4 June 2023

This was my first full day being unhoused. It’s a Sunday; many places are closed, I have no interviews- there’s not much to do. I’ve been waitlisted until later this week for the hostel style men’s shelter I was planning on living at.

I spent most of the morning wandering around between Chicago’s Illinois Medical District and Logan Square, trying to be inconspicuous and avoid being in any one place for too long. A little after 10 o’clock, I was approached by an older, slightly disheveled gentleman who called himself Charlie. (“Charlie” is a nickname he either gave himself or that he adopted based on a crude joke about his I.B.S. and a certain novel by Roald Dahl.) He recognized my pattern of wandering as that of someone who found himself newly on the streets.

Charlie describes himself as a “lifer", meaning that he has either no desire or given up hope of finding permanent housing; he insisted that in his case the former is true. He’s a talker and he likes to give advice. He told me to make use of the transit system, particularly the Blue Line, between the city and O’Hare, where I’d blend in with the tourists and other travelers. He told me to call 311 and book myself into one of the city’s emergency shelters for the night. He then revealed some of his more unsettling history and I chose to cut conversation short.

I called 311; they took down my information and told me one of their affiliates would phone and tell me where to go for the night.

I spent the day biding my time before I was placed in temporary housing by more-or-less living on various CTA trams, referred to collectively as The “L". Charlie was right in that I definitely did blend in on the Blue Line: my bags match; my clothing, though unfashionable, is in good repair; and I’m fairly clean. There was a noticeable difference between how I, crypto-homeless, and those who were more obviously homeless were being treated. Whereas I was treated like any other passenger, just an anonymous person like any other, the obviously-homeless are actively ignored. There are voids, bubbles about which other passengers will not sit or stand. On more than one occasion I observed a passenger do a slow blink when turning their head in the direction of a homeless person, so as to avoid even the slightest chance of accidental eye contact. And I want to be clear: these were not people suffering from any obvious mental illness or exhibiting aggression, most of them were just somewhat unkempt, a few had on tattered or dirty clothing.

On the Red Line, there were hawkers of such things as “purple za" and “loud", both of which are cannabis. They moved between cars announcing their products, but no one seemed to buy or even pay them much attention.

At about 4 in the afternoon, I discovered that the CTA has no public restrooms. I began to regret not asking Charlie where I should relieve myself. I was fortunate to find a gas station with public facilities near a station.

A few hours later I got my emergency housing placement call. Unfortunately the call was dropped as the tram passed through a tunnel and by the time I could call back, the organization had closed for the day. I resigned myself to spending the night on the tram and in various stations.

At midnight, I noticed a young man who I suspected was in a similar situation. I had seen him several times today. I think he’d been hopping between lines whereas I had stuck to the Blue Line since mid-afternoon. He was unaware that he should call 311 for emergency housing. I believe it must be easier than I had previously thought to find oneself desperate and without any resources. I don’t think 311 is very well advertised as a resource for the newly unhoused.

As it got closer to 1 in the morning, the Blue Line filled with women in iridescent sequin dresses and drunk people of all genders. I have no idea why, but it may have had something to do with Taylor Swift. One of the drunken men, who looked like a skinny-fat version of Conor McGregor, carved his name into a seat and then loudly explained, to no one in particular, that this was a tradition that united generations of Chicagoans-- The mutilation of The L.

I’ve noticed that many of the homeless people who ride the L seem to have jobs. They wear uniforms or work gear. There was a big influx between 9 and 11 at night. Many of them ride to one end of a line, then fall asleep while riding to opposite terminus. Some are even woken up by name by the tram operators. By 3 in the morning some cars have a sort of “sentry" enforcing a quiet on behalf of the sleepers: stopping the hawkers before they start and asking more ordinary passengers to keep conversations to a minimum.

5 June 2023

I spent most of Monday sending in job applications. I only got one reply so far; it was a no.

I phoned 311 again today, earlier than on Sunday. Today I received no response whatsoever. I knew I would spend another night on the tram.

After some time in a public library, I spent the rest of my day on the L. There’s a McDonald’s near the Blue Line that’s open until 1 in the morning and has facilities. They print the bathroom code on receipts so that only customers can use it but some comrades always seem to leave their receipts near but not in the outdoor trashcan, on the windowsill of the entry way, or tucked into a certain bench.

It was at this McDonald’s that I met Mike, an older, homeless man. His clothing was faded but otherwise in good repair. He was fairly well groomed. He even offered to teach me how to “take a removed’s bath". He may be an alcoholic, but his signs and symptoms are more inline with the side effects of long term use of certain early psychiatric medications. According to Mike, his main problem right now is that he doesn’t have any ID. The state issued him a new one, but it was sent to his address of record, his old group home. (To clarify: Mike was kicked out of his group home for losing his ID; he was deemed “too irresponsible”. His letter of expulsion states as much.) They simply threw it away because he wasn’t a current resident when they received it. Without ID he has no income because he can’t cash his “government checks". (He didn’t specify whether the checks were a pension, from disability insurance, or from a legal settlement.) Mike can’t qualify for a bank account and so he says he can’t get direct deposit. He must use a check cashing company: he loses slightly less than 2.5% of his already meager income just to gain access to it. His newest ID is being sent to his social worker, but won’t get to them for at least two weeks.

Mike’s other complaint is the shelter he was assigned to kicks all of its residents out at 5:00 a.m. each morning. Mike’s problems could be solved with postal banking and social housing.

I’ve been awake since 6:30 Sunday morning and it’s beginning to show.