TO HOMELESS, SUBWAYS ARE FOR SLEEPING
By David S. Hilzenrath
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, November 28, 1987
; Page B01
Zlathro Latev sits on a milk crate inside the K Street entrance to the
Farragut North Metro station and stuffs his secondhand trousers with
newspapers. When a cold wind blows off the street, the newspapers keep blood
flowing to his extremities, he explains.
The last late-night passengers moved through the subway half an hour ago,
and Latev, 67, is preparing for sleep. Six men share the cement enclosure.
Meanwhile, at other downtown stations, about 20 more people settle in,
spreading sheets of cardboard at the bottom of escalator wells and drawing
their collars tight on the now still steps.
At 17th and I streets NW, Farragut West, once a popular haven, has fallen
silent, its entrance blocked by chain-link gates. The transit authority locks
the entrance after the trains stop running and is considering extending the
practice to other downtown stations.
For Latev, the consequences are clear if Metro shuts out the homeless: "You
freeze and you die," the Bulgarian immigrant said in a thick Slavic accent.
"That's it."
As Metro considers building more gates, and as advocates for the homeless
fast to dramatize their objections, street people struggle to survive another
day. They look fearfully toward the coming winter.
Metro officials said Farragut West's $3,700 chain-link barrier is there to
stay -- at least until engineers design a more attractive permanent
replacement -- because the people who sought refuge at the I Street entrance
left behind an offensive and unsanitary mess each morning. In the six weeks
since the gates went up, Metro riders have registered strong approval with the
public affairs office, said spokeswoman Beverly Silverberg.
Mitch Snyder, founder of the Community for Creative Non-Violence and
Metro's loudest critic, agrees with commuters who say Washington should offer
its homeless something better than a subway station floor. But Snyder, who
began a water-only fast on Nov. 9, said the sad reality is that subway
entrances are the best shelters some people can find.
In interviews during the past three weeks, more than a dozen street people
echoed that assessment. The meager protection that subway entrances offer from
the cold, the rain and the snow can mean the difference between life and death
for some of the District's most vulnerable homeless people, they said.
Throughout the downtown area, that protection is slipping away, and the
gates at Farragut West are only part of the reason, street people said. They
said the greater challenge comes from transit authority police, who stepped up
their efforts to keep the homeless off Metro property in early October.
According to social workers, volunteers who minister to the homeless, and
homeless people, many subway denizens have been turned away by the city's
shelters, which are generally filled to capacity; others lack the mental
wherewithal to seek help. Still others consider escalator wells more congenial
than shelters, which they describe as squalid, overcrowded and dangerous.
Long after the rumble of trains has faded beneath the city, a stale, steamy
draft emanates from Metro's underground tunnels. Its warmth envelops the men
at Farragut North -- until the bitter November wind strips it away.
At the base of the escalators, one man wraps himself in a dirty gray
overcoat and slumps against a bag of clothing. His hair is matted, and his
eyes are bloodshot.
Halfway up the middle escalator, another man draws his knees into his
chest, buries his hands in his pockets, and nods off to sleep. At street
level, Latev coughs violently, and the sound echos faintly off the cement
walls. Beside him, a white-haired World War II veteran with a grizzled beard
nurses a faucet nose, and at the edge of Metro property, two other men shiver
silently, gazing glassy-eyed at the passing cars.
Similar scenes unfold at McPherson Square, where shadows conceal huddled
figures, and Metro Center, where the odor of human waste and unwashed bodies
hangs in the air. Unlike the majority of Metro stations, these three have
partially enclosed entrances. When Metro workers lock up the tiled mezzanines,
the homeless people claim the outer areas.
Subway dwellers confirmed Metro's charge that some vagrants relieve
themselves on Metro property, but they attributed that behavior to a relative
few. The options are limited, given that there are no accessible toilets at 2
a.m., they said. Most take care to find a rest room before the fast food
restaurants close. If the need arises later, they use an alley, although the
risk of being assaulted increases when they venture into the dark.
There is little camaraderie among the men who share concrete quarters. They
generally pass the hours before sleep without conversation, preferring the
privacy of their thoughts. Those are frequently interrupted.
In a routine repeated again and again each night, Metro police officers
escort the trespassers out of a station. The vagrants drift into the streets
without resisting. Minutes after the police depart, they straggle back inside.
Despite the hardships, many find subways less forbidding than the shelters
intended to ease their plight. They complain that shelters are rife with
vermin and disease. More than the roaches or the lice, however, they fear
other homeless people bent on theft and assault. Older, weaker people are most
frequently victimized and frightened into the cold, according to several men
and women who said they have stayed in shelters.
"I'm afraid of the cold, but I'm even more afraid of going into one of
those rat traps," said Mark Parker, a burly 24-year-old who has stayed at
various shelters, in Lafayette Park and at Farragut West.
"I have what I have here. It's all I have," Parker said, pointing to a
sleeping bag and a bundle of belongings. "If I go into a shelter, somebody
there will take it from me, and if I try to stop them from taking it from me,
they may try to take my life."
Parker said he counted on Farragut West as a fallback in bad weather. He
still frequents the station at night -- to express his distress to passers-by.
A red-faced 57-year-old woman who wanders the streets said she stopped
going to shelters after other homeless people repeatedly robbed her. Last
winter, Florence Woodward made the entrance to Farragut West her nightly
residence, she said.
Latev, the Bulgarian emigre, told a similar story. He said he was attacked
at the CCNV shelter at Second and D streets NW and vowed never to return.
"Over there is all criminals, all alcoholics. Dirty, smelly, no good, lice,
everything," he said of the facility, which is undergoing major improvements.
Snyder said "people had good reason to stay away" before the improvements
began, but he added that fighting is no longer a problem. Five hundred people
currently take refuge at the shelter, filling it to capacity, and scores are
turned away at the door, he said.
Some of the people who sleep at Metro stations straddle the line between
poverty and destitution, rising out of the gutter and periodically falling
back. Others work at occasional menial jobs but never earn enough to pay rent.
However, many more are socioeconomic castaways, chronically removed from
the city's mainstream. They include senior citizens, alcoholics, convicted
criminals and former psychiatic patients. No definitive statistics exist, but
some experts estimate that two-thirds of the District's shifting street
population suffer from serious mental illness. A 1985 census counted 6,500
homeless people in the city. Social workers and advocates for the homeless
said the actual number runs much higher.
Those who forsake shelters or find themselves shut out live from meal to
meal and from resting place to resting place. According to their accounts,
their days revolve around food wagons and soup kitchens.
They wait in line for the kitchens to open in the morning and often linger
indoors as long as they are permitted. They pass much of the day panhandling
or loitering, trying to stay one step ahead of the police. As night
approaches, they stake out a place to sleep.
A number of those who now find shelter in the subways said they will roam
the city in search of vacant buildings or abandoned cars if Metro drives them
out this winter. If all else fails, some plan to avail themselves of the D.C.
jail.
Ronnie Banks, a 29-year-old homeless man roused by a Metro worker's
"wake-up call" last week, said he will steal as a last resort. Banks said that
if he gets away with it, he will buy his way out of the cold, and if he gets
caught, "at least I'll be out of the streets for the winter."
"The way I feel about it, I ain't got nothing to lose anyhow," he said.
But homeless people who discussed their contingency plans said they worry
about others, especially those who cannot speak for themselves. They predict
that a few will freeze in District parks before spring.
"I probably would get by," said 42-year-old David, a former patient at St.
Elizabeths Hospital. "But there's a whole lot of people that ain't got the
right state of mind to get by."
Dr. E. Fuller Torrey, a research psychiatrist who runs a clinic for
mentally ill homeless women, said delusions and psychosis often prevent street
people from seeking decent shelter. They may be too confused to confront their
predicament, Torrey said.
He was referring to people like the man who said he plans to return to his
home on a distant planet before the weather gets much colder.
Torrey assigns most of the blame to the District's "virtually
non-functional" support system for mental outpatients and those who have been
deinstitutionalized.
"A lot of these guys won't make it through the winter," said Richard Hill,
who retreated to McPherson Square during a recent rainstorm. "These people are
illiterate. They're sick. They're mentally retarded. They need help bad. Some
of them have been staying in that subway since it's been open. They don't have
a mind to go and search out another place."
Articles appear as they were originally printed in The Washington
Post and may not include subsequent corrections.
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