Tweaker Town USA, Under the Freeway

Two freeways converge less than a mile from where I live. The main street goes over one freeway and under the other, and it is there, below the overpass, that a group of people converge every morning.

They are mostly men, but there are at least two women as well. They vary in age, the youngest of the group appear to be in their late thirties, all though it is hard to say for sure. The ruggedness and of their features could be caused less by the weariness of age and more a result of smoking methamphetamine.

I pass them every week day on my way to work, and I’m able to observe them in detail because I’m on foot. Some of them do indeed camp under the overpass while others come from somewhere else. The criss crossing of the freeways is an ideal place for them to panhandle, two outlets leading into the street where groups of cars must pause and wait for the light to change. When the flow of traffic is stopped, a single member of the group emerges from under the overpass with a sign in his/her hand, soliciting the drivers for money.

The signs differ, each one seemingly made by the person that wields it. The shortest of the overpass troupe, a younger man with a disfigurement that forces him to limp awkwardly up and down the line of cars, evokes God on his sign: “God Bless”, “May God Bless You”, “Lord Have Mercy”. A man a bit older, maybe the right age for Desert Storm, holds a sign that states that he is a vet, fallen on harder times. A man a bit older with a dirty gray beard and a Giants hat keeps things light with “Need Money to Eat (And A Beer)”.

The women have signs but I have never read them, they panhandle at a different time of day, when I’m not passing by. It’s obvious there is a schedule being followed and that’s what fascinates me. This community of people, down on their luck and very likely in the grip of drugs and alcohol, have come together to organize and agree on a system of panhandling for the betterment of the collective.

They don’t all just rush out, desperately shoving and scrapping for prime real estate, they have come to an understanding, and each person has their allotted time to go out and see what they can make. I imagine there is a schedule of some sort. The veteran from 8 to 9:30 AM, the fella with the Giants hat from 9:30 to 11, the younger man with the God signs and the limp going out all the way through the lunch hour. That’s just on some days though, the schedule seems to change throughout the week to make it fair.

Whatever system they have come up with, it seems to work. I recognize many of the same people today that I first noticed when I moved to the area years ago, the features just more weary and run down. While one member solicits the traffic, the rest talk and laugh and share cigarettes and food. I have never seen them drinking or using drugs out in the open, I have never seen a fight.  

I was small talking with an acquaintance not long ago about walking to work and the route I take.

“Shit, right through Tweaker Town USA!” he said.

He laughed and I laughed back, knowingly, but I felt little ashamed. What is the real difference between that community under the freeway and the one’s that this man and I are a part of? We have been born lucky in some ways, with possibly better opportunities and stable families. Do the people at our respective jobs treat us any better than how the people in “Tweaker Town” treat each other? Do we look out for each other better than the people under the freeway?

05-09-13

Right Wing Bumper Stickers

It's a clear day, the traffic is moving. My car is old and cheap to begin with but the windows are down with the stereo loud and I feel as important as the anyone else. We're all on the bridge together with the water blue and alive below us, the sun feeling close at 93 million miles, the spring air fresh and young.

There's a truck in front of me a couple of cars, a new truck, brand new, and I'm mildly surprised when I see bumper stickers plastered all over the back of the cab. The biggest sticker is bright red white and blue, an election sticker. The name on the sticker is Reagan, big white letters laid evenly into the colors that never run. It's bigger than any actual bumper sticker, a statement, and it’s clever, pining for a time in the driver’s mind that never actually existed some thirty years ago.

There’s another sticker below the Reagan sticker, this one just simple black and white. It’s another parody sticker, made to look like an NBA or MLB logo, with the silhouette of a man, but instead of the man bouncing a basketball or handling a bat, he’s aiming a rifle. The rifle has a long scope, and the man is looking into it, like a long range hunter, or an assassin aiming into Dealey Plaza on November 22nd, 1963.

The sticker on the truck works on many levels. It’s clever, lampooning the corporate logos of popular sports. It’s hip, much more hip than other anti-gun control stickers like the NRA logo or a Charlton Heston quote. It’s also subtly threatening, the man could be possibly aiming his gun at a deer, or a duck, or possibly a politician voting for stricter regulations on guns.

A number of American politicians have been shot in our history, probably the most famous being John F Kennedy when he was shot in the head by a high powered rifle in Dallas. While there are disagreements about the true nature of Kennedy’s assassination, from the reasons why to how many shooters were involved, everyone does agree that Kennedy died and that a gun was the means.  Gabby Giffords is the most recent high profile politician to be shot. She was shot in the head by a mentally disturbed man and still survived.

Another politician that survived being shot was Ronald Reagan. He was walking out of a Hilton in Washington DC when he got shot March 30th, 1981, along with a cop, a secret service agent, and his press secretary. It wasn’t a sniper rifle with a long range scope that wounded them but a .22 caliber Rohm RG-13 revolver. The shooter was a mentally disturbed man obsessed with Jodie Foster. Everyone who was shot that day ultimately survived, although Reagan’s press secretary was permanently paralyzed. He went on to sponsor and push a bill through congress called the Brady Bill that required background checks for all firearm sales by federally licensed gun dealers.  

I wonder if the driver of the truck knows this. I wonder if he really knows much of anything about Ronald Reagan beyond the myths that have grown up around the name and image over the years. I wonder if the driver of the truck has ever had a gun aimed at him, or been shot by a gun, or had a family member or friend killed or injured by a gun. I wonder if the driver of the truck really thinks a gun is the thing that will protect him when a government come to crush his rights and well being. I wonder if the driver has really thought it all through.

By now the truck has disappeared beyond the other cars as traffic slows down around the S curve of the bridge. It’s spring and I have better things to ponder, turning the radio to the baseball game.