D. LORNE COYLE, MDiv.

BURNT LIPS

Ignoring the cup’s “Hot/Chaud/Caliente” warning, the man cursed as the coffee burned his lips. I wondered if he couldn’t read.

He and another man sat next to me at the McDonald’s high-top table on the corner of 58^th Avenue and SR60. Judging from the amount of belongings they had stuffed into a backpack and several plastic bags, I guessed they were homeless. The cups of hot coffee were their breakfast on this cool morning.

Joe looked at me and said, “Pretty dumb, uh? You’d think I’d know by now that this stuff comes out real hot.” His grin revealed only two upper teeth. “My brother there takes his time and sips it real slow.”

I really wasn’t sure I wanted to engage the two men. I was between two meetings, had little time. Despite the fact that I was working with homeless families, I was wary of homeless singles. Experience had shown that homeless singles are a very different demographic than homeless families. I responded to Joe’s comment anyhow, waiting for what I thought would come next: The inevitable ask for money.

The conversation went on, including not only Joe but also his brother, Frank. Turns out they had lost their jobs and the lack of insurance plus mounting medical problems had reduced them to homelessness. I figured there was more to the story; always is. But that’s what they wanted to tell me. I left it at that. Still waiting for the ask.

I wondered where they were living. “Nearby,” said Joe, “Behind Applebee’s. It’s not so bad. We have a tent there. We get by.”

The ask never came. Before I left, I urged them to contact the Treasure Coast Homeless Services Council. I wrote down the number for them: 772-567-7790. We all finished our coffee and said goodbye.

“CAMP” APPLEBEE

A few days later, mid-morning, I went there. I was careful, parking the car in the Applebee’s lot, leaving my watch and wallet hidden in its trunk. I walked south toward the Wal-Mart loading dock. I moved along the cinder block wall till I saw a slim break in the Brazilian Pepper tree line. I entered the break. Walking east about 50 paces, I saw a clearing.

It was not state park-type camping. The arrangement of the tents was haphazard. The tents themselves were saggy, dirty, some torn. No one was home.

Eighteen tents plus a few tarps strung on rope between trees. So about 18 of the 676 homeless Indian River County adults lived there. Taking them as a random sample, that meant that 12 of them were homeless because of a lack of employment. One of them was likely a veteran. Five – only five – may have had substance abuse issues.

But the site was remarkably clean. I’d expected to see the detritus of homelessness: Empty liquor bottles, food cans, fast food wrappers. I saw little of that. What I saw were two pits about 20 yards from the farthest tent site. One was for garbage; the other for human waste. Apparently the camp was organized around a need for sanitary conditions. Smart.

I was startled to see plumbing standing up in the middle of the camp. “How in the world did they do that?” I wondered. Someone had rigged PVC piping onto a two by four frame. That someone had discovered an unused artesian well, perhaps from an old citrus grove. The result was a rudimentary shower and more: A faucet for drinking water and for washing, and a sink for dishes.

It wasn’t exactly Camp Applebee but it was livable, if you didn’t count mosquitoes, heat, cold, and thunderstorms. If you had no other place to go, or no other place you wanted to go, you could survive there. If you didn’t want to use the resources available in the County, you could make that work. I guess.

CAR CAMPING

New to working with homeless families, I observed an intake. The family of three had been living in their car. Now they had no money for gas, food, or rent.

The case manager was skilful, professionally parsing the many words coming at her from the homeless mother. As with Joe and Frank, the homeless mother offered an account undoubtedly edited to make herself look better. But who doesn’t do that?

As the case manager explained the services available, the mother held her two young daughters on her lap. The older was four, the younger, two. Then the case manager reviewed the expectations of the mother: Either at work, looking for work, or in school every day. Chores around the center. Random alcohol and drug testing. Curfews. Saving money from paychecks.

The mother signed the contract and left to take a urine test. But before she left the room, she asked if she could have some diapers. “Yes,” said the case manager, “for the baby?” “Well,” the mother said quietly, “I also need some pull-ups for the older one.”

When the mother left, I asked the case manager how it could be that a four-year old needed diapers still. She said, “How do you potty-train a female child when you’re camping in a car?”

Right.

I had just seen two of the 372 homeless children in Indian River County. I wondered how many more were living in a car, how many more lacked potty training, not to mention food.

The mother passed the drug test. At least she and her daughters now had a roof over their heads, three meals a day, and hope. The demographic grouping of homeless families is different from that of homeless singles. For the most part, the families are more motivated to get back on their feet. They do it for the children, if not for themselves.

Not long ago, a successful but stressed friend said to me, “You know, I sometimes envy the homeless. Living off the grid, no bills, no responsibilities. Some days it looks pretty good to me.”

I invited him to spend a week living at Camp Applebee – without his phone or wallet – or in a beat up old car – without his phone or his wallet.

He hasn’t said that since.

Editor’s note: D. Lorne Coyle, author of InsideVero’s regular “Helping Hands” feature, is a resident of Vero Beach and a non-profit consultant.