i love social experiments

2010 - JANUARY 29TH

denied! (portland, oregon)

I passed a homeless guy in a wheelchair this morning. He was the second homeless guy in a row after the first dude, who was selling Street Roots, the local homeless newspaper. I went to the bank, and before I came back, I stopped by Fred Meyer to buy food for the two homeless men. I was debating for quite a while, actually, thinking that I would definitely buy fruit because it was cheap and healthy, but not knowing what fruit would be best. I thought about buying an apple and an orange, but decided against it in the end. After all, everyone can eat an apple, right? An apple a day keeps the doctor away and all that, right? Ultimately, that was some of the dumbest logic, because the reality of the matter is that I can't really eat apples. They frequently make my mouth itch. But because I am the only one who I've ever met with this problem, I didn't think anyone else would really have that problem. WRONG!

Two Gala apples and $1.17 spent later, I walked back out onto the street. I offered it to the man in the wheelchair, and he told me immediately that, thanks, but he couldn't eat apples. Damn. Apparently something in them made him feel funny, and his preference was black cherries, because they help his legs since they have antioxidants. I'm not sure exactly what was wrong with his legs, but they were small. As we were talking, he proceeded to get his wheelchair partially run over by a man driving an older-model BMW of some kind. The man had hopped the curb while parallel parking and bumped part of the man's wheelchair -- and probably would've crushed more had the homeless man not moved himself forward -- and the man driving the car was completely oblivious. I spoke a little more to the wheelchair man and left, which was a mistake, in retrospect, because I should have said something to the man parking his car, but it didn't cross my mind at the time. To be honest, I must have been so wrapped up in my surprise at his denying my apple and so bummed out that I hadn't followed my instincts to buy two different types of fruit that I didn't think about righting that wrong. My mistake.

When I came across the Street Roots seller, I offered the apple to him, and he became very excited, saying he'd already eaten an apple in the morning but would eat another one. I'm glad it paid off in that regard, but I suppose I've learned a few lessons from this.

2010 - JANUARY 28TH

gypsy, gypsy! (portland, oregon)

"There are gypsies, and there are gypsies," he said to me. He mumbled the second "gypsy" quieter, while vaguely looking off into the distance, and I'd thought he said, "There are gypsies, and there are gypsums." I asked him what he meant three times, because it seemed strange that he would suddenly refer to a type of stone mid-conversation. I think by the third time, or possibly the second, the romantic notion of there being "gypsies and [more] gypsies" of -- as he would later go on to say -- "all different sizes and shapes and colors, white, black, brown, red, yellow," just a little less romantic. Sorry for ruining the mood.

How it began was like this. I was walking home from the supermarket when I heard a voice suddenly call out to me (and I do mean suddenly, because I literally jumped mid-Oreo-cookie-eating), saying something really epic, like, "Dreams are always in front of you if you're looking." I looked to my right because that was where the sound came from, but to be honest, I didn't see anyone at first. When I looked closer, inside of a dark wooden gazebo was another human.

He was probably in his mid-to-late thirties, and he was missing a front tooth -- but not missing in the way a crackhead's front teeth were missing. His missing tooth more formed a singular gap that was fighting for space between the two slightly crooked teeth that seemed trying to pressure it out.

I asked him what he was doing there, and he responded with something unexpectedly epic, like, "I'm just hanging out, here and there, on planet earth." This guy was just full of one-line inspirational quotes.

We exchanged names and dialogues and made small talk. I offered him some of my newly-purchased peanut butter Oreos, and after a concentrated taste-test, he concluded he liked them, but one was all he needed. He made sure to point out my foolishness in not purchasing milk to go with my chocolatey treasures. Of course, he didn't need milk himself; he washed his cookie down with beer and decided it went down kind of smooth despite being an "interesting" combination. But then again, this guy seemed to radiate positivity. He had an energetic, boisterous laugh and voice that would come in and out in sudden spurts, which was part of the reason he scared me to death when he first called to me. His voice was so loud, he said, that he would wake up neighbors for four blocks even when he was trying to be quiet. I told him he needed to try harder, then.

Often when I asked him questions or made one-off comments, he responded slowly. I half expected him to react negatively to some of my comments because he was so slow to speak, but he never did. Other times, he found my comments immediately funny, and cackled with delight. It seemed like he was fairly mentally well-rooted, which was a surprise, honestly, considering the quote he started me off with. One would have thought he was a dreamer, completely lost in the clouds.

He asked me what I was doing in Portland. I said I was only living in the city temporarily, relocating from Seattle. He mentioned that he'd only been to Seattle once, driving through it to head up to Anacortes, a coastal town about an hour north of Seattle. I said, "It's beautiful up there," and he did a kind of a slow sigh and recalled a tale of building a fancy table using sheets of Brazilian slate -- a table that was crafted with intricate inlays, for a couple that owned horse stables on a large spread of land near a river.

At the end of our brief discussion, he'd forgotten my name and called me by another. And when I reminded him of it, he said, "Vivian the beautiful." And I went on my way. Before I reached the end of the block, he'd poked his head out of the gazebo and called after me, "Don't forget to buy some milk!" and I called back, "I will!"

As I reached the corner, eyeing the corner store flooded by strangely inviting fluorescent lighting, I debated. I had essentially promised him I would go to the store, and despite the fact that I didn't really want milk, I'd made the promise. What difference does it make who the promise is to when a promise is essentially the judge of your character and not of anyone else's? And so I went. Because I promised a gypsy. I'd promised a gypsy I'd wash down my peanut butter Oreos with some nice refreshing milk, so I did it.

2009 - JUNE 18TH

weathered bodies and weathered hearts. (seattle, washington)

(I haven't felt compelled to write in a literary fashion for quite some time, but I felt compelled this evening, post meeting this guy, Jonathan, outside of a QFC in Capitol Hill. Here's his story.)

He caught my attention as I was entering the QFC. He called after me, "If you have any spare change when you're done..." and I nodded -- a slow nod implying a promise.

I kept some change out for him.

When I came back out, I handed it to him and proceeded to scope out his possessions on the ground. There wasn't much -- just a plastic bag overflowing slightly with clothing, a plastic see-through cup, and a cardboard sign that said, "OUT OF LUCK / NEED A BUCK," in thick blue-black marker. Quickly rendered, no doubt, but with an artistic stroke of the hand.

With the change I'd given him still in his hands, he begun to talk very animatedly about his day and how the past four hours had been misery for him. In his excitement, he flung the change into the lawn and the sidewalk as he spoke.

His name was Jonathan, and he had a Michelle Pfeiffer kind of blonde, pale beauty. He could have made a beautiful woman. His loose-fitting maroon sweatshirt made obvious the drooping, aging mounds of his chest, but despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, he was vivacious and full of energy. Years of hardship had managed to weather his body, but not his face. His face remained youthful, and his piercing blue eyes, full of life, were the crux of it all.

For the most part, talking to Jonathan was completely ordinary. It was only when he would speak about himself that he became a little distant -- that he would look off in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular, lost in his own convoluted thoughts. All of those thoughts were those of a man who, at that moment, felt completely downtrodden and defeated by life and wanted nothing more than to escape an endless cycle of losing. Whether it be losing to the system, to circumstances beyond his control, or to his own actions, it was all the same. It all ended up in the same place, with him possessing nothing and starting off again at square one.

2009 - FEBRUARY 13TH

and he's lost. (los angeles, california)

Unfortunately, I didn't write down this particular experience right after it happened. In fact, I'm writing it a year later just about, as I'm writing it, right now, on January 30th, 2010. In any case, this made a pretty big impact on me despite the fact I can't remember heavy details about it.

Basically, I was dilly-dallying around Los Angeles by myself and had decided to head over to the Universal City exit on the subway to check it out. I had just walked around Hollywood but it was pouring rain, and frankly, the "Walk Of The Stars" or whatever they call it is pretty boring anyway. In any case, I went to the Universal City subway station, got off, walked around a little, concluded I didn't actually want to take the shuttle everyone and their mom's was waiting for since it took forever to come, and went back to the subway station to head towards Macarthur Park, where one of the Mexican districts was. As I was waiting for the subway, a man started talking to me.

I don't quite remember the gist of our conversation now, but it began with fairly typical small talk. He was definitely homeless, and definitely kind of nervous, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. I did not feel threatened by him whatsoever, and definitely felt like he was talking to me out of a place of kindness. But most of it is a blur. What I do definitively remember is his asking me what ethnicity I was, and my telling him that I was Chinese. This greatly excited him, and he rattled off lists of Chinese philosophical ideas, talking about Taoism and Yin-Yang and Feng Shui and the I Ching. I nodded to all of these, except for the I Ching, since I had no idea what it was at the time. I told him this.

He was surprised by it, and he wanted to explain it to me. But this is when the saddest part of all came about. He couldn't come up with the words to describe it. That or he couldn't even remember the concept at all. He knew about it -- I want to say, in-depth, from the way he pulled it out all these Chinese philosophies so quickly -- but it was buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it seemed. I presume he had done too much drugs or suffered brain damage of some sort so that ideas no longer came to him as smoothly. In fact, this might be my flawed memory, but I recall his apologizing for not being able to remember.

Our conversation stopped at this point. I told him it was okay, as he sat there silently, trying to remember, but he didn't think it was okay. He was extremely angry at himself. He walked off. And by the time the subway car came, he was huddled around a pole on the other side of me, almost yelling at himself openly. His actions and facial expression denoted pure frustration; there was no doubt about it. I approached him to say, "Nice meeting you," but he didn't even respond. He was so angry with himself that he didn't even know I existed anymore.

2008 - MAY 27TH

eating yam fries with hard-to-understand vietnam war vets. (seattle, washington)

People have a major problem with giving homeless people money, though. I don't agree with that system of thinking, but I can't say I blame them entirely. Some homeless people are drunks and druggies, although not all of them should get a bad rap. If given the choice, however, I will buy a homeless person food as opposed to giving him or her money. It just seems... better.

One evening in Seattle, my friend Rachel and I were going to head to the theatre to watch a Seattle International Film Festival movie. As it was sold out, and as I'd locked my keys in the car, we were awaiting my roommate's arrival with my spare key. We decided to spend the time stuffing out faces at a fast food chain called Dick's.

Outside of Dick's, a guy asked us if we had any change.

I replied honestly, saying, "No... but do you want food?"

He said yes.

I motioned for him to come inside. After waiting a good few minutes, I was beginning to think he wasn't going to come, but soon I saw him standing right next to me. He towered over me.

Dick's was way too hot, however, and the line was too damn long, so we went down the street to another Washington fast food chain, Kidd Valley. Kidd Valley is more gourmet, and needless to say, more expensive. He followed us there. His name, I discovered, was Ratt, and he was a Vietnam War veteran.

I asked him what he wanted, and he settled on a cheeseburger, yam fries, and a strawberry milkshake. The event kind of satisfied my strange desire to eat a meal with a homeless person. I'm not entirely sure why that's appealing. I suppose I just want to pick their brains and hear their stories.

Unfortunately, Ratt mumbled a whole lot, and it was rather difficult to understand him. He wasn't completely sound of mind, but he wasn't nearly close to psychotic, either. He could hold a conversation, but just barely.

I asked him how long he'd been on the streets, and he said his whole life.

He muttered some stuff about how people don't usually pay attention to homeless people except for on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and how he desperately wanted to leave Seattle because Seattle was not a bum-friendly city.

I asked him where was better, but he had no answer for that.

He got a HUGE amount of food stuck in his beard, and it grossed Rachel out BIG time. I can't say I totally blame her; it was kind of disgusting, but it wasn't that disgusting to me at the time.

As we were eating, some guy who absolutely WAS bat shit crazy and definitely another Vietnam War vet (a notion confirmed by Ratt) came in, and he was babbling about this and that. It was an enjoyable meal, and I would have stayed longer, but Rachel was getting majorly disgusted by the food in the beard and was more than ready to leave. So we left.

2008 - MAY 27TH

chinatown has some really fun ones... and they've got my back. (seattle, washington)

I went to Chinatown to post up a piece of paper for people to draw on. The idea for the project is to attach a pen to a piece of paper, and tell people to add one thing to each drawing. A community project of sorts.

A friend, Kenji, suggested I post one of the sheets in King St. Station in Seattle, because it's an area rife with homeless people. His idea was to see what the difference would be between artwork created by bums and by non-bums. A great idea.

I parked my car and went to cross the street to go to the train station. A tall African-American dude stood next to me. He was fairly well-dressed, and said, "Papa-san told me that if I didn't take care of you, he'd kick my ass."

I responded with, "That wouldn't be good."

The light changes as we are mid-conversation, and I start to cross the street. A drunken lady is approaching us, and she obviously has a problem with my newfound protector. They exchanged some heated words, and he told me to keep on walking, as if he were sacrificing himself for me to move on.

I get to the pole and start to tape things up, as he's still exchanging words with the drunken lady. When he finished speaking with her, he continued on in bodyguard mode, saying, "Go ahead. Post your shit. I've got your back."

I posted the papers without incident. Although his bodyguarding wasn't necessary, I've got a bodyguard in Chinatown for life. He told me that any time I'm down there, he'd watch out for me. How nice.

2008 - MARCH 16TH

cupcake royale is the shit. (seattle, washington)

I don't really like cupcakes, but Cupcake Royale cupcakes are delicious. Unfortunately, they fucked up my order. I asked for four of "Kate", who has pink frosting, but they gave me four of "Mr. Formal", who has white frosting. Bitches! Sure, they taste exactly the same, but Mr. Formal lacks personality. Grr.

To make it worse, they give you a dozen! Not a baker's dozen! When did the idea of baker's dozen get ousted, yet?

At least I made a homeless dude who was selling the local homeless newspaper, Real Change, kind stoked.

He says he always sees people with Cupcake Royale cupcakes, but that he feels bad asking for one because they're expensive, at $2.50 each.

As I walked back to my parked car, he said hello to me, wanting me to buy his newspaper.

For some reason, I instinctively said, "I don't have any money," which in most cases is true. In this case, it was a lie. I didn't have a dollar (the price of Real Change), but I did have a twenty.

I offered him a cupcake to make up for lying to him, although it's not like he knew.

He chose to take one of plain ol' Mr. Formal, and then said of Cupcake Royale: "They've come a long way. I've enjoyed watching them grow."

2008 - MARCH 13TH

late night walks always yield fun jokes. (austin, texas)

Hojo and I took a long walk home in Austin after a Dizzee Rascal show. We ran into a homeless guy who wanted some money in exchange for a joke. We were without money, unfortunately, but I told him he could tell us a joke anyway. His joke:

Him: "What does a gay horse eat?"
Us: "No idea... what?"
Him: "Hay hay hay!"

Perhaps you had to be there.

2006 - JULY 14TH

a story behind life on the streets. (seattle, washington)

Today I went with Erin to Pioneer Square, to drop off some magazines at the local bars and art galleries in the area. We decided to stop and eat around the main square, and ran into a homeless guy who approached us as we were sitting outside. When they approach you when you're eating outdoors at a restaurant, you can't help but feel particularly bad. Erin decided to buy him some soup and some bread. We then had an in-depth conversation with him about his life. I'm not sure if this is all true, but I believe it, and I believe him.

I asked him how long he'd been on the streets, and he responded with, "You know what? In a six month period, my dad died, then my wife's mom died, then my mom died, and then my wife died... and the doctor knew I was an alcoholic at the time, and he put me on Xanex, and that spun me around."

I asked him, "So the Xanex was worse than the alcohol?" and he said, "Oh yeah. Definitely."

Evidently, he had graduated from the University of Washington and then graduated from law school, and then all that happened and he somehow ended up on and stayed on the streets. He described how he formerly worked for a man whose face was horribly burned when he was young, but that now he's the deputy mayor or something?

The man is about 55 now, and clearly unhappy. At one point, he said, "You want to hear what's really ridiculous?"

I said, "Go for it!" and he laughed, and said, "That's cute. If I were only forty years younger..."

And then he kept apologizing, saying, "I'm sorry. I know I must smell terrible," or "I know I must smell like a pig," etc. I hadn't even really noticed. Poor guy.

While he was still there, another homeless guy wandered by, and I offered him some bread. He didn't want it, but then came back later and said he wanted it... so the original homeless guy we'd bought food for ripped his bread in half to give to the other guy... and now the other guy said he didn't want it anymore. Wonder what his deal was. Snob!

When we were done eating, we got ready to leave, when he claimed he was looking for a shelter on 2nd and Lenora. I told him he could follow us there because we were parked near there, but he then started to talk about how he just needed $4.00 to get to Puyallup instead. We didn't give him money, though... just the food.

adventures with homelessness