Cacavas

I hopped on my yard-sale bike for a morning ride down the bike path that parallels the LA River in Long Beach. Down at this end, the river's cemented conduit unceremoniously flushes all the trash it has drained from the county streets and freeways into Long Beach Harbor. The bike paths, one on each side, are atop the giant flood-control berms channeling the filthy waters seaward. The shallow waters between are a haven for thousands of native and migrating shorebirds, birds of prey, and avian city dwellers alike. Upturned shopping carts and wheel-less bicycle frames accumulate silt and green carpets of grass and algae; eddies in their wake swirl downstream. The local ornithologists tell me some birds even nest in the carts.

Human life thrives, too, under the bridges of Anaheim, Willow Street, the PCH, and many more to the north. On this day I noticed some orange-vested workers on the slope under Willow Street carting bulky items out from under the bridge, making a big pile next to a bright yellow front-end loader, and a dump truck parked across the river from me. I doubled back, took the access road leading down the dike, past a stinking pumping station whose intakes harbored a puddle of water decorated by a mosaic of floating plastic bottles. I found my way over the bridge.

An army of mostly young Latinos working off their traffic tickets labored bucket-brigade style at clearing out a sizeable encampment constructed under Willow Street. An elaborate home had evolved with sleeping quarters for at least 6 or 8 persons. The front-end loader scooped from the pile of shopping carts, mattresses, furniture, luggage, car seats, plywood and carpet scraps, tarps, dented cooking pots, cast-iron skillets, and numerous other still-usable items that until today had made someone's life more comfortable, and shoveled them into the dumper. A plush monkey hung from the bolts supporting the Willow Street above. Tiny ants swarmed over a couple of greasy paper bags next to a sealed gallon of milk, still cold and sweating with condensation. A flat ledge under the bridge was the foundation for the main house, but spare bedrooms had been erected on the slope leading down to the river by propping up plywood and bedding with 2x4s.

North of Willow, the strip of land between the Los Angeles River and the busy 710 freeway was a hive of activity this day. A police SUV and a cruiser were making stops every 100 yards or so at every one of the domiciles erected near the clumps of trees, and speaking to the tenants, who made smaller, more significant piles out the bigger piles of personal debris in anticipation of the coming ruin. Further along, another yellow earthmover scraped someone's belongings into a dusty pile. Dozens of persons made their home along this half-mile stretch with its backdrop of speeding container trucks rushing their imported cargo from Long Beach Harbor to points north and east. In past days, before the dikes were built, this turf was a moist floodplain.

A resident beckoned angrily to me from below. He shouted, asking if I was part of his impending doom. I asked if I could photograph his abode. Frederic A. Neumeier invited me into what would soon no longer be his, what would no longer be at all. He gestured towards the police vehicles and said the real pile of trash was "down there". Mr. Neumeier told me his wife had died recently. He learned of this the same day he was served his eviction notice, exactly two weeks ago. All of the homeless living on County property along the 710 and the L.A. River were served these notices with no option to pay rent.

He was quite upset about his eviction, and showed me the notice where it had been posted. His home was a warren of tarps and fencing, ending in a crowded but comfortable sleeping space. The many rooms of this abode appeared to have waterproof roofing and walls. The spaces in between the front door and bedroom were heaps of clothing, and scavenged goods such as bikes, tools, luggage, and household items, including a stainless steel double sink in good condition. He leafed through a 3-ring binder of documents important to his life (the sort of things we need in this society to substantiate our station in the world, to confirm our accomplishments when no one takes your word at face value) all neatly organized in plastic sheet protectors. Mr. Neumeier, probably in his 50's, worked for the Hawaii Department of Parks and Recreation for many years. He came to California when an aunt became very ill, and his wife, too, was in the hospital for some months here before she passed away. As I spoke to him he gestured behind me to the bike path, where another homeless someone was trying to ride off on my bicycle.

At the next settlement upstream the river (and downstream the 710 North), a shirtless man called up to ask if I had a cigarette after the cops rolled away. He offered to pose with his illustration of Jesus drawn on a large piece of white cardboard. He was proud of his garden, which included some stalks of corn, some trailing gourd vines, and a meter-high banana plant, which he'd transplanted from somewhere. The scattered cornstalks were too far apart to pollinate and wouldn't produce more than a few kernels each, but he clearly would not be around for harvest time.

A vanload of mostly young white male county workers in white jumpsuits and orange vests had parked on the freeway side, and were busy dismantling the shirtless man's fort. One of them made a comical pretense at playing a drum that hung from a section of chain-link fence. Two county pickups drove up and two supervisor-types asked me whom I was with. They said they didn't want me in the way, and that the police might think I was homeless and write me a ticket, or arrest me.

Leaving the eviction, I crossed back to the other side of the river. I asked a young-looking homeless woman with close-cropped hair if she knew what was happening to the homeless across the water.

"Yeah, it's over," she said. A minute later, perhaps a bit confused from the effects of hunger, sleep deprivation, or drugs, she asked me what was in fact happening over there.

Her den was assembled where two cement walls meet at a right angle, where an access lane branched off the bike path. Here, close to where the river meets the sea, the banks are just riprap-- piles of rocks. The river bottom is unpaved, half water and half of it is moist sand and dirt, with various trees and shrubs providing shelter to many more people. Occasionally some branch of the government bulldozes the trees and plants away, disrupting both human and bird life.

Debra with the short hair explained to me that this side of the river was Long Beach City property, and the other side was county land. I asked if I could photograph her living quarters. "Lemme put on a shirt," she said, since she was only wearing a sport bra and some shorts, she rummaged around for a few minutes in a suitcase to find one. She climbed to the top of the bike path, grabbing my hand to steady herself as she staggered, to show me where the city had recently cut down a tree, and where some people had set up camp under a bridge on the county side of the river, and were living in particularly squalid conditions with a dog. "Over there you can do whatever you want, but on the this side the city will get you. There's only three people living there," she said, saying that it was such a disorganized mess there wasn't any room to put up another tent, though there should be room for a few more persons to sleep.

She showed me how tidy her place was, how the rugs on the floor were clear, and a bookcase forming the third wall of her den was neatly stacked with food, dishes, and a toaster oven that only lacked an outlet for power. Debra's roommate arrived, asking loudly, who had been into her clothes? Debra told her, "Girl, they came and took the radio, and a bunch of stuff." Other homeless people, apparently, had burgled them while they were away, strewing some garments on the ground.

I hopped back on my bike, and pedaled home, wondering how much home defines what we have a right to, what is ours. It seems Debra and her roommate were not the only ones who lost something that day.

Nicky Cacavas

September 4, 2003