Officer Harris watched how they moved around, every day, each day little different than any other. In the early morning he watched how they drifted out of the highway underpasses and down from loading docks where they slept their nights. He watched how they moved into their regular spots, near the train stations, elevated exits, coffee shops, tourist magnets, anywhere there was a steady flow of people, workers who hurried to their offices, tourists who loitered in the idleness of vacation. He watched how they worked—yes, he slowly came to realize, it was definitely work—some hitting up passersby with friendly, wheedling chatter. Some bluntly voicing the specifics of their plight, their tone more urgent, desperate. And some who huddled on the sidewalk, head down and silent, sending out their plea with a few words markered onto a piece of cardboard. He watched how some of them lingered around garbage cans, some warily peering inside and others boldly reaching in, poking at discarded bags in the hope of more than just paper wrapping. He watched as they ate what food they could get—from garbage cans, from generous office workers who stepped out of shops with an extra bag, from restaurant employees through alley doors—some voraciously, right out on the open street, others skulking away down alleys.
From the warmth of the squad car he sits and watches. He peers at them through the thick windshield glass and the steam from the styrofoam cup that rests on the dashboard. He has been on homeless detail for the last nine months, patrolling downtown, endlessly circling the one-way streets. They’re never going away, his sergeant said, so the idea was to make sure they stayed civil, didn’t harass the office workers and tourists too much, or accost each other. They were part of city life, indelible, permanent.
He watches one, a woman, who sits on the sidewalk with her back to a light post. As each person passes she looks up silently, her sunken eyes imploring, above a cardboard sign that tells her story in one sentence. Stranded in the city, robbed of all her money, just wants to get home. A familiar pitch, he thinks, nagging the guilt of people with plenty of money in their pockets and a home to return to. But few people slow their pace as they approach her, if they even see her at all, and none have tossed her any change during the ten minutes Officer Harris has idled at the curb.
Half of his shift is spent circling in the squad car, taking in the big picture and seeing that all is reasonably well, and the other half out of the car and walking the beat like some old-time cop, talking to everyone, the employed and the homeless, looking for details that he might not be able to see from the distance of the car. That time will come, he sees from a glance at his watch, in ten minutes, just long enough to finish his coffee and brace up for the cold.
He continues to watch the woman. He wonders how old she is; she looks sixty, but he knows that just a few months on the streets puts years of wear on a face and body. As a man in a long overcoat passes, she reaches up toward him with one hand—Officer Harris tenses, anticipating an altercation—and her lips part, revealing a jagged jumble of teeth. But she draws back, the overcoat moving away, and Officer Harris eases back into the seat. He takes another long gulp of coffee. She’s just one of the harmless ones, he thinks, and less likely to take care of herself. Which is where the third, unofficial part of his job comes in.
He looks to the west, where the late afternoon sun has already begun to set, turning the air even colder. His coffee cup still half-full, he returns it to the dashboard, zips up his leather jacket to the chin, opens the door and climbs out. She is startled when she sees him standing over her, cowers away without rising.
Hey, easy there, he says, smiling. I’m just here to talk, maybe help you. She remains seated and stares at the sidewalk and away from him. He asks her name and where she’s from, nods at hearing Mary and Toledo, asks if she’s had anything to eat today, if she has a place to sleep. He speaks slowly and steadily, drawing her out. Hearing No to the first question, he says he’ll be right back and turns toward the doughnut shop behind him. Returning, he hands her a bag which she takes only warily, then shoves inside her buttonless raincoat.
How long have you been here, he asks, and then after a while, Oh, and what about that place to sleep? She shakes her head without a word. Can’t have that, he says. Cold night.
He hands her a card for a mission a few blocks south, regretting that she’ll have to get there on her own. The sergeant gave him a reprimand the one time he shuttled one of them to the mission in the squad car, and the mission was always on a tight budget and wasn’t in the taxi business to pick up...clients, was the word they used. She would have to walk the six blocks on her own, and he would just have to hope she got there. He knew that a woman like her shouldn’t sleep outdoors, under an overpass or huddled in a doorway; the same guys who wore friendly smiles while cadging spare change during the day could become predators at night if they hadn’t eaten, and thin, meek women like her were easy targets. The wheedlers became thieves. He wonders how she has survived.
He presses the card on her again, and at last she takes it. Western Mission, he says, you know where that is? Tell them my name—Officer Leonard Harris, see where I wrote it on the back?—and they’ll take care of you. He knows he has to get her away from the thieves and wolves, and maybe somehow she’ll find her way home. He is glad to help, and regrets only that he can’t do more.
Lots of vivid details make it feel real.