Saturday. What a fucking morning. On Saturdays, I set me alarm for the hour at which I need to be leaving the house. I do this because i otherwise never sleep that late, and setting it so late allows me to get more sleep...if I do happen to get that much sleep. This morning is one of those mornings. The backup plan is to ride to the bus which will drop me at the doorstep of where I work. If I have to open during the week, this won't work. Because during the week we open two hours earlier than we do on Saturdays. This continues to confound some of our customers. But this morning, the first bus upon the aforementioned route will get me to work with time to have breakfast. The other thing I need to do besides go to work is mail my phone bill in the mailbox at the end of my parking lot. It's in the pocket of my windbreaker I'm wearing on this not so warm morning. I'm rolling along the long street a block from my own when I realize that 1) I forgot to mail the bill, and 2) it's no longer in my pocket. I'm not convinced that it mailed itself. Of course I don't know where it fell out, and I retrace my wheels, even past the pair of homeless kids in the bus shelter where I threw a bag in the trash can. As soon as I get back to my parking lot, I see it. It may be damp from laying on the wet asphalt, but it's in the mail now. Can I still make the bus? Breakfast awaits. I put the literal pedal to the metal and make it to the stop on time. I stay at work an hour after we close. I decide to have dinner today where I usually do on Sundays. I don't expect to be there tomorrow, I plan on being across town at a movie theatre. I get as far as across the street from work when a light rain begins to fall. I put on a pair of rain pants, my windbreaker, and a rain poncho. I'm not far when the rain stops. For a good couple of hours this afternoon, the sky was overcast. Now the sun comes out. I change back out of everything and put on a sleeveless shirt. The sky in the direction from when I came is dark, and thunder rolls. It's an odd little experience. The following morning, I'm off to the sister's at a decent hour. After lunch and helping her repot an endless number of aloes vera plants, I ride to the train. I didn't realize until today that another theatre is playing the same movie an hour earlier. After the show, I will indeed be back at the pizza place. But before the show, I go in and purchase a ticket. I'm told I don't need a physical ticket. I ask for a paper receipt. They can't print one. I go next door to a Chipotle for a quick meal. As soon as I walk in, a manager who looks as if she should be in high school yells "Front!" (As in front counter, a customer is here.) I don't know why I'm surprised someone wouldn't otherwise know a customer came in. The kid who eventually makes his way to the counter takes forever to wash his hands. He glumly asks me what I want. Another employee completes my order and puts it in a bag. I take it out of the bag and put the bag back, pay, and sit and eat next to a window. I watch a homeless guy sitting outside, just under the window. He slowly gets up (he should apply here) and makes his exit. He's wearing a Polo shirt with a logo for a golf tournament. I return to the theatre. I purchase popcorn and a drink, and their point-of-sale system is having trouble. And yet, the do give me a paper receipt. I return to the ticket girl and ask her why they can give me a receipt and she can't? She says she doesn't have a printer.
Tuesday. I otherwise would have hit the gym after work yesterday. But I stayed at work two hours after close. It was the busiest day yet. From the gym, I decide not to take the train home, even though it's right across the street. The weight loss has leveled off and I have no good reason not to ride home. I decide that, if I ride up to the next train station (not far at all) I can take an underpass below the highway instead of crossing at an intersection. I'm just a couple blocks from the gym when I decide to pull over on a side street in an industrial stretch. I'm in front of a small paint detail shop where I want to put on my windbreaker. This week, I've been in long pants and long sleeves and shoes. I'm preparing to get back on the bike when I notice a tiny homeless camper quietly pull up to the curb across the street. It looks like an early 1980s Toyota. Twilight is falling, it's just about 7 PM. I can't make out anyone in the driver's seat. A light comes on in the back. The small side window opens, and from behind a curtain, someone throws out something from a cup onto the street. The following morning begs a question. Go ahead. Ask me. Why do I have four bicycles? My oldest one I got at Walmart for $99, I don't know how many years ago. That one I ride on the weekends. My newest one is in the shop for a tune up. The bike which I rode before that one, I had it rebuilt, and have been riding it since my newest one is out of action. It serves as a back-up. This morning, just as I'm headed out the door to work, I discover that the back tire is flat. I'm sure the tube is punctured. The fourth bike I purchased from someone who does contract work for the company I work for. He sold it to me for $100. It runs and I couldn't turn it down. If my weekend bike is my second back-up bike, this one is my third. I bought it just for such a purpose. This morning, when my life takes one of those twists with which I am so familiar, I feel as though my foresight has just earned it's pay. I need to put air in the tires and move a couple of small bags onto the frame. And with that, I'm ready to roll. It's an older bike but still has life in it. It may be from the 1980s or even the 70s. The oddest part of it are the gears. They appear as if each set of them, the high ones and the low, could be completely different designs. As if they are replacements from other bikes. The high gears are much larger levers, and the lever to go into gear appears to require the simultaneous manipulation of the lever to shift out of gear. I've never seen gears like it before. The time it took to prep this bike leaves me with time only to ride to the bus which will take me directly to work. Along the way, I'm on the sidewalk next to a busy avenue. I come to an intersection where either opposite corner in under construction. I elect to cross over to the only one with room to stop and let traffic turn around me. While I wait for my light, a jackhammer is throwing small bits of concrete at my head. The bike does good and gets me to the bus stop, where yet again one comes along which has a broken fare box. This appears to be the only bus I take these days, and it's not an easy route upon which to unload the ride coupons which I can't use on the train. I work again past close, 2 1/2 hours. Right after we close, I ride over a coffee shop. Along the way, the real rim feels loose and falls out of true. I realize that the tires on it are so big that the rear one only clears the frame by about a millimeter. When I come out of the coffee shop, a middle-aged guy opens his car door to ask me if my bike is electric. There's obviously no battery, and where it would otherwise be are a pair of wire bottle cages. I tell him it's not an e-bike. "It looks like a great bike," he tells me. Is he kidding. The guy sold it to me because this is the one he had before he got himself an e-bike.
Denver Football, Picking Up My Bike, and The Audacity of Hope...
After work I get out on time. I decide that after I get home, I will turn around and go pick up my bike from the shop in the sporting goods supercenter. I had an email last night that it's tuned up and ready to go. I get home around 6:30 PM. I head out to the bus stop across the street with a family who also arrives there. There's a mom with a butt so big it's hard for her to walk. She has a teenager who is also overweight and three younger daughters. In the bus stop, the 3 youngest are loud. The youngest is banging on the metal side of the bus shelter, and wandering out toward the bust boulevard. All 3 youngest keep randomly shouting at each other. Meanwhile, there's a local home football game at the stadium 20 blocks north of where we sit. And during the half hour we wait for a pair of buses to arrive, a total of three fire trucks exit the firehouse next to the shelter over two separate times. When the pair of buses pull up, myself and the family and three others who all appear to know each other but arrive separately, one with a dog on a leash, get on board. The entire family stands up front because the kids want to sit together, not each next to a stranger, as such seats are the only ones available. The driver won't proceed unless all of them sit in a seat. An old guy with a cane speaks up and tells the kind that it's okay to sit next to the strangers. He then tells the driver to "knock this shit off. I got places to go. Let's get going." After the mom yells at the kids, everyone takes their seats. The mom can't be more than 30. I hear her tell more than one person that she has "6 girls and 3 boys." She sits next to a woman who is tending to a guy slumped in a walker. He's not an old man. We reach the train station and I exit the bus with the family. A group of elderly men are sitting behind the bus shelter, listening to loud hip hop on a sound system. One of them cheers the city football team. Just beyond the intersection is the football stadium. I'm joined on the train platform by the family. I sit and watch a couple directly across on the opposite platform. A young woman is folding up a blue plastic tarp. A guy stands with both hands on a walker. His knees buckled and his back bent, he stands motionless next to her. Our train soon arrives and myself and the gang get on the same car. The youngest three are loud, and running back and forth between each side of the train car.
At the end of the line, I decide to walk the short block to a Whole Foods for a snack. Joining me at the buffet is the family. The 3 kids are crying for the mom to get them what they want. Soon, they are in line behind me, the 3 crying still. The teenager walks toward the exit. The youngest follows. I eat as I walk to the supercenter. I should get there before 8 PM. With any luck, I can grab my bike and ride home with an hour to spare before my bedtime. There's a trail all the way back to my extended neighborhood. It goes past the football stadium. I have no such luck. There are two people ahead of me. A third is having his bike worked on and comes to the counter. His bike is one I haven't ever seen before. His brakes appear to be on standard 10-speed handlebars. But they also move side to side, as they are also the shifters. A young female has the bike o up on a stand. She unscrews and removes the rear axle. It's after an axle is back in the hub that I notice her shifting the brakes to the side as she literally cycles through the gears. She has on a big shiny gold wristwatch. I'm there for perhaps an hour before I'm next. My own bike has a new brake cable and new brake pads. The tech decides to give the chain some more oil as an announcement comes across the speakers. The store is closing in 15 minutes. When I get it outside it's 9 PM, and my shifters feel like new. In the dark, I get behind a skateboarder who I can't get past on the trail. I follow him to the bridge across the river, which leads to an entrance to the football stadium. On this side of the bridge are a pile of parked electric scooters. People are pouring across the bridge. When I make my way through them, it's smooth sailing all the way home, where I still arrive with 20 minutes to spare before bedtime. The following morning, I have another cleaning at the dentist. Soon I'm out of there and rolling toward the bike trail to work. I turn along the block with the open field. There is a lone, a tiny, and a newly arrived camper. It appears as if it's almost the same one as the one I found myself next to on Tuesday. But it can't be. The previous camper has a hand painted mural on the side. It's funny any camper showed up here now, because it's closest to an intersection which has been closed for perhaps the better part of a month, due to construction. I come back through here the following morning on the way to work. It's gone. I wonder if it's part of some strategy by homeless, leaving before anyone has a chance to run them off. Or if they are simply being run off a lot sooner. After work, I'm coming home, turning onto the trail along the river. At this junction is a shelter with a bench. On the other side is the corner of a gravel parking lot for a warehouse. The shelter and this corner are popular with homeless vehicles. There may be as many as five of them all parked alongside each other. What's unusual this afternoon is a plastic children's play cabin, like a treehouse on the ground. There's a dolly inside, and a bicycle rests against the outside.
Sunday. Ater lunch and more unpacking a few cookbooks with the sister, I head to the train which I take to a stop closest to my Sunday pizza place. After a slice, I head back to the same movie theatre where I was last Sunday. Only this afternoon, I'm headed there from the pizza joint, which ends up taking me along a drive through a park. It's a path for pedestrians and bikes, and the huge park is popular for picnics, frisbee, sunbathing and volleyball. The high today will be 74 degrees F. The weather is waning ever so slowly, and this is surely one of the last weekends for such frivolity. There appears to be one however who isn't as refreshed by the day's fun. He's a grossly overweight Caucasian guy on a bicycle, in black shorts and a black shirt. He has saddlebags, one of which has a garment inside. He passes me and says something about "a fucking weirdo" before making a U-turn. I delay a second or two before turning my head. He says, "Mind your own business, bro. I'm not talking to you." He takes off down the way he came. I get the impression he doesn't want to be here. I can't especially say he fits in. After my movie, I will come back through this park. It's still full of people as the sun is going down. There's no sign of him. But on the way home, I get back to my own neighborhood. I' can't remember where I first spotted the blinking lights in my rearview mirror. Or did I first see them in the distance ahead of me. From the spacing on the lights, I could tell that I was seeing something like a pedicab, such as those which traverse the length of the pedestrian mall downtown. While routinely checking my rearview as usual when I ride, I see it follow me all the way to my street. The rider passes me in the bike lane. I decide to make a stop at the Chinese place across the street from my home, for dinner. There's a homeless guy with a kind of tricycle. It isn't a pedicab, it's much smaller. But instead of a big rear seat, it has some kind of smaller box. And there are no lights. He takes off.
Thursday. I need the day off. It's my annual prostate check-up. I'm expecting bad news. I received a call from a nurse. Nurses are more blunt than doctors. I know my prostate is large. She told me, "You will either get a prescription, or surgery." That's simple enough for me to understand. I have a lot to do today. I never waste a minute on my days off, rare that they are. Instead of take the rim off the bike with the flat and attempt to ride with it to the bike shop, I take the entire bike on the transit system to the shop. So they can fix the flat there and I will then have a bike to ride and not have to transport a rim. With a cassette on the hub. This morning, there is no family with loud kids at the bus stop across the street. The bus arrives in jig time when there's no football game or multiple fire engines exiting the firehouse next to the stop. Once we get a few blocks up the boulevard, however, a little guy gets on. He asks the driver if h will take him 15 blocks without any fare. The driver tells him, "Are you kidding?" The guy jumps off and scurries away. The driver says to us, "Hey, beautiful day for a walk. Right folks?" Soon, I'm out at the train. I hardly remember getting on the train because I'm thinking about getting my prostate chopped off. Again, I get out and run into Whole Foods for breakfast, which I forwent at home to get a jump on the damned day, which has a way of getting away. Of course it's already going on noon, so breakfast is a couple of pieces of breaded chicken and roasted green beans from the buffet. But it works for me. At the big deal downtown transit hub, I spot but a single lone homeless guy sitting on a concrete slab, and a second one slowly shuffling along with a straw or candy sucker in his mouth. A Transit Police vehicle sits parked off to the side of the main terminal. Out in front of Whole Foods, one guy is asleep on a bench in the sunshine. A private security officer on a bicycle slowly rides up and down, back and forth past the guy asleep. A second homeless guy is standing and getting his space together. Inside are more homeless. They are seated individually at tables inside. I watch through big windows as a woman who appears to be dressed as a kind of gypsy slowly makes her way along outside. Once she gets inside and purchases something from the buffet, she shuffles to the tables talking quietly to herself. There's a small group sitting at a table. One woman mentions that she's from Kansas and went out "to a show last night at midnight." Another woman says, "I did too." At the next table, a middle-aged homeless guy sits quietly looking at his phone. It's as if the homeless know their place in here, with security in body armor at the main entrance. It's safe enough for tourists from Kansas.
I eat fast and haul the bike up the steps over the train tracks. I'm soon at the sporting goods supercenter. A sign on the door I haven't noticed before. It explains that the portable toilets outside are there because the restrooms inside are under construction. That answers my question from last week. I go inside and recognize a tech who I suspect doesn't care for me. I had him before, when I tried to have an old rack put this very bike. He told me then that they "don't really do used stuff." And he wouldn't put it on. So I took it to a closer bike shop, where the staff was happy to put it on for me. Today however, he appears to recognize neither myself nor the bike he wouldn't service originally. And he's happy to be of service. The flat's fixed and he oils the chain. Then I'm off to the pizza place for lunch, after which I head to my appointment. I'm early, and the office is late calling me back to the exam rooms. I finish reading a guide to an upcoming annual film fest and balance my checking account. A urine sample, another urine test, and a quick ultrasound, all to look at the flow rate and amount of urine both leaving and what's left over. The urologist comes it. He apologizes for being late. He had to tell one patient that he does have cancer, and it's everywhere. That can't be good. Another patient didn't speak Spanish, and he needed a translator. He's great at explaining everything, but he's dramatic. He tells me my prostate is "huge." There's nothing untrue about this. But I fully expect he will want to operate, not only due to his vivid description, but his opinion that medication will have no effect. To my surprise he tells me that both my information about how often I urinate, together with his tests, he recommends I do nothing yet as far as operating. He would like to put a camera up my penis. In a couple of months. I suppose this isn't as bad as getting my prostate chopped. He appears surprised that I'm not having trouble urinating, and that I'm not yet taking a single pill to help urinate. I ride back to the yogurt place next to the pizza place. I go into the pizza place for a soda, and decide to get another slice for dinner. Then I stop at a supermarket for a couple of products my own doesn't carry. Coming home from shopping last Saturday after work, I stuck my head into a restaurant to grab a local newspaper. At the movie theatre last Sunday, I grabbed one local magazine. Along the way to bike shop, I picked up a weekly local newspaper. Now, at this supermarket, I grab another local monthly magazine as well as yet a different monthly newspaper. All of them free. I ride home from there before i decide to take the bus to a drug store just up the street, where I haven't been in ages. My digital camera is trying to tell me it has no memory card. A clerk tells me that it's either a problem with the card, or with the camera. I need to take it the camera shop where I get my film developed. This is a plan for another adventure.
...building credit and saving for cash to close... ...I completed the first-time homebuyer's class... Sometimes we didn't even get to go to our scheduled showing because an offer had been accepted... ...other times [our agent] was writing up our offer [when she was] contacted...that an offer had already been accepted. By winter 2021-2022, it seemed hopeless. ...now, I'm fortunate enough to have 740 square-feet to call my very own... - Life on Capitol Hill, 10/1/2022
My entire life I've only made minimum wage. In April of 2007, my credit was stellar. I never took any first-time homebuyer's class. And when I closed on my own townhome, my agent got the bank to roll the closing costs into my mortgage payment. The place was less than $77,000 and it's 1100 square-feet.
Coloradans are facing...new and increased fees that local governments and utilities are using... Denver City council recently approved fees on trash collection for the first time in the city's history. Denver voters will also see a new proposed fee for sidewalk repairs on the fall ballot. For someone on a fixed income, $108 a year fpr trash removal is a big hit. ...dressed up as a way to increase recycling. ...there has been enough actions and attempts to take power away from...the institution of the mayor. - Life on Capitol Hill, 10/1/2022
Marines would...cross the room, not much caring whether they stepped on anyone... They'd turn their radios on and shout across the room to one another. The prison was full of captured...they'd started the fire to cover an escape... ...a few...were shooting blindly into the flames and the bodies were burning where they fell. Certain dead lay out on the sidewalk...and the park...was littered with dead. ...the rain did things to the corpses that were worse...than...the sun could have done. It could have been a scene in a Norman farmhouse [in WW II,] with candles burning...bottles of wine arranged along damaged shelves, the chill in the room...the heavy white cross... The major had not slept for five nights. At night [he] would sit reading his maps, staring vacantly... - M. Herr, in Reporting Vietnam, 1998
On Saturday after I get out of work, I do take it to my camera shop. My memory card is damaged. A new memory card does the trick. Sunday evening I get a call from the coworker...and Monday morning, I'm out of the door around 4 AM to open the store. I could have slept another hour, but I woke up early. Saturdays I also leave early, and it was cold enough for ski mittens...which I left at home. On this morning however, I got 'em. It's an hour and a half ride, and when I get there, it will still only be 35 degrees F. I need to begin packing the long underwear. Soon I'm flying on the long downhill to an intersection with the block next to an open field. Since this past March, there's been a big white wooden cross about halfway between where I enter this street and the corner where I make another turn. The cross, adorned with tokens, is a memorial to someone named Mario. There's no clue to how he passed; traffic accident or shooting or what. This morning in the dark, on one side of the big cross is a small trailer with a camper shell. On the opposite side, just a few feet away, is a broken-down little pickup with another camper shell. Just a short few yards further down the hill is a second junked small pickup with a camper shell. yet the block with the open field remains empty since the summer of campers. Nothing but the oil spots to mark them having once had a gathering for months. Out on the trail, since the beginning of last month, there have been signs staked in the grass along the trail, asking how the trail may be improved. I'm coming along the extended line of trees along the riverbank. Parked up against one of these sigs is a stolen shopping cart. Now that cold weather at least dominates the overnights, mornings and evenings, the trail is no longer packed with cyclists. This predawn morning, the only other soul I see wears a headlamp and is on a skateboard.
Wednesday. I'm racing to catch a bus to work, out of the house again with no breakfast. 'Twas but three weeks past that the bike shop oiled my chain...twice...during a $100 tune-up. And this morning the chain sounds as if it's been 3 years instead. I'm coming down the long hill toward the bike trail. Where a couple of homeless dwellings were 24 hours ago, next to a memorial, none remain. At the bottom of the hill I turn the corner onto the block next to the open field. The pair of dwellings have moved here. On the sidewalk, midway between them, sits a guy dressed in black. In another 24 hours, I will be right back through here. The pair of abodes will be gone, along with the guy. He leaves behind a bag of trash, a box of trash, two bricks and one broken brick. It's sometime this week, I can't remember. On the way home I grab dinner at the Black Eyed Pea. Whenever I step inside, it's the 1980s again. I'm seated next to an elderly couple. A white-haired waitress comes over to them and mentions that the peach cobbler has "real peaches in it." After dessert, the wife helps the husband up and toward the exit, he with a cane. The following morning, I'm at the bakery and "yogurt shack" before I begin my shift. A trio of thirtysomethings sits at the table next to me. One guy sounds as if he's a salesperson or broker. It sounds as if he's pitching the sale of a deathburger to the other two, a couple. The wife has an accent, Eastern European perhaps or Latin American. On Friday, I'm coming to work past a homeless camp. It's a popular spot, along a creek below a pair of respective overpasses for a train and a highway. Across the creek from the trail, up on a hill close to the tracks and highway, is a lone figure. Head to toe in black, including what may be a dark pea coat. He's a little guy. His chin is in his hand, and the elbow below is supported by his other hand. He's looking right at me. This guy's got attitude. After work, I'm coming right back through here. A couple of homeless cyclists pass me here. The first says, "Hello." The other is silent, and he may be the little guy I saw this morning. He appears as if he's on a bike seat which is too low. His legs have the illusion of bending like rubber. The pair, as soon as they pass me, ride directly off the trail and onto the hard, stony ground and behind a concrete column. The following morning, I am again coming back through here. It's a Saturday, and around 7 AM. I've just passed under both highway and train tracks when I simultaneously see and hear the little guy. Same gear as yesterday morning, except for a neon yellow knit cap or hat. He's blathering angrily in Spanish. As I pass him, he kicks my rear tire. Not hard enough to do any damage. I wonder what will happen if I yell at him. "HEY!" I yell. He had stopped blathering, but responds by doing so again. I interrupt him with another "HEY!" I hear my own voice echo off the overpass and its concrete supports. This guy acts as if he couldn't care less. When I get to work, I make a police report. The officer on the phone asks me if I fell off my bike. As I did not, I suspect a report over the phone suffices. He mentions that, if the camp is in a certain jurisdiction, that municipality has a camping ban. I also suspected this may be the case.
PACKING UP
I'm not making the same income I did before the pandemic... The streets I am returning to are not the same streets I left so many years ago. More people being homeless means fewer resources to go around. And they're harder to get. The friends I had then are either housed, live in the suburbs, or have passed away. - Denver VOICE, 10/2022
During the pandemic I learned... That I do not like most people. ...(show us your vax card...or whatever falsified document your second grader could draw...) Anything on television that resembled news (objectivity...) ...here's what I loved... Not paying $37 for Wendy's... A big white guy who...earns MVP honors...twice? I guess not everything is completely normal. - Editor-in-Chief, Mile High SPORTS, 10/2022
On Monday, I'm at work when I take my bike to a coffee shop in the shopping center. The route I take is back behind the other side, to avoid traffic. I come through an opening to the front, and I turn toward a handicapped ramp off the sidewalk into the parking lot. The ramp is right next to a bench, upon which is sitting a middle-aged woman on her phone. She doesn't leave me much room to navigate past her, but I do so. A moment later, she responds to my passing her so close with "Really?" I immediately respond with, "Yep." She does not kick my bike. The following evening, I'm on my way home. Monday, I stayed more than two hours after close. This evening, an hour and fifteen minutes. And tomorrow, I open. My coworker's water heater is leaking. I tell the owner and he laughs. So, I'm just past the golf course next to a big shopping center. Over my opposite shoulder is the river. Somewhere off in the weeds along the opposite bank, I hear a young female voice speaking out loud. "You sure do a great fucking job bring home the money. Why don't you give it to one of your whores? yeah, bitch." A couple of days later, I'm on a very early morning ride to work. It's sometime after 5 AM. I pass a couple of other intrepid cyclists out on the trail at this hour. Since Saturday's assault upon my rear rim, I haven't seen anyone out at the camp near where it happened. Apart from a couple of abandoned garments, the place appears to have been rousted. There's a lone homeless guy living at the top of a wall beneath one of the bridges here. At work, it may be a long day, but 'tis a busy one. I get another call from my coworker. She needs tomorrow off. I don't know why she can't be here, unless she must wait for the repair person at home. She doesn't mention this. I quit asking some time ago. She also claims that her central heat operates through her water tank. After work, I'm back home and up past bedtime when I get a call from my lady. She wants to know why I haven't been responding to her texts. I remember a decade ago (she will acknowledge it's been this long, and do so within the following 24 hours) when she was the one who asked me to get a mobile phone, so we could text each other. I was doing the texting. She would respond a couple of times a year. Now she's the one trying to get ahold of me. I tell her I haven't had a chance to even check her messages. And, again, I give her my phone number at work. She wants me to join her at this year's Halloween party for her karate gym. In the middle of my working open to close, she's picking me up from work for Halloween.
The following morning, I'm out of the door even earlier than yesterday. What's nice about this is that I'm not fucking trying to rush to get to work. Unusual for an opening shift. The long street a block from my own, with its brand-new street-length sidewalk, now has a couple of trashcans along its path. They are provided by the city. This morning, along the block with the open field, a pickup truck is parked with the engine running. Directly across the street is parked another pickup. This one has a camper shell. Two homeless vehicles? They will both be gone within the next 48 hours. I get to work just as it begins to spit the first snow of the season. I get everything wrapped up by closing, thank the gods. Right at close, I get a call from my coworker. A part has been ordered for her water heater. It is due to be installed tomorrow. Can I work for her again tomorrow. Sure. Just as I hang up, my lady calls. She at the corner. She wants to know how to get to me. She's difficult to understand on the phone. She's next to...Aspen Dental? A massage place? No, Aspen Academy. She's indeed on the corner. A few directions and she's here. I close up, take off my front wheel, throw everything in the back of her hybrid, and we're off. She's worried we will not be at the party with enough time to enjoy it. She means before the food runs out. It's a potluck. She's sly. That's what I love about her. And she isn't aware of how quick I can be She's in a costume, some kind of dress, she doesn't even know what the character is supposed to be. She looks divine. And we're off. We grab gas before we stop at a Panda Express to get our part of the feast. Her voice is quiet in this noisy place, and I relay her choices to the employee. She mentions our last-minute style of dating. I tell her that we're good at doing "last-minute." It's not long before we are there. There's still plenty of food. I meet one of her friends, a guy, who strikes me as perhaps disappointed that she's dating someone. I had seen her mention another party in a couple of months. She tells me it's at his place. I also meet a lady who asks her if I'm her boyfriend. My lady tells her no. She doesn't tell her we were intimate before. I worry that I'm destroying my diet. But what I look at now as a lot of food is really not nearly that much. Tomorrow morning, I will discover that I've only gained 1.2 lbs. More than one of her classmates suggest I come to class to see her in person. They clearly take seriously the act of simply being here. After a little while, she wants to go. She doesn't want to stay and clean up. As I said, she's sly. Again, we're off. She drops me off before she begins her overnight shift at work. I slip my front rim back onto my bike and head inside. It's before bedtime, but I'm so tired I hit the hay.
Sunday. I've been going over to the sister's place every Sunday since she's been home awaiting operations on her joints. The past couple of weeks on the way to her place, I've turned down the same residential street, with modest homes near a big Catholic school. I've passed a big RV parked in the driveway of one home along this street. It has as yet never struck me as a homeless camper. Both times are as today, late on an Autumn morning. Kids are playing outside around the RV. Only today, I happen to glance through the windshield. A US flag, with the 2nd Amendment to the US Constitution printed across the entirety, is draped over the passenger seat. Is this the camper from the block along the open field?
There has been a rise in the use of RVs by [the homeless] in Denver. ...RVs are unique...they stand out... Denver does not have an accurate count of how many...are living in vehicles. When [one mom's] son was arrested [for an outburst he had due to his menta health issues, she] lost her job...working...under Colorado's Family caregiver Act...through the Mental Health Center of Denver, now Wellpower. [Her husband] had his own...construction company but struggled...in the early days of the pandemic. "It happened so fast we couldn't react." [He] did some construction work for a woman who had an old RV in her yard. The RV needed new tires but was mechanically sound. "The RV saved us." ...RVs longer than 22 feet...parked on Denver's streets must be moved 100 ft every 72 hours. [Another RV occupant on Denver's streets says,] "I can't find a job in the best job market of my life. ...because [I] don't have clean clothes [or] a shower. The next ticket...may mean I get booted or towed. [This makes it] even harder for me to get out of this mess." ...the higher gas prices have hurt him... "I need to panhandle $50 a day to get 10 or so gallons of gas. And 10 gallons doesn't move a camper far." [He] said he had been heavily monitored and harassed by one specific officer... [Another homeless RV owner said one officer had his] camper towed to another location [for him] at no charge. ...a safe place to park while the vehicle was being repaired. ...renting a space at an RV park. The cheapest...was $900 a month...it was a "shady" deal. ...a decent one costs $1,400 a month... ...other costs [are] licensing and insurance... And leaving a vehicle...to get services or health care, can result in a vehicle being towed. ...the Denver Sheriff's Department...does not track...complaints...about RVs on Denver streets because there is not a specific nature code in the dispatch system... "I've had clients whose vehicles were towed while they were meeting with me for two hours... ...people every day...qualify for housing vouchers. We have maybe two weeks to find them, or the voucher goes on to someone else..." ...none...who spoke to Denver VOICE had been contacted by...the Support Team Assisted Response (STAR) unit [who] engage unhoused individuals living in RVs rather than...issuing citations. [For] "several RV type vehicles together in a space [provided by the city,] we have to provide dump stations, electric hookups, and...other stuff that we're not in a position to do right now." - Denver VOICE, 10/2022
"...there's such a disparity in access to attorneys. Less than 1 percent of renters can access an attorney, while90 percent of landlords do..." ...general counsel and senior vice president of government affairs for...the Apartment Association of Metro Denver. [says] "an attorney would be a waste of time in most cases..." [and that] most cases are settled whether or not the renter has an attorney... - Westword, 10/27-11/2/2022
