1/ Perspectives in Homelessness in Venice Beach: An Amputee Vet’s Story

When I moved to Venice Beach 15 years ago, it was a different place and time: There were fewer homeless people. They dotted Main Street, the board walk, and the beach. Most were friendly when they’d ask you for money, and some would bless you even if you didn’t have any change. Others would share their wisdom. Living on the streets had to be hard, I thought. They must have wisdom to share. So, I’d listen.

Today, things are different. To start, the homeless population has grown considerably, and the community is divided on how to address it. Everyone wishes there was a quick and easy solution. Unfortunately, homelessness is a complex problem. And in Venice Beach, it is debated as are other complex problems in our country’s capital — producing the same polarizing gridlock.

I view Venice Beach as a microcosm of the world in all its beautiful, rich diversity and representation, concentrated in a small pocket of Los Angeles by the beach. Through the years, as homelessness has mounted in my community, I have taken note of different perspectives. In this series, I would like to present them to you.

I would like to begin by recounting stories of some of the homeless people that I’ve come in contact with through the years. Concerns regarding crime and safety aside — and I’ll present perspectives on those concerns, as well — I don’t know how we cannot not sympathize with the plight and suffering of the homeless. I believe that anyone who is fortunate not to live on the streets — for that reason alone — should submit to the higher call of love which beckons us to treat homeless people with respect and dignity, and may begin by gaining an understanding of a disadvantaged population that is truly down and out.

Years ago, I met Carlos in my neighborhood — an older white man, a Vietnam vet from Texas who was in a wheelchair after losing an arm and leg in the war. He would tell me how, once, he had a wife and a house and how he’d lost them both when he came back from the war.

Not surprisingly, he drank a lot. Sometimes I would give him money, even though I knew he would buy liquor with it. You may not agree with me, but I thought, who was I to judge him or decide how he should deal with his pain? Maybe drinking was his only comfort.

When I’d see him, I’d give him my leftovers from a restaurant meal. Once, he asked me if I would go back and ask for some takeout utensils. At first, I wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t do it himself. But then he said that they’d ask him to leave. It took me a moment and reading the look on his face to understand what he was saying.

One day, he was wheeling up the street backwards in his wheelchair, pushing off with his one leg, a push at a time. I asked him what happened to his wheelchair, and he said someone had stolen it one night when he was asleep. He would get out of his wheelchair at night and sleep on the pavement. He’d found this broken one somewhere.

I offered to help him find another wheelchair. I asked him if we should call the VA, and he said yes, but he wouldn’t give me his personal information to give to the VA. Later, I would learn that that’s common among homeless people. Either they’re suffering from paranoia — most of them are — or they’ve learned not to trust anyone living on the street.

I called the VA and they said they could get him a wheelchair right away. I asked, “Like today? You’d have one for him to leave with, today?” They said, yes. I gave him and his friend who used to steal swigs from Carlos’ bottle some bus fare. I was pretty sure they had bus tokens and would use the money for more liquor, but I decided to take a leap of faith.

The next day, I saw Carlos wheeling up the street backwards in the same, broken wheel chair. I asked him what happened at the VA, and he said they ordered him a new wheelchair and it’d be in in a few months. Puzzled, I kept asking him, “They didn’t have one to give you, yesterday?” He kept saying, no. I called back the VA, and this time I was told that, yes, that’s right, they would have to order a wheelchair and it would be in in a few months.

I looked on craigslist and found a used wheelchair for $35. I arranged to pick it up. Then Carlos disappeared.

A few weeks later, I saw Carlos wheeling down the street in a different wheel chair that was intact. I asked him what happened, where’d he been? He said that one night some gang members had beaten him up and he woke up in the hospital with a concussion. He said this matter of fact.

A few times, I’d ask him if I could help him get into a shelter to sleep at night. It would be safer. He said he didn’t want to because they wouldn’t let him drink — the rules. Understandable. Also, he said, “I like sleeping under the stars.” I asked if he had family that he could stay with. He had a sister in Texas that he hadn’t talked to in years. Maybe someday he’d think about calling her.

I asked where he got the wheelchair. He said that as he was leaving the hospital he saw a wheelchair outside and took it. Carlos was a God-fearing man. He asked, “Do you think it was wrong for me to take it? Do you think Jesus will forgive me?” He looked like he was in need of consolation. I said, “Maybe Jesus wanted you to take it.”

After that, I only saw Carlos for a few more months and then he disappeared for good. I will never know if he’d been beaten up by gang members again, maybe this time fatally. He’d never mentioned that he was going to call his sister and go back to Texas. I could only hope and pray that he had.