My first night, I walked around for hours only to end up at the steps of a church in the Fillmore. The second night, with a little bit more luck, I was registered in the shelter’s database, but all this amounted to was a hard plastic chair for the night at a 24-hour drop-in center. My third night I finally got a coveted lottery number that I had heard about, but this lead to nothing more than the false hope of a bed while watching National Treasure on a 3” x 3” portable DVD player with about 50 other hopefuls - on those same plastic chairs.

So what is the problem here? I consider myself to be a fairly bright person with a dash of good common sense. Yet here I am, midnight at the Busters drop in center on Jan. 13, still wondering after three days how the hell I can get a bed in this town.

A swirl of mixed messages, unclear reservation policies, lack of internal communication and no posted materials all made my experience as a “homeless person” in San Francisco frustrating to say the least.

I had an apartment to go back to if anything didn’t work out, and the most unfortunate part of my experience is the implications for the men and women who don’t. The current system seems to cater to the more aware, able-bodied, and mentally stable within the homeless population. You need to plan out reservations early in the day if you want a bed. If you want it for a longer period of time you need to bring this to the attention of the staff.

There is more walking involved then I could have imagined, and it was a frequent complaint from the seniors I encountered. The whole process can take up a large part of the day and that is barring any serious physical or mental handicaps. This makes the system especially trying for those in a similar situation as myself with regular working hours during the day who just need some time to get off their feet.

There’s a new set of regulations being kicked around City Hall right now which would create universal standards throughout the shelter system. This ought to be adopted; however, an even more pressing issue is how to create greater transparency and open lines of communication throughout the existing system. The most vulnerable population in San Francisco is being fooled and that is a shame.

Saturday, January 19th
Homeless Outing #1
Vacancy Report - Ella Hill Hutch (37%), Next Door (17%)

All I had was a name and address - Ella Hill Hutch on McAllister Street. Sure, I could have helped myself to a bit more research, a phone call or two; but that would make me a reporter on homelessness, not a homeless person reporting.

At 10:45 p.m. I left the small Mexican restaurant where I work and walked the few blocks back to my apartment in the Lower Haight to grab a bag, then out the door in search of a bed for the night.

I got to Ella Hill Hutch a little after 11pm. I knocked on the front door of the shelter where a guard was hunched over, texting on his cell phone. The door seemed chain locked because it was slightly cracked open. The guard looked up and said, “You have to go around sir.”

I walked around the back of the building where another man was waiting at the door. After a few minutes of light knocking and waiting, the large metal door cracked open. A staff member inside peaked his head out from the dark building and motioned for us to come inside.

The first thing I noticed was the smell - a strong mix of body odor, Goodwill clothes and urine. I thought about trying to sleep: would I get used to it? Waves of snores bounced off the tall gym walls. As my eyes adjusted to the dark inside, I started to make out the parameters of the room. The bodies startled me at first and I don’t know why. I could hear all of the snoring and I knew I was in a shelter, but I suppose its not that often that I see 70 people all laying in lined formation on the ground. I had thoughts of prison.

There was a small office immediately to my right when I entered. The other man waiting was ahead of me. He handed a white piece of paper to the staff member who took it back into the office, examined it under the dim light and came out toting a blanket and pillow. The man wasn’t searched or patted down; he just quietly took his bedding and belongings into the dark gymnasium. Ok, I don’t have the piece of paper, but at least this looks promising. That is, until I saw the sign: “You Must Have a Reservation - No Exceptions”.

The staffer looked up at me with his arm extended. “Ah, um, well I don’t have a reservation actually. I just got into town and I just got off work. I was wondering if I could get a bed for the night?” His arm retracted. “No, sorry man, you need to get a reservation to stay here.” I pleaded with him for a minute, but he was persistent. He told me if they broke the rules and someone found out they would be subjected to some auditing process, which he didn’t seem to really know about.

“Look, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t have any problem with you coming in. But we have a policy.”

I tried to get some more information on the reservation requirements, trying to find some way I could stay the night, but no luck. “I suppose policy is policy then,” I said.

I asked him if there were any places I could just walk into and he told me about a shelter on Fell Street. I thought I might check that one out, although I wanted to stay at Ella Hill. I thanked him and left.

I forgot to ask how far in advance I needed to make a reservation, so I inquired of the guard stationed in the front of the building. He told me as soon as I did it I could stay. Then he told me if I just went down to 150 Otis Street, they could set me up with a reservation tonight. Great.

Using the guard’s directions, which were slightly out of the way, I found myself on the steps of 150 Otis. The signs on the door seemed to indicate it was more of a storage facility than shelter or office. Either way, it was definitely closed - a posted sign indicated regular business hours.

After getting lost in the streets under the Central Freeway, I oriented myself and decided to search out the other shelter. Starting at Market, I worked my way up Fell, stopping at most lit doorways and asking some corner store merchants about shelters. Nobody seemed to know the place.

After walking Fell St. for a while, my feet and back were sore and I took a break. At around 2 a.m., three hours after I started, I had no shelter to sleep in, it was getting colder outside and I was not up for more walking around, just to stay in a shelter even if I did find one, for a few hours and get kicked out. I chalked this night up to the streets.

Sunday, January 20th
Homeless Outing #2
Vacancy Report - Ella Hill Hutch (37%), Next Door (24%)

I didn’t have to work today, but I did have errands to run like anybody else on their day off. Although I didn’t have high expectations, my first stop of the night was to swing by Ella Hill Hutch again. I thought maybe if I showed up before roll call at 9:30 I would have a better shot - maybe I could just make a same day reservation at the shelter. I still wanted to see what getting a shelter would be like in a situation where I needed to work late and get a place for the night.

When I got to the shelter, there were a few men camped outside rolling cigarettes. As I made my way around the corner to the back door (where I was instructed to go the previous night), I saw about 20 men waiting in line and others scattered around. I stood around for a bit to see if anything would happen. The line seemed to be business as usual for the other men (I later found out one of the biggest complaints about Ella Hill is the long waits before curfews and early wake-ups.)

Eventually I asked an older man next to me in sunglasses what we were waiting for. “They don’t open till late . . . Setting up and what not I suppose.” I asked him if I could get in without a reservation tonight. “Nope,” he said. “You need a reservation.” I told him about my failed attempt at a reservation the night before at 150 Otis, “That may be true,” he said calmly and turned his back. After a few more minutes I got anxious: I didn’t want to waste another night, so I left.

I decided to check out the 150 Otis building again to see if I could get a reservation for the night. I made it over to the place around 8:30 pm. To my surprise the building was open. I stepped up to the window, where I caught the eye of the security guard. He opened the door and motioned for me to go over to the front desk where a woman was seated. Before I even said hello she had whipped a clipboard on top of the desk and pointed to the next open space with a pen. I filled in my information. I told her I was trying to get a reservation for Ella Hill. She started to say something about the place and stopped, “Is this your first time in the shelters?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, then we need to get you into the system first.” She took down my social security number, first and last name, DOB and my last zip code of residence. Finally she took a picture to keep with my new file.

“Now you’re in the system” She told me I needed to get tested for tuberculosis within the next 10 days if I was going to be staying in the shelters, and gave me a packet of places I could go for a free test.

At this point, I was feeling slightly frustrated. I still had no idea if there was a place for me to sleep tonight and where that bed might be. Finally I asked her straight out, “Where can I sleep tonight?”

She explained that 150 Otis acts as a central information point for the shelters in the system. I couldn’t stay at the building (despite the fact there was a room full of good beds with storage lockers.) But now that I was in the system, when something opened up they would let me know. She told me to come back to the building around 6 p.m. the next day to get a lottery number. Then when my number comes up they’ll give me a choice of shelters, depending on availability. For now, she told me to go across the street to a place called Buster’s. I learned later that Buster’s used to be on Fell, which is probably why I got the directions to go to Fell the night before.

Buster’s Place is a 24/7 drop-in center and functions like a waiting room of sorts until the shelters let 150 Otis know how much room they have. Then 150 Otis contacts Buster’s across the street with the number of available beds and where. When you enter Buster’s they put your name on a list for beds. Although this is one of the intended purposes of Buster’s, I was told many people just sleep there without any intentions of going to another shelter. There’s more freedom because it’s every day and all night, there’s no curfew, you don’t need a reservation, and you can stay as long as you want (you wouldn’t even need to register with 150 Otis to get in).

The first thing I noticed about Buster’s was the smell -- same as the night before, though not as strong, but still pretty pungent. I walked up to the front desk where there was a uniformed security guard. To test out the security of the place, I carried a knife in my front right pants pocket. Nobody ever patted me down or asked if I had any weapons.

The inside was very similar to a Greyhound bus terminal: lots of uncomfortable plastic chairs with people sleeping, bags and shoes scattered about. There seemed to be three sections to the place, around 40 chairs per section. When I got there the place was at about 75 percent capacity. I was told this was one of the busier nights, it usually only gets half full, but it was a fairly cold night, so people were coming in who usually stay on the streets.

I found a seat in the second section. There were a lot of new sights, sounds and smells to take in and I had to remind myself to stop looking like I was observing so much. The coughing was the most prominent noise, and not smoker’s cough either, but sick coughs. I thought one man in front of me was going to pass out when he doubled over into a massive hacking fit, his face turning red. I was on the verge of getting somebody to help when he calmed down. Nobody else seemed to care or notice. A man behind me was also doubled over, coughing occasionally and wearing a pair of jeans he’d quite obviously urinated in a number of times.

After about an hour, a heavy-set black man sat down next to me. His name was Cecil. He seemed fairly stable, wearing clean clothes. He took a toothbrush and toothpaste to the bathroom and returned eager for some conversation. I asked about getting a bed at Ella Hill. He described the lottery system over at 150 Otis and suggested I not stay at Ella Hill because the lines to get in are very long and the wake-up is early. The conversation shifted to preparing Ramen noodles without a bowl or spoon by opening the top of the package and pouring hot water in; then using a pen to scoop up the noodles while drinking the broth. “Not very fancy, but it holds.”

After some more discussion about the shelters in San Francisco, he told me he had a house to stay in, but preferred not to stay there because his cousins were selling drugs out of it. He described his various jobs and I got the impression he was “working the system.” Eventually, he flat out told me he was a “hustler,” referring to social welfare programs, and talked with a lot of excitement and knowledge about food stamps, Supplemental Security Income, and budgeting his jobs to curb his hours so he wouldn’t lose his benefits.

His most fascinating tale opened with him getting arrested for some kind of fight he had with another man in Mississippi, where he’d gone to visit some family. After his altercation, he took a Greyhound to New Orleans. One night he was walking around the neighborhood of the shelter he was staying in and a large army truck pulled up beside him and a soldier told him to get into the back: they were evacuating the city. Hurricane Katrina was coming everybody had to get off of the streets. Cecil, thinking quickly and not wanting to go anywhere, told the soldier his mother was at some made up address and he wouldn’t leave without her. The soldier persisted and said they would pick her up - everybody had to go.

Cecil told me they put him in the Superdome and he never saw much of the storm. He described sitting around the stands, trying to fall asleep, waking up to people erupting in fights. He told me about girls being raped.

After a few days in the Superdome, Cecil was able to get on one of the few busses going to Houston, for people moving to the Astro Dome. Houston was now one of his favorite cities because they had such a remarkable welcoming when he got off the bus. He told me about people crying and blessing him, offering him jobs for $15 an hour without any paperwork. Others offered up their homes to stay in. Once the storm was over, Cecil managed to get a FEMA-funded trailer and supplemental income (I don’t remember how much, but fairly substantial.) He really liked living in Houston and the trailer (and the money) and he stayed about a year. Eventually, FEMA and the Red Cross stopped his income because he hadn’t gotten a job. He ended up moving back to San Francisco.

I was able to come and go for cigarettes when I wanted, though at the risk of losing my seat.

A surprising number of people did laundry at Buster’s (I don’t know if they provided the detergent, but I assume they did.) The shower was also pretty frequently used. The bathroom caused the most drama – apparently, one of the toilets was backed up, leaving only one available for all the men and women to share. One woman, who was clearly high on something, occupied it for so long a couple of men started yelling.

There were about five staff members at Buster’s: a security guard, a guy sitting behind the front desk signing people in, and three other staff members assisting guests, resolving disputes, and handling the bathroom and laundry.

By 3 a.m. I had given up hope at this point for getting a bed and just decided to wait the night out. Cecil had moved to another chair and I was sandwiched between two women who didn’t speak much. The one to my left eventually fell asleep and bounced off of my shoulder once a minute trying to keep her head up. I wasn’t very tired myself, and most people seemed to be quiet now, the energy in the room waning. Thankfully, two guys sitting fairly close to me struck up a conversation, which I listened to for the better part of an hour. Both were stuck in San Francisco from Los Angeles and desperately wanted to go back. They seemed to be encountering many of the same problems I was having as a newcomer to the city’s shelter system.

Eventually I threw in my two cents about the shelter system and its problems, which seemed a welcomed addition to the conversation as they’d been essentially repeating the same complaints over and over again for the last half hour. After some discussion, one of the men said something about oatmeal in the morning. I was pretty cold and hungry so I told him I would join him around 5:30 a.m.

Patio at Martin de Porres, a true sanctuary and home of the best oatmeal in town

It was still dark out when we started walking down 13th street towards Martin de Porres, a soup kitchen on Potrero Ave. The oatmeal was FANTASTIC -- best oatmeal I’ve had in years. The place itself is really nice too and it felt good to be in a clean, warm place with tables and chairs and hot food after trying to sleep in Buster’s all night.

Monday, January 21st
Homeless Outing #3
Vacancy Report - Ella Hill Hutch (36%), Next Door (24%)

Following the advice of the woman at 150 Otis, I arrived back at the building the next night at 6 p.m. on the dot. There was already a line half way down the block. I took my place – apparently 6 p.m. means 5 p.m. in shelter time. I got lottery number 43 and felt confident this would assure me a spot. Once I got the number, the man told me to come back at 7:30 for my reservation.

I went off to grab a slice of pizza, eager to finally get into a shelter. When I returned at 7:30, it didn’t seem like any of the men had left. Everyone was still mulling around outside in the cold rain. At around 8:00 they called my number. I went inside and waited in another line while people signed a piece of paper. Many had difficulty writing and staff weren’t very quick to help them out. When I finally got up to the sign-in sheet, there was some basic info to fill out. Name, DOB, Social and a column marked “Place.”

“What’s this one for” I asked the person seated at the desk. Annoyed, she looked at the sheet and told me that’s where I write which shelter I want to stay in. I put down Ella Hill. Then I asked if I got a reservation print out.

No, I didn’t have a reservation, she told me. There were actually no beds at Ella Hill -- or anywhere else, for that matter. I later found out only the first few people generally get a bed, if at all. This whole time I was waiting to get my name on a waiting list, just to go back to Buster’s again.

Frustrated and confused I waited until the staff were done dealing with the last few people. Once everyone was signed in and they told me I had to leave. Most of the time I had been interacting with staff or people at the shelter, I kept a fairly low profile – not talking too much or giving people a reason to think I was on assignment for a newspaper. But now, in my frustration, I let my cool slip.

I told the guy about my problems getting a bed, how I had tried for the past two nights and how I was told if I got a lottery number I could get a bed. He seemed a little surprised, probably that I was so articulate about my problems and questions. Surprisingly, he was very honest and told me the system isn’t the best. He also gave me the best piece of information I received from any person during this whole experience: 150 Otis was actually the last place to get beds from the shelters at night. Most nights they only give out a few beds, if any. Most people just wait at Buster’s and never get a bed. Then why had everybody in the system been telling me to go to 150 Otis? He didn’t know. And why were all of these men coming here, night after night, if this was the last place to get beds? He didn’t know that either.

Frustrated, cold and tired, I hesitantly made my way over to Buster’s. When I got there I told the man at the front desk my story about not being able to get a bed for two nights. He told me the shelters had been really busy because of the weather. I asked him what my chances were of getting a bed tonight. He said there are usually bed releases from the shelters at 10, 11, and 11:30 p.m. He asked what shelters I signed up for and was surprised I’d only put down one. Of course, I was never told you could request more than one shelter -- so my chances were slim.

I grudgingly made my way past familiar faces and familiar smells. The place was really packed now. There were no chairs in the first two sections. I moved to the back room, which was somewhat larger, though equally full. At least now someone had set up a very little portable DVD player with some token action movie. As soon as I walked in the room, one of the staff yelled over to me, “Do you have a chair, Sir?”

“Not yet,” I replied.

“Well, YOU are going to have to move to the back,” said the head supervisor, a large woman with a strong voice. There were a few guys in the back corner. I put my backpack down and sat on the floor. My legs were exhausted from the last few days of walking. As I was sitting I noticed all of the other men were standing. I looked up at one Latino man, and he told me they were told they needed to stand. What? I stood back up.

No more than five minutes later one of the nurse’s minions came over and told us all to sit down in the back. We looked at each other and took a seat. The man next to me seemed relieved to be sitting. Another client was told to come to the back. He put his bag down and started making his way to the floor, right in the view of the nurse.

“Uh, uh, Sir. Excuse me! You cannot sit on the floor.” She walked towards the back and saw us all sitting on the floor. “Hey, I told you all you need to stand up. No sitting on the ground.” A few of the guys chuckled to themselves -- this was ridiculous -- but nobody said anything.

I spoke up. “Hey, your assistant over there just told us all to sit down! Why don’t you guys get your rules together?”

“Well, that is the rule, sir. No sitting.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just the rule, so please stand up.”

I was feeling ornery now. I got my feet underneath me and lifted my rear about four inches off of the ground, with my back against the wall.

“Stand up, Sir.”

“I am, my ass is off the ground,” I said, showing her by running my hand beneath me.

“Nuh, uh. No. All of the way, Sir.”

I did. The whole thing was pretty childish.

After standing for about an hour, a chair opened up. The nurse looked over at me “You want this chair?” she asked.

I really did but there was an older guy who had been standing also. I told him to take it, although he was kind of out of it and didn’t really seem to know what was going on.

“Uh, uh” said Big Nurse. “He had his shot and he didn’t want the chair, so you’re up.”

I took the chair. It was great to sit down.

At this point I met Shalayko, the friendliest, most well-spoken, educated person I met in the shelters. There was actually a massive article about him in San Francisco Magazine.

I asked Shalayko about 150 Otis: why did people go there? Why was I told to go there by other staff in the system? He told me he wasn’t sure why the staff would all tell me that, except maybe the shelters are already full and they figured I would end up there anyway, fighting for the last remaining beds. He also told me most people probably end up at 150 for two reasons. One: they don’t know any better. They were probably told by staff to go there as well, and just keep showing up every night. Two: 150 is the reservation station that’s open the latest, so people who cannot or do not devote a good chunk of their days to getting a shelter (and getting up very early) end up going to 150. Interestingly, I met a lot of newcomers to the system in the lines at 150 Otis. Seems like the place where the rookies and mentally ill go.

Shalayko gave me a lot of great advice, including going over to TARC early in the morning for a much better chance at a bed. I also got a plethora of movie advice. He winced and said, “Oh, stop!” when I told him I was watching a lot of old Westerns lately.

Sometime later, the staff instituted a no “come and go” policy. If you went outside, even for a cigarette, not only would you lose your chair, but you would not be allowed back in. The standing-up/sitting-down fiasco caused a lot of frustration for the staff (and guests,) so nobody was allowed back in the shelter. After they announced this, a few guys who had been told to stand and a few more sitting walked out, rolling cigarettes, cursing and mumbling things about prison. I almost walked out myself, but someone had just put “National Treasure” on the mini DVD player, although I mostly listened because the screen was so small and I didn’t have a good seat. I decided to wait until 11:30.

There was a man in front of me who was constantly falling over in his chair, passing out. I tried to get him up to tell him to switch chairs with me – mine was against a wall where it was much easier to stay asleep, leaning upright. After a few attempts, a man sitting next to me just told me to stop, it was no use.

There’d already been rumors of no beds for the last half hour when 11:30 rolled around. The nurse walked into the room and announced, “There won’t be any more beds for the night. No more beds.” She walked away. Most didn’t even seem to be listening. There were a few murmurs of “bullshit” while people rearranged in their chairs to get some sleep.

I didn’t want to spend another night in the chairs, so I got up to leave. The nurse spotted me going for the door. “Once you leave you lose your chair, you know. You can’t come back inside.”

I didn’t respond and headed into the rain.

Monday, January 28th
Homeless Outing #4
Vacancy Report - Ella Hill Hutch (45%), Next Door (24%)

Following Shalayko’s advice, I headed over to TARC by bus before going to work at the Guardian. I arrived around 10 am, though Shalayko told me to try for 9:30. There was already a long line of people waiting to get to the front desk. I waited for about 30 minutes. When I told the woman at the front I wanted a bed at Ella Hill or Next Door, she told me I would have to come back at 4 p.m. Frustrated to the point of laughter, I told her I worked until 5. I knew how these things work, if you’re a little late, everything’s gone.

She shrugged, “Next!”

I left the Guardian a little early and arrived back at the TARC building at 5:15, where I waited with a long line of coughers, people talking to themselves, and two women who almost got into a fist fight. Once I made it to the desk, before I could even ask about a bed, the woman told me there weren’t any beds now, but I needed to come back at 7:30 for roll call. “Make sure you’re here,” she warned.

I went off to a seedy Vietnamese restaurant, where I watched President Bush’s last State of the Union address, feeling like I might actually be getting somewhere. When 7:30 rolled around, I went back to TARC. I met a guy outside while smoking a cigarette. I don’t remember his name, but we recognized each other from nights at Buster’s. I asked him if he was getting a bed tonight.

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely getting a bed.”

I asked how he could be sure.

“Well, I got here at 3:30, I was the first person in, and I’m on disability so I get priority.”

I told him about my problems getting a bed the previous nights. He asked me what time I got to TARC, I told him 5:15.

“Oh, you’re never going to get out tonight. No way. I will, but you definitely won’t.”

Slightly discouraged, I decided to wait it out.

The waiting room in TARC is a lot like Buster’s: hard plastic chairs, halogen lights, a very institutional decor. Luckily, I got one of two chairs at the only table in the room. This allowed me to write and sleep easily while waiting for role call and hopefully a call for a bed after that. I think the reason the seat was open is the woman next to me, who was absolutely insane and swearing to herself a lot.

The other guy at the table had a stereo with a broken CD player. A security guard offered the man three dollars for it and he accepted it without thinking, following up with a few repetitions of , “I’m huungry, I’m huungry”.

The guard left to go get some money and I told the man he could at least get ten bucks for the stereo. He didn’t really respond, but after a few minutes he got up. Eventually he came back. “He’ll pay 10,” he mumbled. Then, “Im huungry, Im hungry.”

“Good,” I said.

TARC’s waiting list is first-come, first-serve. When beds open up, every hour after 8:00, they go down the list depending on how many beds and preference. Roll call is first, at 7:30, when they determine who actually showed up to wait. At 8, no names were read. At 9, they read off a few names while everybody waited attentively. Most of the people who got called were women. At 10, a few more names were called, but not mine. Many people had already fallen asleep. This looked hopeless. I talked to one of the staff and they told me Ella Hill would release at 11.

Unable to sit at TARC for much longer, I decided to take a stroll around the Tenderloin.

When I came back at 11 some people had already moved on or made their way to Buster’s to get a chair. The man who was sure he was getting out told me to go over to Buster’s now before all of the chairs were taken.

At 11:15, the man from behind the desk announced there were no more beds, and everyone had to get out of the building and go to Buster’s to wait. It was no short walk away. The guy who was sure he would get a bed flipped. At first he refused to leave, shouting at the staff telling them they were crooked bastards and they were just helping their friends who were in the system for a long time.

I wondered if he was right.

He told them he was trying to get a room for over a week after his long-term stay was up at another shelter. “You’re just going to put me on the street?! This is bullshit! You crooked bastards! You hear me! You’re laughing over there because you’re screwing me, I know it!”

Eventually security escorted him out. Then he really started going off and trying to get back into the building. I’d had enough. This was a terrible cap to a bad experience, though very interesting one. I thought I might try to help out in some way, but he was in such a rage that I just walked away.

Saturday, February 2nd
Homeless Outing #5
Vacancy Report - N/A

It was still dark when I woke up at 6:30AM in my Lower Haight flat. After four failed attempts to get a bed, I decided to give it one last go, taking in all the advice I had received from shelter staff and guests -- get a reservation early, use TARC or Glide, not 150 Otis, don’t hold out for a good shelter like MSC.

I took the bus over to TARC, where I’d had an unsuccessful experience the previous night. When I arrived at the corner of Golden Gate and Leavenworth I found a massive line of hopefuls stretching down the entire eastern block of the center. Cold and tired, I took my place at the end of the line among coughing men, many rolling cigarettes, some sleeping against the building with newspaper pillows.

After 30 minutes with no movement in the line, I started asking the man in front of me some questions. On printed shelter materials, TARC is listed as opening at 7 a.m. for reservations. Now, 7:30, the man told me they usually do not open until 8. I asked him what he thought my chances were at getting a bed. He said he didn’t know, but that I should stay in line because I could get some coffee and doughnuts. I asked him where I could go now to get a reservation and he told me that Glide should be open, but I wouldn’t be able to get any food.

I decided to bail out of the stagnant line and take my chances with Glide, a tough decision, because nearly 20 people had piled up behind me. I got directions from a shelter worker and walked quickly, deeper into the Tenderloin.

When I got over to Ellis Street I didn’t have to do much searching to find the center. An even longer line stretched two blocks from the awning marking the entrance to Glide. I took my place along the sidewalk and waited. I asked the man in front of me when the doors open and he told me 8. (the opening time for GLIDE is also listed as 7.) I watched the late night addicts, prostitutes and less mentally stable heckle people in line, trying to bum cigarettes, and verbally abusing each other in passing.

Sometime after 8 the line started to inch forward. I could see a rope about a block away dividing the sidewalk to keep us single file as we closed in on the entrance. Once I got up to the ropes there was a shelter worker handing out orange tickets. I didn’t think to ask about the ticket until I got up to the building itself, where there was a staff member at the door taking them. I asked him what it was for.

“Meal ticket,” he told me with a confused look.

I asked him where I could make a bed reservation and he pointed inside around the corner from the stairs descending into the cafeteria where all the men were. There was NOBODY at the reservations desk, which I found out later does open at 7. I could have walked right in instead of waiting in line.

For the first time in awhile I felt like I might actually be getting somewhere. I stepped up to the line and gave the staff member the required information so she could pull up my profile on the computer system. I asked her if I could get a bed tonight at Ella Hill.

Some more typing. This was all very suspenseful for me. Yes, there was room.
But then a look of concern came across her face. “You haven’t got your TB test done yet?”

No. They told me to get it done when I was originally entered into they system, but it didn’t seem like it was mandatory. “Sorry, you have to get a test before you can get a bed. The law just went into effect yesterday.”

I couldn’t believe it. I pleaded with the staff member for a minute, but she was adamant, I needed the TB test paperwork. “OK, where can I get the test?”

“Well, you probably can’t get it today. You’ll need to wait for Monday until the centers open to do the testing.”

“So I’ll just have to be on the street until then?”

She shrugged. I walked away. I don’t like putting undue guilt on people like that, especially when I wouldn’t be on the street, but it’s amazing how quickly I started to think in terms of a homeless person and not a reporter.

I decided to take my meal ticket downstairs and check out the grub. Once you get to the bottom of the stairs there is an assembly line of volunteers, putting together compartmentalized plates of food, with the last person handing you a dish as soon as you walk in. Breakfast consisted of warm grits, a banana, toast, a small piece of meat (which was fairly indiscernible, but apparently ham) and a small amount of scrambled eggs. I took a seat on one of the cafeteria-style tables with big jugs of coffee and milk. I ate the grits with some sugar, the banana and toast. A woman wanted to trade her banana for my meat and eggs, I told her to just take them, on the house.

While I was picking at breakfast, I struck up a conversation with a man sitting next to me about the TB testing. He told me I could try going to a clinic called Tom Waddell, near City Hall.

I walked back down to Market Street and started asking around. No one really stopped to talk to me. Someone mentioned in passing it was near the Civic Center. I passed down to the south side of Market and spotted two men a block away packing up their bedding from spending the night in a doorway. I asked them if they knew about Tom Waddell and they had both been recently to get the TB test. They gave me very detailed, albeit scattered, directions.

They weren’t lying about the discreetness of the location, tucked down an alley on the backside of City Hall. I entered and was greeted by a very friendly staff member who told me to take a number and I would be called up soon. The clinic was certainly not up to the same aesthetics I’m used to, however it was very clean and pleasant in its own right. There were a few men and a couple of women in the waiting room. We started in on a conversation about the Super Bowl. Despite being in a waiting room at a doctor’s office, everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

When my number was called I went up to the registration desk and the woman there took down some of my information. I told her I wanted the TB test so I could stay in a shelter. Not being a huge fan of needles, I mentioned, without thinking, that I had received a TB vaccination about 6 months ago (I’d traveled to Kenya to do community development work.)

“Really, why did you get that vaccination?”

“Um, I went to Africa -- it was mission work.”

She told me I should probably just get the test anyway.

Fifteen minutes later a nurse came into the waiting room and called me back to get the test done. It was a relatively painless, quick test where the nurse takes a small amount of Tuberculin and injects it under the first layer of skin. I was told to come back on Monday to get reading on the test, but if I had a large bump on my arm where the injection was, I might have TB. So the test itself was inconclusive, but I was able to secure the proper documentation to get a bed at the shelter.

Overall the clinic experience was very positive, especially in contrast with regular, doctor’s visits I’ve paid for in the past. The staff was friendly, the process made sense and there was very little paperwork or information I needed to provide the clinicians.

Since the TB test had taken me back towards Market, I decided to stop in at TARC again for a reservation. With TB clearance in hand, I waited again in yet another line for about 15 minutes. Once I got to the desk, I immediately handed the staff member my TB test “I’d like a reservation for Ella Hill.”

A few punches on the keyboard, then I heard the sweet sound of printer mechanics – the coveted reservation slip I had seen others, mostly women, walk out of Buster’s with on previous nights. I finally had my bed.

Since I was working that night I didn’t arrive at the familiar McAllister St. playground on the grounds of the Ella Hill Hutch until 11:30. Technically, the shelter has a curfew policy of 11 p.m. After some knocking and a tense minute or two, the door creeked open and a man told me to come in.

The shelter did not smell or sound nearly as frightening as the first time I’d tried to stay, unsuccessfully. I handed my reservation printout to the staff member. He typed something into the computer in the small, dimly lit office, then handed me a blanket and sheet and told me to take any bed. There was some lamp light at the front of the gym, and I asked him if I could sit near that to read. He told me I couldn’t, although he seemed concerned, like he wanted me to be able to.

I was carrying a backpack with a flask and a knife in my pocket, both of which I got into the shelter without any problems.

I took a bed where a beam of light was shining across the floor from an open door on the other side of the room. The bed was a foam mattress that was very similar to the one that I am sleeping in now in my apartment so I was surprisingly comfortable. As I was setting up, one of the staff walked by. I asked if I could charge my phone somewhere.

“There are outlets over there. You’re at your own risk though, could get stolen.”

I asked if there was any storage, where I could put some things.

No.

After a quick count, I would guess there were at least 15-20 beds available before I went to sleep, and while I was laying down there only one or two others arrived.

I emptied out my pockets, shoving things in the bottom of my boots and placing my shirt and hat over them. I wrote a few notes in the wedge of light, read for a little while, and fell asleep to the sounds of erratic snoring all around me.

I woke up around 5:30. When I arrived the staff told me wake up was at 6, however I found out this really meant, you had to be out by 6. When I opened my eyes the bright florescent gym lights were shining down on me and half of the guests were already awake, pulling their bedding over to the sides of the gym.

I decided to check out the bathroom, which had a short line. There was a wall of lockers in the bathroom corridor and I wondered why we couldn’t use them for storage. The bathroom was not terrible, though there must have been 50 men who used it that morning. However, the toilets did not have doors and with many men lined up in the bathroom itself, this made it virtually impossible to do anything but urinate.