spider (update from post on 5/28/09)

It had been dark for a few hours by the time we located him, and the temperature had dropped some thirty degrees since midday. In the heart of San Jose we found him, his aging bones curved into a frail mound at the foot of his wheel chair, surrounded by filth. 

The last time I had seen Spider was seven weeks ago. At about that time he had moved abruptly from his spot of dirt underneath the freeway, and I had lost contact with him. Then by chance I spotted him a few days ago on the sidewalk across from the gilded California Theatre. He was slumped in his wheel chair, a snail crawling across his shoulder. After talking for a few minutes he gave me a vague description of where he was now spending his nights. I told him I would come find him soon.

Six days later, on the appointed evening, a small group of friends and colleagues of mine sought him out, bringing with us several bags of essentials. After saying our hellos, we held out a sleeping bag, a jacket, a pair of pants, announcing each as we presented it.

Looking up toward us, his eyes clouded by cataracts, he said meekly, "Well, I can't really wear pants."

And it was true. Beneath his ratted blanket Spider had on nothing below the waist; only a grocery bag whose handles he had slipped his legs through to serve as a diaper. Purple sores were visible on his discolored calves and ankles.

"But I could use some batteries for my radio. And some food." His tiny radio was his almost exclusive source of company, for although he was heaped in a pile at a busy downtown intersection, he was very much alone, more of a plague for the public to avoid than a person to take note of. Hearing this desire, Nathan, a friend and partner who was meeting Spider for the first time, hopped up and quickly went to find some batteries. Meanwhile, my coworkers Kenneth and Rebecca began removing ready-to-eat food from a bag we had brought from Sacred Heart: lunch meat, a loaf of soft bread, a box of orange juice, some fruit cocktail in a pop-top can.

There were five of us there with him last Tuesday night. Several of us had the night before made a promise to each other that we would not rest until we saw Spider in the dignified, humane living conditions that even our pets are guaranteed. 

But this would not be easy.

After a good thirty minutes of conversation, Spider gave a cursory warning, and without rising from his knees began urinating into a tattered 7-11 coffee cup. We had hardly enough time to look away, and upon his completion, he summarily splashed his water against the mildewed wall of his concrete hovel.

When we turned back around, he waved us close, his hand damp and the wall dripping with foul moisture. We stepped toward him, crouched in the rivulets, and continued our chat. After some jokes and tomfoolery, he mentioned to us that his disability payments, which had been curtailed some months go, had now ceased all together. It was at this point, as I leaned in to hear him better, that I noticed what appeared to be clotted blood in his beard.

"How are you surviving?" we asked. 

"I panhandle for spare change," he replied. Just then somebody shouted as he drove by a a car alarm sounded up the street. Beneath Spider's recurrent wit, the sadness in his voice was still audible. "But I don't get very much because I smell."

(For those of you who read this, please keep Spider in your prayers. We have begun coordinating with a number of different agencies, but he seems to slip through the cracks of our community's meagre safety net. If you feel moved to get involved, comment here or email me at toddm@sacredheartcs.org. Thank you.)