Part II Day 35: March 26. 2010 (wasting time and food, competing for work with the homeless, and rethinking my approach)

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 70

Hours Worked: 2

Wastefulness is one of my least favorite aspects of restaurant work. Garbage cans full of uneaten food (including filet mignon), stacks of unused and non-reusable napkins, glasses of unconsumed sodas and beer dumped out, all seem to be an extra part of human consumption in restaurants. Things are no different at the San Diego homeless shelter, even though the people eating this morning are all residents and not from the public homeless population.

Emptied tables are strewn with unused napkins, packets of sugar, salt and pepper. I clean the tables and leave the napkins and packets, thinking maybe someone else will use them. But they don't. One man loads up on twelve of the single serving butter pieces and leaves seven of them unused. Those go in the trash. Some residents fill up three Styrofoam cups of juice rather than returning for refills.

Maybe it's because I'm tired this morning, or maybe it's because my friend Lisa joined me to volunteer and scored the premium job serving eggs while I was once again sent out into the dining room for busboy duty, but the waste is extra upsetting. I'm just sick of human beings right now, which isn't the best attitude to have while working here.

When the head cook walked me out to assign my job this morning, he told me I would be collecting the dirty red trays and dropping them off at the dishwasher's window. Cool, I can do that. But when I started doing this job a biker-looking dude with a gray handlebar mustache yellowed from years of smoking, said, "I got these," protecting his job of tray clearing. I mostly left him to it, clearing trays only when he wasn't paying attention.

Again, there are four of us performing the busboy duties, which means we have about four tables each if we divide the dinning room evenly. And I'm the only volunteer, the rest are residents who are compelled to work here. I feel like a waste.

I didn't drag my ass out of bed at 5:30 a.m. and drive down here to compete for busboy duties or to feel unnecessary, but that's how I feel today. If I'm not needed, then why am I here? To feel good about myself because I'm volunteering? For me, that's supposed to be a side effect of volunteering, not the reason. And maybe it's my perception, but everyone else around here seems pissed off today too, and I'm receiving commands––"we need more bread; there's no bread"––rather than compliments.

Breakfast this morning consists of eggs with cheese, bacon, Cream of Wheat, two choices of cereal, bread, juice and coffee. Much of the Cream of Wheat goes uneaten and sticks to the trays when residents bang them on the garbage cans. When I clear the trays, I get the stuff all over my gloved hands.

A female resident working with me, who looks like amphetamines ruined her life, says, "You want something to do?" when she sees me standing by the railing and staring at the tables. This is the same woman who asked me to help her fold up a table a little bit after I got here, prompting another resident to ask, "Y'all closing up early this morning?" Nope, this lady just can't settle down, poor thing. She sets me to re-filling the utensil containers with plastic forks while she does knives. After I do the first one, she tells me I'm doing it wrong, then says I have to stack the forks before putting them in. I do, and she tells me they look better.

Ten minutes later, she comes back over and tells me I should stop doing the utensils and start sweeping the floor. I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be sweeping the floor and doesn't want to, preferring instead to wander aimlessly around the room. On my first day, a co-worker resident told me I needed to mop up a spill, while he stood around watching. Some like to pawn their duties off on the volunteers, which just ends up making me feel like they're taking advantage of me. This time, I ignore the amped up lady and continue with my silverware job. She returns a minute later and says, "The ladies will do that later. We really need to focus on the floor." I tell her I'm focusing on the silverware right now. "But we really need to focus on the floor," she repeats and points at the idle broom and dustpan. "Someone will do the silverware later."

I take up the broom and dustpan and begin sweeping up salt and pepper packets, bits of eggs and cereal, and avoiding the Cream of Wheat droplets on the floor. Breakfast ends at 7:30 a.m. sharp, and the security starts harassing people to get going. After folding all the tables and sweeping up everything we can, the crew––volunteers and residents––mop the entire cafeteria. With so many of us working, the whole job is done in about fifteen minutes.

I'm starting to think I should volunteer for the education program tutoring adults for GEDs. At least my work will have a measurable impact on someone's life and I won't be wasting my time. After all, maybe it's more important to feed the minds of the poor than their bellies.

Part II Day 37: March 18. 2010 (the undeserving poor and seeing the light)

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 62

Hours Worked: 1.25

I'm in Fresno to visit family and attend Susan Orlean's reading and book signing tomorrow at Fresno State, so I decided to return to Casa Pobre for my first day of volunteering there. I arrive at 8 a.m., and the head cook walks me into the back room, points to a box of green bell peppers, and tells me to cut them "fajita style" and place them in a five gallon bucket, then he walks away. I look at the two people chopping onions, and then around the room, not seeing a chopping block or a five-gallon bucket. I walk back into the main kitchen and tell the cook I have no idea where anything is. He tells me Charles will help me.

Charles gives me a cutting board, hunts down a five-gallon bucket, and selects a suitable knife from the wall magnet. The head cook walks back in, takes up the knife and says, "Cut them fajita style, like this," as he deftly slices the bell pepper into long, thin slices. Having a bad history with knives––a sliced palm, a cut finger––I have a reasonable fear of them. My bell pepper cuts are slow, deliberate, and awkward. The room is cool because the back door remains open to alleviate the pungent onion mist permeating the air. A man complains about the door being open and shuts it. As the onion mist builds, causing a complex chemical reaction that creates sulfuric acid when combined with my eyes' moisture, my eyes water and my cutting task becomes more and more difficult. I'm tired, and as I try to slice, the knife slips off the bell pepper's waxy skin several times and slaps on the cutting board.

Super sensitive to onion mist, my eyes eventually water so much, I can't see at all. I walk out of the back room and into the kitchen to wash my hands and get a paper towel to wipe my eyes. The head cook comes in and says something about the onions, then looks disappointed when he peers into the five-gallon bucket and sees my lack of progress. He grabs the knife and swiftly cuts five bell peppers in half as I tell him about my sensitivity to onions. He hands me back the knife, and I have an overwhelming feeling I wouldn't do too well in a prison environment or high-paced kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, I'm relieved when they ask me to man the breakfast line, which is really the job I came to perform; I want contact with the homeless. As they told me during orientation, you never know who you'll see volunteering in this place, and today I'm surprised to see a girl I used to work with in Fresno State's writing center. She's now attending Fresno City College's kitchen management program, and volunteering is part of her major.

We line up to serve plastic trays with a plain scoop of oatmeal, a fruit cup, and a large muffin. I get the less-than-glorious job of putting the pre-rolled plastic cutlery on the trays, then passing them to a girl who plops a spoonful of oatmeal on them. Just like in San Diego, the trays aren't completely dry, and I want to wipe each one down, but don't have time.

I strike up a conversation with an older volunteer, whom I'll call Jim. He asks me if it's my first time, and, after telling him yes, I eventually talk to him about the facility in San Diego. We discuss the merits of religious institutions, who sometimes make people listen to sermons before they give aid, versus non-profits, who receive government grants and, therefore, can't make those seeking help listen to religious messages as a prerequisite to aid. Jim says the Fresno Rescue Mission falls into the former category, and though they provide temporary housing, they require sermon attendance, which causes many homeless to refuse their services. Jim, who has volunteered for eight years at Casa Pobre, says, "Jesus didn't say, 'I'll show you the light if you jump through hoops'; he just showed it."

I'm disappointed by the lack of contact I have with the homeless today, even though I'm manning the food line. The window where the homeless receive their trays is small, and I'm too busy rolling plastic spoons into napkins to notice the people in the window. There's only one resident who stands outside the window and slaps a cup on the trays before handing them to each homeless person and yelling out, "Two drinks. Two cartons." He's shouting about the small milk cartons, but he sounds like a prison guard or marine drill sergeant.

Anyhow, when I do look at the people passing through the line, I think many of them look young, able-bodied, and capable of work. It's people like this that we tend to pass judgement on, but I don't know their individual stories, so I reserve judgement. As Casa Pobre's newsletter says, "Implicit in the debate about the deserving poor is the expectation that to qualify, they must be utterly victimized, have had no character flaws or foolish behavior that have led to their destitution, and that helping them will somehow get them back on their feet." This isn't always the case, and Casa Pobre's policy is to help both the "deserving" and "undeserving," or more precisely put, to not make fine distinctions between the two.

Last night, a relative of mine made a comment, I think most people would agree with, that if someone is out there on the streets and is able-bodied but on drugs, then they made a poor choice and are undeserving of compassion or help. The Casa Pobre newsletter also sheds light on this situation: "What we know about addiction explains part of the mystery. Once the body has acclimated itself to a substance, it physically craves it to feel normal. The mind follows the body; rationalization sets in, and a young addict is on his way to becoming an old addict."

I love drinking, but I've always been functional and am able to turn it off at will––like now, for Lent (I'm guilty of counting down the days, though). But I understand what the newsletter goes on to describe: "For an alcoholic, sobering up is a terrifying prospect, because sobriety would force him to face the meaninglessness of his life without the mediating effects of beer, wine, or vodka. In his warped way of thinking, sobriety doesn't promise sanity, [sic] but terror and despair."

I want to attribute a paraphrased quotation (I can't locate it right now) to Mother Teresa that speaks to not worrying about the recipients of your charity, that you should give and do these things because they are right. If you're being deceived or taken advantage of, that goes on the soul––if you're a Christian––of the deceiver. As volunteer Jim says, you've got to just keep showing the light.

After feeding the homeless, I help wipe down the counters and sweep up before leaving. When I pull out of the lot, I decide to circle the block, realizing I'm unfamiliar with this area of Fresno. Well, sort of unfamiliar. When Mike, the first one of our high school friends to get a driver's license, asked where we wanted to go, we all decided to head downtown to see what prostitutes looked like. We spotted some and laughed at them.

I drive back toward the freeway, cutting through an area that's slated for redevelopment, but I see only empty storefront after empty storefront and a handful of homeless people. I pass someplace with an old, burned out metal and neon sign, called Happy Liquor Store, and I think, Only ten more days until Palm Sunday, the end of Lent, and a return to "foolish behavior." I can see the light.

Part II Day 31: March 12, 2010 (hands of the homeless, looking for dates in line, and dreaming of the road)

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 56

Hours Worked Today: 2.33

I arrive at the San Diego facility a little after 10 a.m. and head directly to the kitchen on the other side of the street, where they feed the public lunch along with the residents. After signing in and putting on the required hair-net, plastic apron, and plastic gloves, I'm told I'll be manning the juice station out in the dining room. I walk over to the juice machine and I'm greeted by a jolly black man, I'll call George, who's a little shorter than I am and much rounder. "You helping me with the juice today?" he asks. I say yes. "Cool. Ring some of those towels out and place them by the trays for wiping up spills and whatnot." He asks me if it's my first day, and I tell him I worked over on the other side last week.

"How many people you get over there?" I tell him not many, maybe 50-100, that it's mostly resident families. A younger white guy, I'll call him Jacob, comes over to join us. He asks me what volunteer group I'm from. George asks me the same thing later, and they seem surprised when I tell them I'm not volunteering with a group, that I'm here on my own. I'm actually surprised to find out they're both residents. They are normal, healthy guys with good senses of humor.

Each one of us stands at the long table in front of the juice machine with a silver tray and three juice choices in pitchers: orange, grape, and George's mix of cranberry and apple. Many of the homeless people will ask what the red stuff is, or just say, "Give me the red stuff," but George lets them know it's his special cranapple mix. Before the homeless are let in, George tells me to prepare to pour about two thousand drinks. "We get about 1,500 people coming through the line, plus residents. I'm gonna get you a new girlfriend today," he says. I laugh. "I'm gonna get you the raunchiest one coming through the line," George says and laughs. He looks at Jacob. "You too. I'm gonna get you both new girlfriends . . . I have this old woman, probably seventy-one, coming through here and rubbing my belly," George says as he rubs his belly. "She says she wants to f**k me." I laugh. "I'm serious. You'll see some crazy shit in here. There's always drama. Some woman tried to beat a man up yesterday. Drama, man. Always drama."

When the homeless people start coming through, the first thing I notice is their hands: various hues; long, yellowed fingernails; short, dirty fingernails; crusted over fingernails; sketchy, faded tattoos between thumbs and forefingers; scabs; blood stained palms; and severely dry skin. Someone should pass out lotion and nail clippers.

When I pour the juice, several people say thank you like they mean it. And not just thank you for the Styrofoam cup of juice, but thank you for volunteering, for helping. And that makes me feel good. Sure, some people push in or point their cup toward a pitcher without saying a word, but that's counterbalanced by the people saying "God bless you" or "have a wonderful day" to me. That kind of thanks and acknowledgment didn't come from feeding the rich. In general, I felt more like a servant or a piece of tolerated furniture, though there were several exceptions, of course.

George hits on several of the females, mostly residents. He keeps saying things to me, like, "Did you see that Latina girl, man? Damn," or, "You see that one, how she's built? Damn." He also has an older black woman, with tattoos on her neck, hollering out her phone number at him. "Write it down, girl," he says. While I've pointed out in past posts the disproportionate number of beautiful (and tall) rich people, I can say the homeless, in general, are not a good looking lot (though some are tall). The pretty Latina girl George commented on, and a fairly handsome younger white guy, both residents, did come through the line, but I also saw the ugliest white woman in my life. No one's winning beauty contests around here, but that's not the point.

Many people come back for seconds or thirds or more on the juice. I see several people reenter the line for a second tray of food. This may be the only meal they get today, so they stock up. A couple people have me fill their water bottles with orange juice, which I didn't realize I'm not supposed to do. They could use it for mixing with vodka when they're outside. I see a few familiar faces from last week when I was in line, including the human cigarette machine.

As other people come through the line, I think, This could be me. While I've admittedly never been close to homelessness, I've thought about the possibility ever since I was a young skateboarder. Some friends and I used to even call ourselves Team Vagrant. Life was about traveling and skateboarding and seeing new places and meeting new people, with no thought of the future. Some of the homeless guys look like people I used to skate with; one dude even wears a skateboard logo sweatshirt. And every time I read a vagabond story, whether it's On the Road or Into the Wild or Travels with Lizbeth, I feel the pull of the road.

I've been feeling it again lately. But now farther places are calling for different reasons: Afghanistan for volunteer work; South Dakota for teaching Native children; Japan for teaching English; India for pure travel experience. Even if I decide to hit the road again soon, I don't think I'll ever end up homeless, though it doesn't seem as bad as being successful and dying in your house alone, like this week's sad story about South Carolina's first black female lawmaker, Juanita Goggins. Stories like that make me want to live as much as I can now.

After a couple hours of serving juice, I tell George I'm going to eat. "Go on ahead, man," he says. I enter the line, which now only contains about five homeless people, and wait my turn at the counter. They hand you a recently washed and not completely dried plastic tray with the food already on it: a spoonful of spaghetti with a chicken friend steak and marinara sauce on top. I turn around and am handed two end pieces of white bread. The vegetables they were serving earlier, a mix of peas, carrots, and corn, are gone.

I sit down at a cafeteria table near a tall black man. After I'm seated, a young, bearded white guy sits next to me and says hello to the black man, who replies, "God is good." The white guy says amen to that, and then the black man says, "We've got to stop sabotaging our blessings." And that hangs in the air while we eat. It seems I've spent much of my life doing just that, sabotaging my blessings. But no more. I'm going to get living, to experience new things and places.

Part II Day 24: March 5, 2010 (toothless co-workers, poor man's buffet, and everybody knows that "snitches get stitches")

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 49

I arrive at the San Diego homeless facility at 6 a.m. to serve breakfast. After signing in, the head cook walks me over to put on a disposable plastic apron, plastic gloves and a hairnet. A few stereotypical “lunch ladies” move around the large kitchen preparing breakfast. After I’m all suited up and hyped to serve breakfast, the head cook tells me I can go out and assist in the dining room. Huh?

I spend two hours not feeding the poor but, instead, cleaning up their garbage and wiping down their tables. My “co-workers” consist of a tiny white woman, a large white woman, a Pacific Islander missing his front teeth, and, later, a quiet black guy who says, “Another day,” when he arrives. They all turn out to be very nice, but don’t bother introducing themselves to me. Apparently, they are either residents or part of the court ordered community service crew, since they don’t wear a volunteer badge like me, but real I.D. badges instead. I haven’t yet figured out what the different colored badges mean.

The Pacific Islander guy seems to be the self-appointed shift supervisor, and he mostly tells me what to do. The tiny lady gives me my first introduction to the job, saying, “We stand around a lot.” When I laugh, she says, “Well, we do.” She tells me they’re overstaffed, and she’s right. There are maybe twenty tables in this cafeteria setting and about as many residents. Even at the busiest time, there are no more than forty residents eating breakfast at once.

My co-workers stand around talking about the behavior of the residents––“they waste coffee and food”––or talking about their own lives: “I either fail classes or ace them. I’m just not a C student.” One of the residents is a woman, easily in her sixties, and she wears an oversized T-shirt that says “Snitches Get Stitches” in a huge font across the front. Another resident says, as she fills up her coffee mug, “I’m off to the boringest class on the planet.” I ask her what that might be. “JSS,” she says, “Job Search Skills. They teach you how to make a resume and write cover letters and all that. Look, I’m fifty-six years old, if I haven’t learned that by now there’s no hope for me.”

What impresses me most is the food variety at breakfast. Today’s hot breakfast consists of thin French toast and a side of country ham. The residents can also choose to have Cream ‘o Wheat and/or three varieties of cereal––Cheerios, Chex, or Corn Flakes. Over by the cereal, apples, oranges, and bananas fill three plastic bins. My Pacific Islander friend tells me the residents get most excited on days when they serve bacon. “People love bacon. They go crazy for it.” Near where the work crew and I do our standing around, sits a popular coffee machine and a milk machine. None of the residents wants for hunger.

When people get up to leave, I wipe down their tables, taking my time to do the job right, getting all the syrup and stains with the wet towel. Even though this is menial work, it still feels good, like I’m a small cog in this machine that’s turning people’s lives around. Sometimes, working for free for the benefit of someone else seems so much more satisfying than working for yourself.

The heartbreaking part of the morning is seeing the children in here with their parents. They range in age from toddlers to teenagers, and I can’t imagine how difficult life is when you’re being raised in a shelter. At least they’re in a really nice shelter that provides the framework and infrastructure for overcoming this adversity. The charity seeks people to help mentor the kids, but you must commit for longer terms (6 months to a year), because, as the director says, these kids need stability in their lives.

Breakfast ends promptly at 8 a.m., which seems early to me. I help clean and then fold the tables as each one is abandoned. Folding the round tables by yourself is a bit of workout, because you have to press a lever underneath and then push the edges hard to get them to fold. The tiny lady compliments me, saying I’m pretty good at it for a first timer. After I move all the tables to one side of the room and sweep half the floor so my buddy can mop, I head out.

As I pass through the courtyard, several of the residents from breakfast sit on benches along the wall and sun themselves. I smile at them as I walk by, and a kind looking black woman says, “Thank you for volunteering.” That makes the whole morning worth it right there.

Part II Day 23: March 4, 2010 (free lunches, the human cigarette machine, and praying with Saint Francis)

Position: Homeless Man

Days Officially Unemployed: 48

I decide that before I begin my volunteer work, I'd like to pass through the San Diego facility as a homeless man to see what the experience is like from the other side of the counter, especially since we're not supposed to fraternize with the clientele. I park my car at my girlfriend's place and ride my bike downtown this morning. I pass by a couple homeless men close to her apartment in University Heights, and realize they must make it hustling on their own. While cruising down Park Blvd., down past San Diego High School and City College, I spot some high school aged kids smoking a bong in a closed car garage doorway. Not a joint but a foot long bong. When I near the homeless facility, I see several homeless people beginning to converge on the charity and line up.

I ride around back and look for somewhere to lock my bike up, before riding back out front and locking it in plain view of the line inside the gate. I stand outside the gate and loiter next to a streetlight and wait for the doors to open. Men and women sit or lie down with their bags within the roped off, safety-coned lines, while others mill about outside by me. I have on my black hooded sweatshirt and keep the hood over my head and a scowl on my face. With my scruff, I think I can easily pass as the jobless man I am.

Just yesterday, after a week of trying, I finally managed to do the impossible. I got ahold of an actual person at the EDD––only because I found the interview phone number in my cell phone's old dialed calls––to ask them where my unemployment checks are, and they said it showed one authorized in the system, but it never went out. I applied a month and a half ago. I spoke to my mom last night and said, "If I didn't have any savings, I would have been screwed. How would I pay rent?" And she said, "That's how people end up homeless."

So here I am, posing as a homeless man but actually jobless. I move from my place by the streetlight to closer by the gate entrance. A short, portly Latina woman stands next to a taller, thin black man right at the entrance. While I'm watching the scene, a man approaches the black man and hands him two bucks. The black man, wearing a beanie and heavy coat, reaches into his pocket and slyly produces a pack of Marlboros for the other man. Then he does this for a woman. Then another woman. They guy is a human cigarette machine, working his angle. He unfolds a wad of ones, straightens them out, then refolds it before putting it in his pocket. A couple of other men wandering in and out of the gated area carry whole cartons of cigarettes, and I get the feeling smokes hold almost the same currency here as in prison.

I'm trying to stand here and mind my own business, so that no one will talk to me or ask me my story. But I'm a magnet for attention. A resident chaplain beelines it out of the gated area and right toward me. In an Irish accent he asks me how I am, if I have a place to stay, and how my strength is. I tell him I'm staying with a friend up by the park, a half-lie, and that I lost my job in January, the truth. He tells me my health is the most important thing, then he asks me if I believe in the Creator. I'm extremely uncomfortable with public discussions of religion, but I sheepishly tell him yes. "Do ya believe in Jesus Christ?" Without thinking of the connotation he implies––that Jesus is a form of God and the Messiah and Savior, dying for me on the cross––I answer yes. "So you're a Christian?" he says. I tell him sort of, or at least I'm trying to be, in the sense that I'm trying to follow Jesus' example. "Would ya like to pray with me?" he asks. I shrug, almost say no, then answer, "I guess so."

He lays his hand upon my shoulder and asks God to help me stay healthy, to find a job, and to meet the right people. My head is bowed and my eyes closed, and I appreciate everything he asks in my name, since I would never ask for it myself. When he finishes his lengthy prayer, I shake his hand and thank him. He says, "Would you like to pray for me now?" I stammer and say that I'm not comfortable with public prayer and that I will remember him tonight in my prayers. He tells me his name, and I begin asking him questions about where he's from. He says he's a retired missionary and has been in the U.S. for about 15 years, and, no, he hasn't been back to Ireland for a long while. That makes me sad for some reason. He asks me if I know who Saint Francis of Assisi is, and then tells me I look like him, especially with my sweatshirt hood and scruffy beard. I tell him I wish I were St. Francis.

When the cafeteria doors open, I walk inside the gate and sit on the curb at the end of the long line. They only allow a dozen or so people in at a time, so the line moves slow. The majority of the people standing in line are white and over forty-years-old. Black people are second in numbers, followed by a few Asian men and a couple Latinos. I would expect more Latinos because of the overall demographics of San Diego and its proximity to Mexico. Their underrepresentation here makes me hypothesize about the nature of families within our various cultures. I think white people are the most likely to be isolated from their families, though this is only speculation. Could be that they're more willing to accept handouts, dating back to the Great Depression––the old soup line photos show mostly white men and a few black men––who knows?

I spend my time in line staring at the ground, looking up every once in a while to observe the faces or to see who's telling the story about how he's looking for work and an apartment. A young Asian guy, who wears a black Henry's Market beanie and appears to be in fantastic health, stands next to me in line. He keeps looking at me and sizing me up, probably thinking the same thing I am about him: what are you doing here?

An unshaved, fat white man with a worn out, black ball cap and a silky, black windbreaker enters the line behind me and starts complaining to his lady friend about how they wouldn't let him in through the handicap line. He said he asked where R is, because R always lets him in. The man takes pains to outline how, even though he seems quite capable, he isn't supposed to stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time, and that even the handicap line takes more than fifteen minutes to get through, while this regular one can take an hour. I realize he's holding a fluorescent, laminated card. I look around and see other people are holding these too.

I turn to the guy behind me and ask if you need a pass to eat. "Yeah, you get them at the office," he says, pointing to the front of the building outside of the gate. I walk over there and enter. The young black man minding the front desk ignores me while I stand at the counter. After several seconds pass, he finally looks at me and asks what I want. I tell him I need a pass to eat, and he says I have to go around the block to another building and get a special I.D. card there. An I.D. card? To eat at a homeless shelter? The place in Fresno doesn't ask for I.D. "Won't take but five minutes," he says. I really just want to leave at this point, since I'm feeling guilty for even trying to eat lunch here.

But I walk up the sidewalk. Then stop. I walk back to the building and get my bike, then ride up the street to see if I can find the other building, which has the word "day" in its name. When I turn the corner, I see many homeless people, in a less secure setting, wandering the streets or standing with their shopping carts on the sidewalk. I ride up to the gate of the place that issues I.D.s and the courtyard looks like what can only be described as a homeless prison yard. Apparently, it's an area that provides daytime relief to the homeless. I don't have the nerve to enter through all the tents and rough characters, plus I worry about having to face an interview and lying about my situation. Looks like I'm going to have to experience the place purely as a volunteer. I turn around and head up the street toward my girlfriend's apartment, satisfied with my attempt to get a free lunch. And I vow to return in the morning to feed the poor.

Part II Day 21: March 2, 2010 (orientation, gentrification, and living with the poor)

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 47

I leave my girlfriend's house and attempt to drive into downtown San Diego toward a well-known charity, which is hosting an orientation for volunteers tonight. I accidentally get on the freeway headed the wrong direction, north, and by the time I get off and meander through the streets of downtown, I'm almost late. Unlike La Casa Pobre in Fresno, the streets immediately surrounding the charity aren't filled with homeless people. There are a few, but there's no encampment to drive through before the gate. I think the reason for the absence of homeless people is the different nature of the two charities.

While the charity in Fresno feeds the homeless three meals a day, without question, and allows a limited number of drug and alcohol addicts to obtain residency to help them overcome their addictions, the San Diego charity provides semi-long term living quarters, focuses on getting the homeless off the streets, and only serves one public meal a day.

One of the coordinators walks us through the San Diego facility, which encompasses several very nice multi-story buildings in a one or two block radius. They house each group separately: families; single women; and single men. Each group has their own floor or more of rooms and, as I understand it, every person is afforded a two-year timeline to make it out on their own. There's a nice courtyard playground for the kids, along with a children's education center and daycare on the ground floor of the main building. Upstairs, in the other central building, there's an adult education center and computer labs. Everything is designed to give the residents full access to improving their situation until they can get on their own feet again. They serve the residents three meals a day, while the public homeless population is offered one lunchtime meal a day and free access to downstairs showers.

The residents live under strict rules and a point system, which are there to help them. Too many points and you're booted. Bring drugs in and you're gone. While the facilities are nice, especially compared to La Casa Pobre in Fresno, the coordinator explains that the living situation isn't easy, especially since you have four men living in each single males room. The residents sometimes have disagreements and fights, and they often tell on one another if someone's breaking the rules.

Across the street, beyond where the charity's founder lives, there's a large low-income apartment building that the charity also owns. The founder's main goal right now is to get more affordable housing in downtown, because, as the coordinator explains, it's really difficult for people to make it out on their own when they can't afford the high rents of San Diego. I never really understood the process and problem of gentrification, which took place with the Gas Lamp District's expansion and then the addition of the Padres' Petco Park downtown, but poor people have nowhere to live. Many of the old, affordable motels in the area were bulldozed with the arrival of the ballpark, and luxury condos took their places. The poor got pushed farther and farther out, making getting to work downtown more and more difficult.

Just like in Fresno, fraternizing with the residents or lunchtime homeless people is discouraged. The coordinator echoes what was said in Fresno, that this is not the place to find your next date, though it happens. And with the emphasis on self-reliance, the coordinator tells us we're not allowed to give anything at all to the residents. "If you're by the soda machines and someone is just a dime short for a soda, don't give it to them. If you're standing out in the area where people tend to smoke and someone tries to bum a cigarette from you, don't give it to them." The charity operates on the old adage that "it's better to give someone a fishing pole than a fish." Well, they give them fish to eat while they're teaching them to fish, I guess. In contrast, to continue the metaphor, La Casa Pobre, in Fresno, functions mostly to give out fish and only a handful of fishing poles, which would explain why they're are so many people encamped just outside the gates.

As I drive away from the San Diego charity just after 8 p.m., I go under the freeway underpass and both sides are completely crammed with homeless encampments of shopping carts and tarps. I guess the situation here isn't that different than in Fresno; the homeless encampments have just been pushed a little farther out to the periphery of a gentrified downtown.

Part II Day 20: March 1, 2010 (how conservative instincts keep me from feeding the poor)

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 46

I'm slacking on feeding the poor. Well, the various charities to which I'm volunteering are slacking. Tomorrow night I have my first orientation at a canter in downtown San Diego, and this Saturday I have an orientation in Oceanside. I've also contacted a charity that delivers food to homebound elderly folks, and even though they were quick to respond by e-mail, the coordinator never called me. Today I received an e-mail saying she's going on vacation soon, and they don't train while she's on vacation. I never thought feeding the poor would be so difficult or, more accurately, require so much effort on my part.

Last week I thought maybe I'd walk down by the Cardiff laundromat and buy some homeless people lunch and ask them about their lives. But I haven't put out the energy, and I wonder why. Even though I'm still waiting for my own government cheese to show up (in the form of my first unemployment check), I can't justify my lack of effort to feed the poor.

And then I read this seemingly unrelated CNN article about liberalism, atheism, male sexual exclusivity and higher IQ scores. I wasn't so much concerned with the study as I was about this telling statement:

"'Liberals are more likely to be concerned about total strangers; conservatives are likely to be concerned with people they associate with,' [James Baily] said.

"Given that human ancestors had a keen interest in the survival of their offspring and nearest kin, the conservative approach––looking out for the people around you first––fits with the evolutionary picture more than liberalism,' [Satoshi] Kanazawa said. 'It's unnatural for humans to be concerned about total strangers.'"

And I think that's my problem: feeding the poor doesn't necessarily concern my day to day life, while I was monetarily rewarded and could pay my rent and take trips, for feeding the rich. I need to switch off my instinctual, conservative brain and start listening to my compassionate, liberal heart. I'm hoping, as backcountry rangers are "rewarded with sunsets," that I'll be rewarded with feel-goodedness from feeding the poor.