Seattle's Homeless: An Essay

by Katie McCausland

I hurried down the wet plank and onto the back of the small passenger ferry that ran from my town of Port Orchard to Bremerton. It was my first day of work, and I wished I’d dressed warmer as I took one of the last seats on the exposed deck of the boat and made a sad attempt to wrap the tail of my scarf over my knees. The salty wind whipped through my hair, and I was amazed at the beautiful sunrise coming up from behind the towering forests of Kitsap Peninsula that quickly grew smaller as we pulled away from the dock. The sun warmed the gray clouds to pinks and oranges that contrasted against the clear blue sky. I began to think that catching the early ferry might not be so bad after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I tramped onto the Bremerton docks with the rest of the passengers. However, I paused to curiously examine a man who was waiting to go back to Port Orchard. Everything about him said he was homeless — his long, tangled, salt and pepper hair, his dirty, shabby jeans and his old plaid jacket. My attention was caught though, by a birdhouse attached to a string that hung around his neck. It was a small wooden birdhouse, clearly damaged and faded from the Seattle rain and wind. If I didn’t know better than to talk to the homeless, I would have liked to look inside the birdhouse and see what kind of bird he had in there. “Don’t mind him,” a small, middle-aged Filipino woman advised me, noticing my interest. “He don’t keep no bird in there. He keep the money he begs for. He used to carry it in jar, but the others break it and steal his money too much. Now he try to fool the people with his birdhouse. If you ask me, he should get a job. I come here and get my nursing degree, and now I make the money myself.” I nodded, replied “Oh,” and kept moving toward the larger ferry leaving from Bremerton’s terminal to downtown Seattle.
Once on the Seattle ferry, I found a booth near a heating vent and curled up to go to sleep. I had taken this ride so often that I wasn’t anxious to look out the window. The boat would pull out of Bremerton and cross the Puget Sound towards Rich Passage and then move on to the piers of Seattle. It would pass several big red navigational buoy towers, bobbing cheerily in the cold water. On a sunny morning like this, a few sea lions would be fighting to jump up on the bases of these towers to sun themselves. Large homes lined the shore, set against rolling hills covered in brownish-green brush and a backdrop of evergreen trees. On the beach a few of the timid shore birds might run up and down, quickly pecking at the wet sand, then racing away from the approaching waves. It all looked the same for that hour-long ride.
Once we docked in Seattle, we were greeted by a crew of seagulls who landed on the deck to beg for food. They angrily fluffed their wings and tried to peck their way closer to the passengers. A few tourists displayed their naivete by feeding the seagulls, creating a larger, noisier flock of birds as the pigeons and nearby crows joined in. An irritated ferry employee shooed the birds away and threw a dirty look towards the tourists. I was carried off the ferry by the bustle of commuters who went in different directions with looks of determination on their faces. They didn’t notice the cries of the workers in the fish market, how the sun sparkled and gleamed on the side of the cruise ship that had docked a few piers down, or the graffiti showing off the artistic talents of the local street kids.
I followed this oblivious group into the pedestrian tunnel leading out to the streets of Seattle. I was immediately taken aback by the strong smell of urine. Apparently the tunnel doubled as the local restroom for the homeless and a home as well, judging by the dirty sleeping bag crumpled nearby. I did my best to hold my breath, and silently cursed my high heels for crippling me from walking any faster. This was when I first saw Smiley. I was waiting at the corner of Marion and First, right by Starbucks, which happened to be his corner. His deformed purplish-red nose and ears (and slightly intoxicated state) testified to his alcoholism. From his looks and the long thin braid hanging down his back, I guessed he was probably Native American. I wondered how this 50-something man was able to survive. He stood there in nothing but a tattered t-shirt and jeans, while I could barely stay warm enough to function with my scarf, wool coat and layers of sweaters and shirts.
The thing that most surprised me was how he chose to occupy himself: smiling, not asking for money, but merely holding a bent cardboard sign that said in sloppy black marker, “Smile.” He looked at me, almost begging me to smile with his glazed-over brown eyes. I averted my gaze to the light and quickly crossed the street when it turned green. I knew it was better not to encourage the homeless to bother you. If I was going to see him often, I didn’t need him trying to talk to me every time I waited at that light.
I hiked four blocks uphill and then another four through the hotel district to the historic Fairmont-Olympic Hotel where I was employed by a watch boutique. Smartly-dressed bellhops nodded at me as I walked by, while valets ran around vehicles and assisted guests with their luggage before driving the cars off. A couple of bank employees stood outside the back of Wells Fargo, smoking next to a sign that pointed to an Asian deli located down a shady-looking alley. I crossed the street to the Fairmont Hotel, happy that this area remained relatively free of bums and suspicious characters.
I hadn’t been working more than a few hours before I was sent down the street to the warehouse to bring more stock to the watch shop. I didn’t mind though; I needed some fresh air. One of the benefits of the continual rain in Seattle is that it keeps the air clean of smog. The sidewalks always provide one with plenty to look at. The tables and chairs outside of cafes attract gray pigeons, bobbing their heads and cooing at the customers, hoping for a stray crumb. Asian tourists run around with cameras, asking those passing by to take their picture. And I always have a hard time not staring at the costumes the “artsy” women turn out in, with their bright stockings, crazy windblown hair, and fluttering peasant skirts. Confused groups of elderly tourists grabbed anybody who would stop and inquired where Pike Place Market was. I stopped only to greet the old Jewish man who ran the hot dog stand on the corner of Fourth and Union (because you never know when a friendship like that might come in handy) before reaching the warehouse.
“Oh man, look at that!” I heard our repairman, Ryan, yell as I scanned the shelves for the box to a watch I was pulling. The shipping manager and I rushed into his office and found Ryan in his usual stance, leaning against the window. We all peered down five stories to the sidewalk across the street. There on the ground lay a heap of rags that might have once been a man, but now was so lifeless I was sure someone would come along and throw it in the dumpster at any moment. “Wait, here come the bike patrol dudes. They’ll pick him up for sure.” Ryan pointed as two policemen came coasting around the corner. To my surprise, they stopped and talked to each other only for a moment before directing their attention to a pedestrian who seemed to need directions. An ambulance began wailing in the distance. Surely it was coming to pick up the poor passed-out man, but as it drew closer, it rumbled by in a hurry to help someone else. I strained my eyes to see if the man was breathing. “How long will he be there?” I asked. “I don’t know, a little while. I’m pretty sure that storeowner will get really upset if he has a homeless man dead outside his store. It looks bad for business, you know.” Ryan responded absently as he turned back to his ringing phone. “Do you really think he’s dead?” “I don’t know…Hello? Yeah…I’ll send her. Hey Katie, Sara says to hurry back down there with that watch.” I glanced out the window one last time before leaving. I found it odd that humanity would just sweep past a man who might be dying.
That was the thing with the homeless; they didn’t seem to have any connections with anybody. Nobody really cared what happened to them. I wondered if I should have done something, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head. He was, no doubt, just drunk or a drug addict who was finally getting what had been coming to him for years. Nobody cared about the homeless for a good reason — they didn’t contribute to society; all they really did was try to leech off of other people’s sympathies.
I felt relieved when the time came for me to leave. Eight hours of being in uncomfortable dress clothes made me eager to get home. The sun was setting behind the city and the air grew chilly again. I wanted to stop and stand in between the buildings where the last few warm rays of sun were able to reach, but I had a ferry to catch. That’s the only problem with taking a ferry; you’re always in a rush to catch it. If you miss it, it will be a good hour or two before the next one comes.
The same determined crowd that had pushed me off the boat now trotted down the steep hills of Seattle, everyone once again oblivious to the world. I loved soaking in the sights of the city. White horse-drawn carriages meandered along the waterfront carrying couples cuddled in the backseat. A few shopkeepers watered their flower boxes and swept their storefronts before closing and joining the crowds towards the ferry. People coming from Pike Place Market had their arms loaded with colorful bouquets and fresh produce. The only thing I disliked was the squealing and hissing of the buses as they lurched by, trying to make all their stops on time. A few frazzled individuals dressed in business suits sprinted towards their bus stop, waving their arms and yelling for the bus to wait. I had nearly been knocked over by one of these people as I was crossing the street when I ran into Smiley again. He hadn’t moved an inch from his corner. He still waited, imploring anybody to smile for him. He waved and thanked those who were brave enough to take notice of him. I looked his way, and he caught my eye. “Oh won’t you please take me home with you?” he pleaded, giving me a rather toothless smile. Unsure of what to do, I gave him a weak smile and tried to pass him as quickly as possible.
When I entered the pedestrian tunnel, I was surprised to find the offensive smell of urine replaced with that of a cleaning agent. A man who would become a very familiar figure to me that summer was working away in there. I called him Mr. Clean. He stood inside the tunnel, scrubbing the walls. He didn’t work energetically or cheerfully, but at a dreary, steady pace, like a tired donkey that plods along, not because it wants to, but because it’s a duty that must be done. He took no notice of the people passing him or the curious looks he received, but continued spraying and scrubbing. His appearance wasn’t one that suggested an individual with a clean streak. He had the same tangled gray hair, the same lanky, malnourished body, and the same worn, leathery skin as any other homeless man. Yet underneath this ordinary appearance was a man who had resolved to make his home clean.
From that point on, every day I saw Smiley and Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean spent all of his mornings reading and cleaned in the evening. The only thing I ever saw him read was a faded green Gideon New Testament. I often wished that I could stop and talk to Mr. Clean. He fascinated me. It didn’t surprise me that he had a New Testament, because most of the homeless often read and can even quote a little Scripture, but I wondered what Mr. Clean thought of it. I also wondered how he survived. I never once saw him panhandle, beg, eat or drink anything. And why did he always clean? Living as a homeless man was one of the dirtiest lives he could’ve chosen. Where did he get his cleaning supplies? He had several bottles with different colored liquids, but I couldn’t figure out where he kept them. In the morning I never saw them poking out from his shopping cart. Despite my desire to talk with Mr. Clean, I knew he never spoke to anybody, not even to himself. The few times I had tried to get his attention, he just went on cleaning or reading.
At first I was disgusted by Smiley. On several occasions I heard him making lewd comments to women. Later, I noticed that he only said nasty things to women who ignored him. To those who would acknowledge him, he put on that huge toothless grin, and sometimes, if you were really special, he would mockingly give you a flourished bow. But Smiley’s mind was not right, and he could not hold a conversation. I remember near the end of the summer, Smiley passed out from drinking too much. The next day I asked him how he was feeling, and he just gave me a blank stare and held up his sign. I smiled, he bowed, and I continued on my way.
On my last long ferry ride from Seattle to Bremerton, I stared idly out the window. Huge dark clouds began rolling in, turning the soft colors of sunset into cold, bluish-grays and greens. The forests were no longer a rich emerald green, but black, and the houses that had seemed so brightly painted on sunny mornings turned dull under the clouds. A few of the braver seagulls who were catching rides back to Bremerton stepped under the covered side of the deck and huddled together for a little body heat.
I thought about how through those trips to Seattle I had really grown attached to Smiley and Mr. Clean. Because of them, my view of the homeless had been significantly changed. They’re not all societal leeches looking to use other’s emotions and sympathies for their own benefit. But they are all sinners, like me, who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. It’s not often that two people you’ve never held a conversation with change you, but that summer, those homeless men changed me.