabulary abides by a stricter code than most. They do not tolerate words like compromise. The prophet charges the status quo with apathy and demands change — but not just any change. These truth-defenders call for the overhaul.

Prophets make us uncomfortable.

They expose our inconsistencies and systemic failures and cultural sins. They shed light on what we’ve hidden in the dark. Demanding justice, they refuse to pause at the hypothetical or philosophical. For the prophet, justice must be a concrete reality. Here. Now.

Most of us avoid the prophet because we know she’s right.

We are inconsistent. We do not always seek justice. The system needs to be transformed, if not completely overhauled. The prophet makes us uneasy because she beats us to the punch. She’s always one step ahead of us, dredging up the social change we would rather postpone.

The prophet is the argument we can’t win. The alarm clock with no snooze button. The bitter pill. The prophet — in a very real sense — embodies the inevitable.

A prophetic visitation has no sympathy for your slammed Google calendar and often looks nothing like what you imagined. Truth —as it happens — is an equal opportunity employer.

Often, she chooses the lowly to critique the wise.

The Sun beat on the left side of my face as I sat staring at a sea of motionless red tail lights buzzing on the 405.

I was caught in traffic with a man I had met just hours ago, his body sprawled across the backseat of my SUV. His hips were shattered and he was wheelchair bound, alcohol proving to be the only respite from the pain. Against my better judgment, I had already stopped twice to purchase him liquor. Empty bottles now littered the mats on the floor.

The air in the car was rancid.

Rich had been sleeping behind a dumpster for the past several months. When asked, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d showered.

He was forced to eat whatever he could find. This inhumane diet had taken a toll on his digestive system and he could no longer control even his most basic bodily functions. The stiff Santa Monica breeze blowing through the open windows of the car had no effect on the stench of human excrement wafting from the backseat.

I’d been to Skid Row countless times. Now, he had come to me.

We clawed through traffic and pulled into the VA parking lot 15 minutes before closing. Once in park, I ran to the back of the vehicle, grabbed Rich’s wheelchair and opened the passenger door. His face grimaced as I wrapped my arms under his armpits and across his chest, attempting to pull him from the car and into the chair. He cussed profusely.

Once in the wheelchair, I maneuvered Rich gingerly over cracks and gaps in the concrete towards the building. Every jolt and sudden movement drawing expletives from the drunken and belligerent Vet.

We reached the front desk and I explained the situation: Rich had shown up at the organization I worked for but we couldn’t house him due to his disability. He had self-identified as a Vet and the VA seemed to be his best option for receiving services. Clipboards and a mound of paperwork were given me to complete on behalf of a man I knew nothing about. I sat down next to Rich, ready to quickly fill out the forms before closing time only to find myself back at the desk.

“Hey man, Rich doesn’t have his I.D. number. The first question on this form asks for it. Where can he get one?”

“Wait. This guy don’t have his I.D?”

“No, sir.”

“Aw man, we can’t help him tonight! We’re closing in 5. You’ve got to come back in the morning and take him to the hospital ‘cross campus first to get that straightened out!”

My breath came quick and short. I looked back at Rick, slumped over in his chair, nodding off. I cussed and crossed the lobby to the sleeping vet.

“Hey Rich, we gotta come back tomorrow. They can’t help you tonight.”

The stench in the SUV had not subsided and my gut lurched the moment I opened the door. I stiffened and did everything I could not to hurl what I’d eaten for lunch. I loaded Rich into the backseat with the help of another Vet, stowed his wheelchair, slammed the door and pulled off the VA campus and onto Sepulveda.

Just in time for rush hour.

Homelessness has woven itself into the social fabric of L.A.

Tents and RV’s — once icons of a peaceful pastime or family vacation — have taken on a new identity within our sprawling metropolis. Underpasses, overpasses, back alleys and riverbeds, parks and abandoned rails. Everywhere you look you’ll find tents and RV’s.

Places never designed for human habitation have been repurposed as Angelenos who never dreamed they’d be here scrap together resources to build bedrooms out of boxes.

In 2020, the number of people living on the streets in L.A. rose 14.2% to 41,290. The numbers in LA County rose 12.7% from the previous year to a grand total of 66,436. It’s estimated that 82,955 people fell into homelessness for the first time in 2019 and while many of these individuals self-resolved their episode, there were those who could not. In spite of the nearly half a billion dollars distributed annually through LAHSA alone, the numbers continue to climb.

To put it another way, while 207 Angelenos rise out of homelessness daily — through housing interventions and other resources — there’s another 227 falling in (LAHSA Website).

As homelessness in LA has become more visible over the years, I’ve witnessed public outcry slowly reduced to passive indifference. The sight of a neighbor sleeping on the concrete no longer provokes action or even sympathy. We have become desensitized by the sheer enormity of the problem. The streets are still speaking an inconvenient truth; Instagram is just more compelling.

The Sun beat on the right side of my face as I sat staring at a sea of motionless red tail lights buzzing on the 405. Two hours had already passed as Rich and I crawled back through the mass of vehicles towards Echo Park. We had just made our third detour of the day at a Total Wine before entering traffic. More bottles for the prophet with a drinking problem added to the growing pile on the floorboards.

7 hours had passed since meeting Rich and my empathy had all but expired. The man in the back of my car had become increasingly belligerent as the day wore on. The pain from his shattered hips and cheap alcohol bleeding through every word. I strained to focus on the road as his slurred voice drone on, demanding, begging, pleading for one more bottle.

The moment we pulled off the VA campus, I had picked up the phone, every contact I’d made in homeless services over my 5 years in the field now on speed dial. I struck out. One by one. No one had an open bed for Rich that night. Trapped on the 405, I threw a Hail Mary, dialed a friend, and called in a favor.

“Hey Jenna, I know you can’t house anyone who’s disabled but do you have one bed for tonight? Just tonight. I have nothing else.”

One night, answered Jenna. My thanks were insufficient considering the magnitude of the favor but I couldn’t think straight. I told her I owed her one and hung up the phone.

The Sun had set when we finally reached Echo Park. Rich and I had now coexisted for 9 hours. Exhausted, I pulled the SUV up to the front of the center and Rich from the vehicle and into his wheelchair.

We made our way down the elevator and I walked him to his room for the night. The halls were still — a welcomed contrast to the chaos of traffic.

I opened the door to the empty bunk room, turned on the lights and showed Rich to his bed. Just as I turned to leave, he called out, eyes frantic:

“Where’s the bathroom?”

I saw a door at the end of the bunk room and jogged over to it.

“Rich, there’s a bathroom in here” I called from across the room.

It was too late. I saw Rich crumple on the bed, unable to get to his wheelchair. I started towards him but then stopped short. I looked away as he doubled over in pain and soiled the sheets of the bed.

A beat passed. Neither of us said a word, both too exhausted from the day of trying to coexist in the others world.

I was about to speak when I heard Rich’s voice. He was still in a fetal position, his eyes turned away, staring at the drab wall next to his bunk. The slur was gone, his words faint but clear:

“Ben, I’m not like you. I can’t function like you. Do you understand?”

I stared out the door and down the hall. Eyes blurred, chest tightening as Rich’s words hit my gut like a sledgehammer. My words came slowly.

“I understand, Rich.”

He rolled over and asked me to turn off the lights on my way out. I told him I would be back in the morning. Tomorrow we would try again.

A prophet speaks truth to power but they’re not untouchable. They are human. They are flawed. Their truth can be dismissed.

Rich stepped into a prophetic role in my life that night in the bunk room. But prior to those few seconds of unadulterated truth, he was just an intoxicated homeless man begging for more booze. His truth could have been easily overlooked or even dismissed.

Because I recognized and accepted his truth however, my life has been radically altered. A career change, two cross-country moves, and my son’s very existence all had their genesis in this seemingly random and bizarre event.

We cannot chose how Truth will encounter us. We can chose however, if we will be humble enough to receive her messenger.

For this Angeleno, a profound and life altering truth came in the form of a prophet with a drinking problem.

Epilogue

I have a lingering suspicion the prophet is dead.

After our second trip to the VA revealed — in dramatic fashion, I might add — that Rich was not a Veteran, I admitted him to a hospital near downtown LA.

He spent weeks recovering from a UTI and severe dehydration. During that time, I worked with the hospital staff as well as several colleagues to secure him housing. After he recovered, the hospital transferred him to a permanent supportive housing community intentionally designed for people with physical limitations.

After 3 days of being housed, he disappeared. That was in 2017.

I pay close attention now whenever I see a tent or RV. I’m hopeful one day I’ll meet the prophet again.