"God is so Damn Sneaky"

Sermon title? Nope. The exclamation of an Anglican hooker when she saw Father Kim and I in the bar.

I was about 2 feet inside the door of another unnamed tavern when one of the customers dropped a HUGE "F-Bomb."

If you don't know what that is, email me, or ask your granddaughter.

OK, this is the guy who goes to the conservative Lutheran church, the guy who's always trying to engage me with discussions about the difference between a cross and a crucifix (and what he wants to know, do they both work on vampires?)

That whole end of the bar is getting louder and louder. It's politics and alcohol. Something must give. The Jaeger girls and several buxom customers have created a maelstrom of testosterone.

Meanwhile downtown: ran into Bruce B, really happy to see each other. Bruce and I are on the corner, recalling old fights at Nightwatch from a dozen years ago. A guy interrupts, looking for bus fare to Northgate -- so he said. Bruce, 15 years homeless (and looks it) whips out two bucks and gives it to him. Later, Bruce tells me "I'd rather have him rip me off than you."

Now, the guy needing bus fare looks like a 40 year old business guy, the sort of guy who would work in a lab, or an insurance office. Neat, trim, decent clothes. He takes the two bucks from the homeless guy who has been on the street for 15 years. What?

Twenty minutes later, the middle-aged insurance sales guy is walking down the street at Third and Bell, looking for all the world like he finally found his drug connection. Was I surprised?

Nope. Maybe I've been doing this too long.

Why a duck?

Best story of the night.

Father Kim saw a homeless woman out and about, carrying a duck.

She's raised this duck from a nestling. She insisted the duck was brilliant. It was indeed walking with her, like one might walk a well trained dog.

The duck walked to the edge of the sidewalk.

"CURB! CURB!" the woman screamed. The duck ignored her, and continued on, into the street.

"Really, this duck is so smart."

But all Father Kim could think: "It's a bird-brain."

On Families

Operation Nightwatch wants to help homeless families.

Here's the dilemma: We already are at capacity for single men & single women. Our numbers for the summer have been off the chart in terms of nightly average.

It isn't safe to plunk a family with children down in the midst of these single adults.

Operation Nightwatch was a dumping ground for other bigger and better funded social service agencies who simply wanted a voucher for a family they were working with; one night the social worker started to drive away in a new van having dropped off a mom who didn't speak English and her five kids. They were all neatly dressed, had no luggage. We were expected to stop serving the 150 homeless men and women to get this family onto a city bus across town to a hotel which takes our voucher, when the only adult doesn't speak English, while the social worker drives home in the shiny new van, thinking "another job well done."

Bitter? yah.

Anyway, for the safety of the kids we decided it didn't make any sense to do what we were doing. Sorry if that impacts you.

Meanwhile, we are interested in developing a strategy for families with children that makes sense. What's your idea? A single night in an isolated motel makes no sense at all.

Rick

Blogger dog

Street misery

Street ministry or street misery?

I put up a happy picture of John and Tiger to remind myself that Nightwatch isn't all tragic horror. It just feels that way sometimes.

John is a paying tenant -- he does jigsaw puzzles and brags about how long he's lived in the building. I feel pretty good knowing that without Nightwatch he'd probably be flopping around one of the shelters at age 75, or dead.

Meanwhile, anyone have a joke for me?

Must be a holiday weekend -- I need three days off.

R

Pointless Search?

I'm not really sure what to say when I get calls like I got this week.

"My daughter is missing, she was evicted from her Capitol Hill apartment. The manager says he saw her in the park. When you find her, have her call me collect."

I feel so cynical in these situations. In a town of 1.2 million (Greater Seattle) and 7,800 homeless individuals on any given night (according to the One Night Count) I'm supposed to wander around and find a particular not-very-together homeless woman? Give me a break.

So, I did drive around a bit on Capitol Hill last night. Didn't really see anyone at 9:30 p.m. I'll keep the particulars in my car so I can jump out like a cop making a bust: "Call your mother!"

OK. Stranger things have happened.

What are we supposed to do?

What are we supposed to do? Operation Nightwatch served 51 women on Monday night. We had space around town for less than 30. Many just turned around and walked out -- not wanting to sit around waiting for the last call at 11:00 p.m. from one of the women's shelters. They knew what the answer was going to be.

In the summer we should be enjoying life. But the crush of people this summer is unlike any summer in my fourteen summers at Nightwatch. The strain is being felt by the homeless, by the staff, and the whole system. No one has an answer.

I am in dread of September rains.

End of an Era

It was my last night at "Dravus Street Bar" (all names changed to protect . . . oh who knows) -- last big blowout is Saturday night, and you couldn't get me there if you paid me and picked me up in a limo.

So of course tonight I met a coupla nice guys -- one a retire cop (where the heck has he been? We could have used him the past 9 months). He told me he started drinking there 35 -40 years ago. We swapped names, he told me I couldn't be a good priest since I turned down his offer of wine. Shout out to Dean Quall, retired SPD officer who was on the Nightwatch board about 14 years ago. Maybe I met him once. Other friendly face was a property owner in the hood who stops off on his way home (Lynnwood) after painting or whatnot on his apartments.

He said something I had never heard in 25 years of bar ministry:

Bartender: "You want another one?"

Patron: "Nah. Two is my limit."

Way to go. This shall be my final memory of the Dravus Street Bar. A lot happened here in a short time for the Nightwatch ministers.

Indulge me a longer-than-usual reflection.

"Milk Maid" is the glue (besides booze, I mean) that held the place together. She's worked here longer than she cares to admit, maybe 25 to 30 years; she hates to hear that. And sometimes she quit but always came back.

Milk Maid was sad about what was going to happen to the whole screwed up-dysfunctional-alcoholic-addict family that circles around Dravus Street. Her flock is being scattered, and she worries about them; she will miss many of them. But then, some of her favorites have been 86'd out of there in the past six months.

Her nightmare commute to Bellingham will end on Saturday night/Sunday morning. Imagine driving to Seattle from Bellingham every day to pour beers and mix drinks for that crowd. Oh yeah, she cooks a mean burger, they say. Never ate anything there.

Part of what she left me: Angostura bitters -- good for what ails ya. Compassion for the hard-bitten. The impossibility of one person to manage such a place. Never a growl escaped her lips, even when trying to get better behavior from one of her kids.

I wonder what is next for her.

She gave me her phone number on a coaster, and told me I better explain it to my wife. I don't think Lorri will mind. I'm going to call her early next week to find out how the closing party went, and probably on Thursday night for awhile -- my night to be in there.

It feels weird -- there were some brutal crimes, ugly scenes -- hookers picking off guys who 10 minutes prior had asked for prayer; lock downs, when girlfriends were huddled at the bar. "W" trying to figure out what to do, having come home to find his stuff locked up by the landlord; "T" getting busted for living in a parking lot in Ballard in her van, even though there were no drugs; the crazy old lady who drank coffee and sat in the corner -- conversations with her were stream of conciousness webs that lured you in; the exotic dancer shimmying around the room, fully clothed and looking like an example of plastic surgery gone sadly awry; "H" getting it on to "Jungle Boogie" his gapped toothed smile and incredible bulk seriously impressive in dance; "J" the young pool hotshot who I mysteriously ran into in Chinatown -- cryptically telling me he doesn't "do that" anymore; PFC "J" and his drunk motorcycling death wish; passing out popsicles; going around the room with Father Kim fixing all the malfunctioning beer lights when we were the only two people in the bar; the end of smoking inside; Milk Maid's tangle with the falling equipment in the kitchen; "K-J" and pal wanting a Bible & rosaries (eek, too late on the extras). Not to mention the whole Danny Westneat, Seattle Times, following me around on the stormiest night of the year saga; "DB" spewing venom and insanity and then making peace in a most-lovely righteous way. Whew. I know there's a bunch I missed. Sorry to run on so long.

I'll miss the people, but not the place. God keep them close. Rick

From the archives: Pastor Rick, Mechanic

Maybe it was rescuing the Mercedes driver last week; something was triggered.

We got a call about 9:30 p.m. that a family was stranded -- they weren't homeless, but they weren't going to get home in the heap they were driving.

I dispatch Mark Abbott & Matt Whitehead to get the mom, three kids and an 18 year old nephew into a hotel room for the night (way to go, guys), and told the family I'd meet them at their car then next morning. Say, 10:00 a.m.

The 18 year old nephew told me it was the alternator. He didn't really know, but that's what some service station grease monkey told him.

I asked for prayer, grabbed the kid and drove to the nearest wrecking yard. The bored guys behind the counter couldn't care less. Yeah, we got one of those, and the lazy hand wave indicating the general direction.

We found an identical heap, managed to grab the alternator with a minimum of pain, paid the dude at the counter (all of $20 I think). Within an hour everything was done, installed, jump started with my little Toyota tin can -- and they were able to drive home to the coast. Not a bad day.

Lorri says, "Sure sign that there is a God."

Rick

Bar Closure

Attention Drinkers, starting August 19 the "Dravus Street" bar will be closed for good. Three lanes of drinkers will be reduced to one. Take alternate routes.

Washington Department of Transportation attributes the closure to "expansion joints." Need we say more? Apparently others are concerned as well.

Friday night happy hour will be the real test of capacity.

Car problem solved

It seemed like a joke.

Here's the line of homeless folks going into Operation Nightwatch at 9 p.m. The woman in the Mercedes parked next to them needed a jump start.

The Nightwatch minister has the jumper cables and the live battery.

Needless to say, we had lots of advice and help.

Despite that, we got her going. Rick

It's all about the pie

It's early in the month. Only dispatched maybe 120 homeless men & women to shelter.

At the end of the night I got back to dispatch. A few clients sitting around at 11:15. Staff was taking a pie break.

Rumor is that the Dravus Street tavern is closing. Neighbors will be happy, but the guys at MFQAT were wondering if the riff-raff might show up there.

Doubtful.

Anyway, I hate breaking in a new bar. Might drive me to eat.

Another rescue story

The only difference between me and a homeless person is someone like Donna who graciously put me up this weekend. Yeah!

Paperclip

The paperclip sat on the corner of my desk while I spoke with a mentally ill woman.

"Would you like that?" I offered, since I had just handed her two pieces of paper.

Her eyes lit up, a glimmer of a smile crossed her face. "I especially like this kind." The paperclip was tucked into her bag.

Within minutes she was shouting paranoid and delusional information at me, and marched out the door. She failed to make her case for getting help from Nightwatch any more. Some folks, unfortunately, need help that we can't give them. For the safety of our staff, volunteers, and other homeless friends, we have to send some people away. That was Wednesday.

Ironically, as I was leaving the office at 12:15 a.m. Friday morning, in the middle of the street I found a paperclip. Too weird. "God, help her."

Lead us not into temptation

M's birthday tonight. She's up on the bar shimmying in celebration. It was beautiful and awful at the same time. She's a lovely looking woman, but egad. Full of alcohol most the time I see her, and hanging out with a rough crowd.

Met L. "I never found God" he told me bitterly. Knows he's gotta quit the juice. Not enough love in his life. Ever.

Tonight Milk Maid told W. out in the parking lot, "Someone inside wants to see you."

He says, "Who, Jesus?"

"No, just a friend."

Before I left I told Milk Maid, she was Jesus in the joint when I'm gone. Got her thinking maybe. She's got to get out of there. Somehow.

Chewing the fat

So I'm parked on a barstool the night after Independence Day. People are pretty mellow at MFQAT.

Then Bright Eyes shows up, yipping and cussin' about it being the best night of her life, and buys a round for the house and slapping all the boys on their backsides and high-fiving the bartender.

She hits up C#2 for some chaw. What the? Too big of a pinch, but she keeps tucking it in. Ugh, like you didn't need something else to ignore about her, now she's got a wad in her lip. Lovely.

Seeing me she suddenly gets self conscious and quiet. "Can't believe I'm sitting next to a f-ing priest."

At the end of the night I wondered. Did I really do anyone any good tonight? I guess it beats sitting at home doing laundry.

Rick (sounds like I need a vacation)

Cross Connections

I met Bob sleeping in his VW Bug about 20 years ago (he keeps track, I don't).

Bob has come & gone & come & gone, but appears to have put a good run together this time.

In fact, he got to travel with North Creek Presbyterian to do Katrina relief a few months ago. Formerly homeless guy, doing front porch repairs and drywall finishing. How cool is that? Rick

F**** Cool Incarnation

I can't reproduce the conversation -- one of those nights I wish I had a wire to secretly record what happened.

He was drunk, expansive, brimming with poetry and juiced up love for God and humanity.

I've never seen him before maybe never will again. But he gave me a gift -- some original poetry, a picture of a soul pulled two directions, and the earthiest endorsement of Jesus ever given. "He f****** took all the f******* sins of the f******* world. The f******* cool Incarnation. F******* incredible.

His final words to me were the same used at my ordination. Maybe not exactly.

R

Side bar: Aromatic bitters

I complained to the bartender that I'd had a gut ache all day after overdoing it at lunch time at my favorite Mexican place (it's a sure sign of age -- didn't eat as much as I once could, but still, the bellyache).

The Milkmaid said, "I got just the thing" and pulls out this ancient bottle of Angostura Bitters, throws a few drops into a highball glass with some tonic water. I was doubtful -- the brownish liquid slowly diffused in the bubbly.

I took a tentative sip. Not bad, very interesting taste.

While finishing off my remedy, I'm reading the bottle.

Almost immediately my gut ache left me. Where can I buy this stuff? And what the heck is it?

My online research has netted a "per case" source, but everyone seems to agree that one bottle lasts a half-lifetime.

Apostles Creed in the tavern

"Sullivan" stops me on the sidewalk, asks for prayer. It's 9:00 p.m. Three years ago I met him at a bar downtown and he started off defending his Roman Catholic faith by quoting the Apostle's Creed. I recited it with him; he was amazed that a Free Methodist would agree. We have more in common than he thought, and we've been friends since.