This is longer than usual. It is an excerpt from a journal I am keeping about street outreach. One of the needs Connections plans on meeting is transportation. I learned it is more important than I ever knew.
On the Street: Week of March 21, 2011
Monday: The Bus
On the Street: Week of March 21, 2011
For the last five years I have made transportation a priority when meeting someone for the first time. Services in Tallahassee are so decentralized it can be very frustrating to complete the simplest tasks. Star Metro offers a free 31 day pass to all new residents and provides the BBHC Outreach 150 single-ride passes. Monday I decided to experience the bus as a first time bus rider to have a better understanding of the system.
I parked my van at the BBHC and setoff to reach Access Florida (food stamp office) on the North side of town and the SSA on the East side of town in one afternoon. I borrowed an old backpack which I stuffed with pop tarts, water, a notebook and BBHC service guides. The pack only weighed 20-25 lbs. but it was more of a burden than I expected. I wore jeans and a simple t-shirt and my nametag. I chose to wear my nametag to identify myself to folks I might meet and to shield myself in case someone mistook me as homeless.
I was told the buses run more frequently from TCC, so decided to walk the short car ride there. It took me 20 minutes and I was happy to set the backpack down; it had already worn a grove in my right shoulder. I then waited another twenty minutes for the bus to arrive. I rummaged through my bag to find the book I had borrowed from the BBHC bookshelf and found a bench in the shade. I felt out of place surrounded by college kids but I was enjoying the adventure.
It was obvious most were veteran riders as a line began forming at the curb before the bus arrived and highlighted my ignorance. I had noticed earlier I was the only one to glance up at the sound of every loud vehicle; the others paid no attention. There is a rhythm to bus riding and I was already out of step.
Shortly after the veterans cued number 24 rolled up. I hung to the back of the line armed with a single ride and no practical knowledge of how to use it. My lack of knowledge had not kept me from telling others how the passes worked but my knowledge was second or third hand. The driver, the woman with the extremely long fingernails, greeted me with a smile and took my newbie questions in stride. I made my way to the back of the crowded bus and placed myself in the hands of Star Metro.
The bus was comfortable, the ac was cold and rumble of the engine dampened the sounds inside and outside the bus. The city moved by my window but I felt detached, cocooned inside the big metal box. The route to the bus plaza made no sense to me. We made frequent stops to college apartments to pick up and drop off passengers. Most people kept to themselves and conversation was minimal. I didn’t make contact with any clients.
I arrived at the plaza at noon. It had been an hour since I had left the BBHC. I made my way downtown. I walked up a large hill on Duval and was pleased my directions to Trinity United Methodist had been correct all these years. I turned on Park and walked the brick path through the center. I scanned for homeless but saw only one gentleman asleep on a bench. The path led to the middle of the next cross street and was 30 yards from the nearest crosswalk. Traffic was paused so I decided to cross. I stepped in front of a Star Metro bus and the driver waited until I was squarely in his sites before blasting his air horn. I continued to walk. When I reached the other side of the street I wondered if the folks in the starched white dress shirts and carrying the leather briefcases would have received the same treatment or was it reserved for middle aged men toting old backpacks? I continued to follow the brick path to Monroe and crossed at the light in front of the very same bus; no blast this time. I tried to make eye contact with the driver but he was staring off in the distance (I have always identified with Don Quixote).
The last half block to Wachovia passed without incident. Placing the backpack on the counter to endorse my check, I noticed how rough my companion looked. The once white panels were stained from use and it black around the edges from hundreds of openings and closings. I imagined the bank security team being placed on alert. The teller was friendly and professional. I left the bank grateful I had not been patted down or searched for weapons.
I arrived back at the plaza within a half and made my way to the ticket booth. I recognized the driver behind the counter, I have handed her hundreds of 31 day applications over the past year but she didn’t seem to recognize me. I was definitely out of context. She was pleasant and professional. Many of my plans hinged on getting a ride guide and strategically studying it before heading out, but I met a sign which explained guides were no longer available for current routes because the routes would change in July. The booth operator and I shared a laugh over the absurdity as she handed me my new 31 day pass. I got some tips on how to use it and set off to find my next bus.
I found a guide displayed behind glass and plotted my course, bus 6, gate O. I didn’t know when the bus was going to arrive, but I planned on waiting there until it did. The plaza was relatively quiet so I crossed to “O” and found a seat. I was recognized by a former HOPE resident and we exchanged small talk for a minute while he rifled through his own bag. My attempts to engage went unnoticed or ignored and he was soon on his way.
Shortly after buses from all directions began pulling in to the plaza. Bus 26 came to rest directly in front of me and I was perplexed. Where was bus 6? I scanned another guide near my bench and discovered bus 6 and 26 share the same gate. The driver of 26 disembarked and shut the door behind him. Many of the buses which had pulled in began to leave, including bus 8 which, according to its flashing sign, would have gotten me to the Tallahassee Mall and close enough to Access Florida. Bus 26 remained on the launch pad and bus 6 was nowhere in sight. The flashing sign on 26 claimed it was going to target. I confirmed the route on the board and decided to adapt. Flexibility is required in the homeless community and those who do it well avoid frustration and situational depression. As I changed my plans I felt I was beginning to find my rhythm.
A few minutes later a new driver appeared from behind a closed door (I assumed it was a drivers lounge) and mounted 26. I got in the cue and prepared to use my new pass. The woman directly in front of me began complaining about someone smoking in the plaza. I attempted to swipe my card but I don’t think it registered; the driver who was politely talking with the woman didn’t seem to notice. I found a seat near the front. The bus was much less crowded than the earlier one and soon we were off.
The bus was peaceful. The driver weaved and wove his way through downtown and I soon decided there was must be a conspiracy to keep bus riders dependent on the bus by keeping them from knowing where they are. My trip reminded me of a scene from a movie where the hero is blindfolded and stuffed in the trunk of the car to prevent him from knowing the location of the evil layer. Fortunately, I have made the trip to the SSA many times and figured out where to jump off. Someone new to Tallahassee would have definitely ended up at the evil layer, or back at the plaza.
The trip was relatively short. I thanked the driver as I left the comfort of the bus and walked towards the SSA. I found an old unused picnic table under a shade tree in the middle of the parking lot near the SSA and sat down to simulate a visit to Social Security. I took a few notes and watched government employees come and go from the surrounding offices. They didn’t pay me much attention but I prepared an explanation in case. I pictured TPD rolling up behind my clients if they sat too long at this same old table.
It was well after lunch and I was hungry. I had fueled up in the morning with a CNS organic pop tart but my stomach had long forgotten it. I headed to the Chick Fila across Apalachee Parkway. I planned on a tight budget before looking at the menu. Staying below $5.00 was a challenge. There was nothing on the menu for $1. I settled on four strips of chicken for $4.00 and one of my own waters. As I sat in the dining room and surveyed the other tables I felt alone. There were Dads sharing lunch with their kids, older couples on outings, and work friends chatting. I was invisible in the middle of a crowded restaurant full of activity. I savored every bite of chicken, it meant more to me than my normal $10 lunch; I knew this lunch would have to last.
I threaded my way through the parking lot; shiny cars with shiny people wrapped around the building waiting for their chance to order. I crossed the street at the crosswalk and made my way to the bus stop. An older white woman and an older black man sat evenly spaced on the bench. I planned on standing but both immediately gestured for me to sit. I was happy to be visible again and enjoyed sharing the moment with my fellow riders; even while the afternoon breeze carried a steady stream of cigarette smoke into my face.
The journey back to the plaza was much longer. It even included an extended stop at the Kroger Center where we waited for government workers who never arrived. It was approaching 2:30 and as I began making the calculations for the remaining legs and considered ending my experiment. However, I remembered the advice I had given many times about productivity and bus passes. Someone with three single-rides isn’t given the luxury of ending the experiment, use them today or walk tomorrow. I arrived back at the plaza and was greeted by a current HOPE resident I served at the CNS. It was nice to see a friendly face but we were moving in separate directions and only one of us knew where he was going.
I settled back into my bench at “O”, determined to wait out the mysterious bus 6. Once again bus 26 was hogging the spot where I was expecting to see 6. As if dancing to music I couldn’t yet hear the crowds at the plaza thinned and the buses began pulling out. I watched 8 heading out to Tallahassee Mall again, while 26 stubbornly refused to give up room for 6. Maybe 6 was circling the block waiting for clearance to land.
I sat alone on my bench while I looked across the plaza. Most of the travelers had left. A few Star Metro employees huddled on a bench not too far way and a yuppie couple on fancy bikes stared at the map, its secret knowledge eluding them as well. A bus which failed to make the leap sat sputtering at its launch pad. I watched as its passengers quickly moved from the wounded bus to a replacement. Within minutes the replacement had left, a mechanic escorted the wounded from the field and activity ceased. I stood and consulted the map again; time for 6 to arrive. To my great satisfaction it pulled up at the curb.
After boarding I sat in my usual spot. Yes, after three rides I had already adopted a usual spot near the front with plenty of leg room where I could see folks as they boarded. We waited another few minutes at the plaza and then we joined the rest of the buses on the streets. We headed North, then West, then South, then East, Then North; I was tempted to ask the driver if he need directions to the mall. The driver was very professional and announced each stop as we approached. I was so excited when I spotted the mall I immediately pulled the rip cord and jumped from the bus. I trudge across the desert landscape of the dying mall’s parking lot and headed to the food courts public restrooms. I had already decided I deserved a chocolate cookie. I reasoned a client on a similar trek would be rewarded by accomplishing a task; a cookie should simulate that feeling of satisfaction well and I really wanted a cookie. With cookie in hand I set out for Access Florida. I have driven from the mall to Access Florida many times without appreciating their actual proximity. I won’t make that mistake again.
I arrived at my destination as it was approaching 4:00. I began hunting for a bus stop. In my mind there was a nice shady bench waiting for me at Access Florida, I was wrong. I began my walk back to Tennessee St., assuming I would soon find a bus stop or a bus. A block from Tennessee I found an old sign faded by the sun which told me bus 6 stops there but to not bother waiting because it could be an hour or more; I walked on. At the corner of Tennessee and Sharer I was greeted by a Star Metro bench positioned in the blazing sun with no sign or shade in sight; I walked South. The next Bus Stop sign was growing out of an unkempt hedge in front of a closed gas station; I kept walking. I had only seen one bus since I left Access Florida; bus 1 heading North on Monroe towards someplace I didn’t know. I was certain bus six was going to zoom past me at any moment as I walked and leave me stranded for another hour. I reasoned the closer I got to the plaza the better my chances of being rescued. Finally I found a group of travelers. I was greeted with a smile, until in enthusiasm to see people and the promise of a bus, I crazily questioned, “where is the bus?” I spent the remaining time huddled alone, behind the group.
The elusive bus 8 arrived 20 minutes later. It was the first bus I had seen in over an hour. We picked up a man I knew from the shelter a stop later. I was pleased to hear he had found a restaurant job and was saving money. His wife was still suffering without health insurance; her knee troubles hadn’t improved and she was now having arm troubles. As other riders boarded our conversation died. The bus is not a great place for a private conversation. My idea of finding more buses as I headed South was proved wrong; w e quickly left Monroe and dove into the surrounding neighborhood never to return to the main drag.
I asked the driver of 8 what bus I needed to catch at the plaza to get back to West Pensacola and was told 53. When we arrived at the terminal I saw a few people I knew and a few that knew me. I greeted them all as long lost friends I hadn’t seen since the war and set out to find the gate for 53. To my surprise the folks I just left had been waiting for 53, go figure. They were puzzled why I had said good bye only to board the bus behind them, but they didn’t say anything. The bus was crowded and I shared my seat with a woman I recognized but she didn’t recognize me. The bus moved through FSU. My spirit was renewed as I sat among my people and knew my van was waiting. An unknown Tallahassee drifted by outside my window; a Tallahassee with promise, activity, sunlight, and diversity. Landmarks which were familiar to me took on new life through the lens of the bus. 53 ran in tandem with 15. The procession felt like a mobilization. Riders at large stops opted to let 15 pass and wait for 53. I was left to ponder in ignorance. We arrived at the BBHC still in tandem and I was forced to leave the mystery for another day. I walked with a man heading to HOPE for dinner, his camp had been burned to the ground and I promised I would bring some basics to him the next day.
My journey was over. The van waited where I left it six and half hours earlier. I was given a new appreciation of the difficulties facing the people I serve. Star Metro is comfortable and the drivers are professional. The routes are shrouded in mystery and, without a guide, nearly impossible to understand. Star Metro veterans navigate Tallahassee without concern; they have become part of the concert, they know the rhythm. Many people I serve are new to Tallahassee. Equipping them with two single-rides, promising a 31 day pass and showing them out the door is negligent. Our community is complex and the transportation system which serves it is equally complex and deserves more consideration. The needs of people experiencing homelessness are greater than the average commuter. They are required to coordinate the schedules of multiple buses to reach service providers and job opportunities scattered through the furthest reaches of our community. As support providers we question their ambition when plans are slow to develop.
I walked more in six hours than I normally walk in a week. Every day I watch men and women my age set out on foot and bike, sometimes carrying 50 lbs packs without the luxury of a bus pass. Who is softer and less motivated; the shelter resident which hikes 20 miles on Monday seeking employment and rests on Tuesday, or the outreach worker who sits behind a desk handing out single-rides as if he is meeting the transportation need of those he serves.
