Housing
Part of the SJ Sounds Series
Written by Lauren Doyle
Audio design by Josh Nicolas
[AUDIO DESCRIPTION: Shelter in when the world doesn’t feel like home. A sense of safety when stop after stop. A sound-piece depicting the feeling of finding refuge on public transit.]
The Future
The dog hears it coming long before I do. The bus, I mean. Not the impending psychotic break that’s been looming for days.
Well, I guess he senses that coming too, or we wouldn’t be on our way to the psych ward at this hour. I pat Jeffrey on his head. He’s a good boy.
It’s 11:59PM in downtown San Jose.
But the Hotel 22 is always open.
And unlike when I was a youth - volatile, unmedicated, headstrong - the bus line 22 is free these days. It doesn’t just serve anyone, of course. No, only a certain class of folk get to ride this luxury on wheels. Complete with sleeping quarters, blackout curtains for sleep quality, a complementary dining cart, a bathroom facility, and even an on-site medical aid, the always-rolling Hotel 22 stops every few blocks - but only for those with the green pass from the county office.
It only stops for the unhoused. That’s it, my friend.
And that’s our ride. All the way to the newly constructed psychiatric hospital in Palo Alto.
It’s December of 2050. And it’s freezing. It’s friggin’ freezing, man. I’ve been unhoused off-and-on most of my adult life. Why? Because we (The US. California. The Bay Area) still haven’t gotten our shit together….but things have gotten better. The continued push for change is paying off, and some of the right people in power are listening. Likewise, people who actually care are starting to be elected to local positions of influence. The result? Money and resources are actually being allocated to the unhoused and low-income folx.
And how does a random unhoused guy at the bus stop know all this? One of the changes that happened in recent years included free 2- and 4-year college degrees for low-income individuals. So, guess who got an education?
But the cycle of poverty and mental illness is a chain not easily broken. Especially when you have both deeply rooted in your family history.
So here I am, alone at midnight, waiting in the cold with my service animal for the unhoused express to the mental clinic. It’s actually been years since I’ve had a psychiatric break like the one I feel coming on, but I thought I could go without my meds for a while. Huge mistake. Jeffrey’s been nudging my pill bottle and whining at me for days. He knows what’s up. On the bright side, I hear the new Palo Alto psych-dedicated hospital is really nice. And according to a law established a few years ago in the Bay Area, all medical and mental health treatment is completely free for those who are unhoused (the light green pass) or low-income (the yellow pass). I also hear that the hospital food has improved some, so there’s also that.
Damn, it’s cold! Jeffrey whines a little and turns in a circle. 12:02. I see the bus’s lights down the road. It’s a little late - but small price to pay for a warm place to sleep, the promise of a hot meal, and a free ride.
It wasn’t always like this.
Nowadays (2050), there are dedicated “camping” areas for the unhoused throughout the Bay Area, and even the occasional community of “tiny homes” erected just for us. Raids of unhoused encampments have largely ceased. There are far fewer unhoused people in general, as programs to house, assist, and employ many of us have expanded and become better funded by both the government and by independent donors. Things are arguably “better” than they were 25, 30 years ago. It’s not enough… but things are better.
When I was a young man, to be unhoused was to be doomed. Hopeless. And being unhoused WITH mental illness? Well, that was a death sentence or a one-way ticket to jail. See, if you’ve got a home and a job and all that 20 years ago, and you’re mentally ill, society just looked at you kinda funny but they gradually learned to offer you resources and support and held your hand all the way to the ER. But if you were a “dirty homeless guy” having a bipolar manic episode on the bus 22 (then a regular public bus from Palo Alto to the Eastridge Transit Center) in the middle of the night in like 2014? Oh DAMN! That driver would call the police on your sorry hide and they’d pull over and drag you off in handcuffs without a second thought!
Do I have an arrest record? You’re damn skippy. I’ll probably never get the kind of jobs YOU qualify for with that shit. It used to be a crime to be unhoused, and GOD FORBID you have a mental break in polite society while unhoused…long after those housed folx around you were given grace for their “crazy.” Just goes to show, there’s truly no escaping the scars of poverty, is there?
The bus pulls up, the doors open without a sound (it’s that nice, clean Bay Area technology). The driver smiles, waves. No need to show my green pass - she knows Jeffrey and me. The bus kneels automatically to the sidewalk and my arthritic knees and sore feet are grateful. They did away with stairs and other disability hindrances years ago on the Hotel 22 and all of the buses that serve the actual general public in the greater Bay Area. The bus attendant approaches - one of several staff members of the Hotel 22 - and greets us. This person’s job is to make sure I have everything I need for the next two hours of my ride. You read that right: a government employee whose job description is to cater to the creature comforts of the unhoused while they relax on a hotel on wheels. Sound weird to you? Tough. The unhoused have been catching Z’s on the 22 bus for years and years, and one closed-minded person isn’t going to spoil a nap for the weary just because it doesn’t meet their sense of propriety.
Where was I? Oh yeah, my pal Ben - the bus Attendant- asks me if I’d like a shower, a meal, a book, anything for the dog, etc. He’s a sweet kid. No thanks, I say - I’d like to just sleep until the Palo Alto station. But I would like a cup of tea.
Ben leads us to one of the cozy recliner-style seats and I settle in while Jeffrey curls up beneath me on the bus floor like he’s done hundreds of times before. I take my psych meds and vitamins from my bag and take them with a bit of bottled water. I already called the hospital from my cell phone (those were long ago made free to the unhoused) and secured my private room. They have my medical records in the universal system. I can count on being treated like everyone else at the hospital. This isn’t my first rodeo. Soon after, my friend Ben brings me a cup of herbal tea.
Around me, several seats are occupied by sleeping travelers, the individual blackout curtains on their windows drawn shut. Gentle snores fill the air, as well as the sound of someone manically rummaging through a bag, muttering to themselves. I wonder if they’re headed to the same place I am. I silently wish them well. There’s a couple of “unseen” passengers too - if you know what I mean? I’ve noticed one of them, at least, in her same seat for years, humming that same forgotten song. They don’t mean any harm. I never know if anyone else can see them, but it is what it is.
I turn to my window and opt to leave the curtains open for now. San Jose is a handsome city, and the Bay Area is glittering with possibility - even for an unhoused guy like me. I won’t lie - I’m scared. I’m bipolar. I’m paranoid as we speak and I have no clue what tomorrow will bring. But gazing out at these city lights, a sense of peace washes over me. I need someplace to rest my hopes. Don’t we all? I need to believe that I have a future. Maybe tonight, this moment, this bus ride in the right direction, is the first step.
When I was young and this was a public bus, before I knew what was wrong with me and had medication or any resources at all, before I had Jeffrey to help me detect my episodes, I had a full-blown manic episode on the 22 - and it was a very different experience. I paced the length of the bus one night, my mouth anxiously running off ahead of me, frantically spouting off some nonsense about the government and chemtrails I think? I vaguely remember the bus riders around me being a mix of indignant, horrified, and trying-to-act-disinterested. I was a mess. I know that now. I needed inpatient hospital services, stat. I needed someone to talk to me, medicate me, and help me regulate the chemicals in my brain. I needed someone to listen and care. What did I get? Let’s just say that night would not be my last time in cold, tight handcuffs while I experienced a medical crisis.
But the times are changing. Always changing. I’m headed to recovery and therapy tonight. To wellness. To completion? Who knows?
Maybe, after that, I’ll finally be headed “home.” I guess we’ll just see what tomorrow brings. I hear Jeffrey yawn beneath my seat. “You’re okay,” I whisper to myself, “everything’s okay.”
The lights of San Jose blur by my window in the dark.
****
2:39 AM in Palo Alto, CA. Jeffrey and I approach the new psychiatric hospital - and, ya know, it really is a good-looking building. Tall, silver and glittering….But it looks so much like the Silicon Valley banks and corporate buildings that have never had a place for me. Maybe I should….
No. No. Things are different.
Everything’s gonna be okay…
The chrome doors slide open without a sound as we approach and a disembodied voice immediately greets me, “Mr. O’Malley?”
“That’s me” I say, disoriented, as my eyes finally settle on a smiling person behind a tall desk. They must recognize me from my medical profile pic, since I called ahead...but it’s a little unsettling nonetheless.
“May I scan your identification card?” they ask, and I hand over my light green card while they swipe me in for my stay at Hotel Psych. I take a minute to gaze around the brightly lit lobby - and am immediately struck by the lack of, well, anything. No other people waiting in the seats, no abandoned coffee cups or newspapers, no motivational posters on the wall. Nothing. The interior is a chic, minimalist modern - and it’s so devoid of anything that it’s downright eerie. The weirdest part? I haven’t seen a single “unseen” person. Hospitals are usually full of them. I turn back to the receptionist and am startled to see that they’re holding my card out to me soundlessly, wordlessly, smiling without complaint.
“Sorry,” I say and take the card sheepishly.
“Oh, no worries!” Says the receptionist.
Almost immediately, a man I presume to be a nurse emerges with a wheelchair, and I suddenly remember this least-favorite part of the intake process. They never let you walk in on your own. It’s a liability. How undignified.
“Mr. O’Malley, will your dog follow?” asks the nurse.
“Yes.” I say.
I settle down awkwardly into the stiff new wheelchair with my bag on my lap and the nurse pushes me beyond two shiny push doors. On the other side is a very brightly-lit hall. I hear Jeffrey whimper as he trots along beside me. I gaze over at him - and his sad eyes are glued to me. He’s worried.
I take a deep breath.
Everything’s gonna be okay….
The bare walls change from vibrant turquoise to coral to lavender with chrome trim and doors all around as the wheelchair whizzes through halls until we reach a sunny yellow ward behind a key-card-locked door. This is feeling awfully familiar.
But no, I tell myself. Things have changed. No more handcuffs. No more wrist straps. No more involuntary sedation. It’s okay. You’re okay….
A smiling woman thanks the nurse and he takes the wheelchair and leaves me and Jeffrey here. The woman introduces herself. My senses are heightened and I’m anxious and I immediately forget her name. “Nice to meet you” I mutter. She goes over procedures and policies and I’m only half listening. Then she asks me for my bag and phone.
I’d forgotten about that.
“Sure,” I say, and hand over my only worldly possessions to this smiling stranger.
“Everything will be safe in our security office until you discharge from the hospital.”
I remember, when my stuff was confiscated at arrival during my last inpatient stay at another hospital years ago, that they made me this very same promise - and then my phone and the $10 in my wallet magically came up missing at discharge. But what the hell could I do?
The smiley, nameless lady leads me and Jeffrey down a cheery yellow-painted hall. The doors we pass are all propped open on well-lit, tidy, and brightly-painted minimalist-chic bedrooms. Well-lit and completely empty. Every. One. Where were all the patients? Where were the unseen occupants? Was the hospital perhaps simply too new to have unseen folx?
At the end of the hall, we’re led to a tangerine-colored room identical in every way to the other empty dorm-style rooms. It’s nice. Nicer than any hospital room I’ve ever stayed in. It even has a full-length mirror and desk and a recliner and a decent-sized bed. But why so damn bright? I feel the voice of my mania screaming LET’S STAY UP ALL NIIIIIIGHT!!!!!!
The woman offers us food, but’s after 3AM and I can see that Jeffrey is as anxious as I am. We need to be alone. She offers me sleep medication and I almost decline - until I hear my blood pounding in my ears and realize that I’m so manic that meds are probably my only hope of getting to sleep at all. I sit on the edge of the bed and marvel at how good it feels. Oh, a bed! A soft-ish one! Back in the day, they used to deliberately make inpatient beds small and stiff and painful to sleep on, to discourage patients from treating the hospital like a hotel. Can you imagine that? Deliberately making a person in who’s crisis uncomfortable? (Kinda sounds like those spikes the local governments used to erect under bridges and elsewhere to discourage the unhoused from camping, years ago, as if they were pigeons).
The woman returns with two tiny white pills and a metal cup of water. Jeffrey begins to whimper almost uncontrollably.
“Ssssh!!! It’s okay, boy!” I tell him
When I ask the lady if she can turn off the lights (which are killing my eyes and intensifying my crazy), she turns a dimmer on the wall until it clicks - leaving the cheery tangerine room bathed in a dim, dark, blood-red light.
“You can’t turn the light off completely?” I ask as I swallow the pills.
“No, I’m sorry. The light has to be on a little so that the overnight guard can check on you every 15 minutes.”
I guess some things never change.
My vision suddenly starts to blur and the room begins to spin. Jeffrey whines.
“Damn - What kind of sleeping pills were those?” I ask as I collapse back onto the bed.
“Oh - melatonin” the lady smiles. “Just melatonin.”
I suddenly can’t do anything but stare at the blood-red ceiling while Jeffrey whimpers helplessly beside me. And my last thought before I knock out is: I don’t think I’ve seen this woman blink in the entire time we’ve been here.
Lights out, my friend.
******
Screeeeech, screeech, screeech.
That’s the sound of Jeffrey whimpering in the dark.
Only it’s not dark. It’s red.
Wait -
It’s not red.
It’s a warm amber color. My eyes adjust to the semi-darkness and I remember where I am. Lying awkwardly on top of the covers of the inpatient dorm room bed in Palo Alto, my shoes and coat still on. My mouth is parched. There’s a metal cup of water on the bedside table and I almost take it - but then I think better of that.
Jeffrey’s whimpering somewhere across the room…There! He’s standing in front of the mirror.
“Come’ere, boy”
But he ignores me. He just stares at the mirror and cries. Weird.
I sigh. I sit up on the edge of the bed and brace myself for the pain of standing up with arthritic knees. 1,2,3….OUCH!
After a moment, I hobble my stiff self across the amber room to my dog, where he stares at the full-length mirror on the wall. It’s not glass, of course. It’s shatter-proof, no doubt. Wouldn’t want a loony harming themselves with a shard, right?
Wait.
I wave at the mirror. I blink. But in the amber reflection of the room, I don’t see me, and I don’t see Jeffrey.
“What kinda….”
I go to place my hand on the mirror’s surface - and my heart jumps when it instead goes through the chilly reflective substance as if it were ice water. My fingers graze something metallic, unseen beyond.
“What the!”
Jeffrey whimpers and I instinctively snap my hand back.
The amber glow of the room seems to grow warmer and I feel as I though I catch a whiff of car exhaust. Jeffrey has backed away from the mirror….and yet, some primal, animal part of me is pulled toward it.
I reach my hand out for the mirror - and my fingers penetrate the icy-cool surface until they grip what feels like a metal bar. The sound of my dog whimpering behind me fades as I allow my intuition to pull every part of me through the freezing surface of the mirror, eyes shut, breath held.
Someone coughs. Someone clears their throat. I smell exhaust. And perfume. And body odors. I hear the whooshing of air and the whirring of an engine. I open my eyes.
And I’m the only person standing on a half-empty dimly-lit nighttime bus.
Awkward.
I’m gripping a hand-bar next to an empty seat and I sit down. Toward the front of the bus, a young man with a loud voice mutters something about government surveillance, scratching his head frequently and often changing his seat. A few passengers who were seated up front casually move further back on the bus. I sigh. The amber lights of the bus flicker. San Jose’s own urban lights rush by the windows white and red and green in the dark.
The young man progresses from government conspiracies to borderline-culturally-offensive material, and the passengers have started exchanging glances in their own uncomfortable silence. He’s going off on anyone and everyone. It’s a cry for help. But no one else sees it that way. They see his filthy layered clothes. His smelly, rotting shoes. His missing teeth. They see an unhoused guy that they don’t want to share the bus with. He’s offensive. He’s inconvenient. They’re hoping the driver will make the call.
I take a deep breath. I get up with my painful knees (OUCH!) and walk carefully along the moving bus towards the front. I sit down across from the young man. He’s starting to get up and head further back. I catch the eye of the driver in the mirror and she gives me a suspicious look.
Tough shit, I think. This isn’t about your comfort. It’s about someone’s life.
“Hey man,” I say to the kid. He’s somewhere in his twenties. “That’s real interesting. Why don’t you tell me about where you grew up?”
He stops in his tracks and we make eye contact. His eyes are huge and shifting in every direction rapidly. His energy feels raw and angry - but before I know it, he’s sitting back down and telling me his story.
It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. The amber lights flicker and I lose all sense of place and time as I listen. The bus rolls on all night and the night never surrenders to a new day.
Si desea tomar medidas para ayudar a aquellos que se han visto afectados por problemas de vivienda en el Bay Area, consulte las siguientes organizaciones que están trabajando para ayudar:
Audio Credits:
[List of sounds used and their proper attributions]
We would like to thank South First Friday, Kaleid Gallery, and San Jose Stage Company for hosting this installation.
South First Friday is an eclectic evening of Arts & Culture in downtown San Jose's SoFA district (and beyond) every First Friday of the month.
Kaleid Gallery (Greek for beauty and form) was borne out of San Jose’s Phantom Galleries (art in vacant storefronts & alternative spaces project) in December 2006. Over 90 fine artists and designers from the San Jose area make use of a 6,000 square foot retail space with individual exhibits that include painting, sculpture, photography, ceramics, glass, jewelry and textile art.
San Jose Stage Company is recognized as the South Bay’s leading professional theatre company, devoted to new, cutting-edge work and reinterpreting American literature and world classics using innovative stagecraft, multi-media that propels the narrative, and accomplished, local actors in true repertory style.
SJ Sounds is a collaboration between More Más Marami Arts and Soundplay.Media. This installation is possible thanks to funding from the City of San José through the Abierto program, the support of our fiscal sponsor, The School of Arts and Culture.
