A short-haired woman with a denim jacket and a Nike backpack stopped by to greet the orange-clad battalion. Like an alumna offering an update for the class bulletin, she wanted to let them know that she had moved to a shelter in the Bronx. Lojo and a colleague combed through some corridors, looking for clients who might have nestled in remote areas. Her colleague went to a series of elevators to confirm that they were empty. People sometimes spent all night in elevators, even ones in service.
Now Alicia, a New York dame, drifted over to the orange jackets. She had long, perfectly coiffed silver hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore a slim-fitting leather jacket and black leggings. In tow behind her were two large suitcases, with a book lying across one of them—“Astor: The Rise and Fall of an American Fortune.” She had a brief interaction with one of the orange jackets, during which she claimed, repeatedly, that she had inherited an equity stake in Penn Station and, as a part owner, had a right to stay there.
Alicia was known to the B.R.C., but in general the outreach workers had to be careful about assuming who might be homeless. You could offend people by going only by clothing or demeanor; someone might just be trudging to their perfectly nice apartment after a long day at work. With practice, you began to register who kept walking past, back and forth, even if nothing about their appearance hinted at a problem. Maybe that guy had cheated on his girlfriend and been kicked out of the house. Someone lying on the floor could be battered by exhaustion or genuinely in need. You had to remain open. The B.R.C. workers all had stories of people telling them, “No, I’m fine, all good,” and then coming back later for help.
Around 1 A.M., Lojo walked toward the Hilton Passageway, originally built to connect the 1, 2, and 3 subway lines to the Hotel Pennsylvania, once the largest hotel in the world. It was a desolate corridor with limited foot traffic—a good place to catch a little shut-eye if you were avoiding police officers. She saw two colleagues crouching beside a client named Peter, who, to the untrained eye, might have seemed asleep. But the B.R.C workers knew Peter; he was drifting in and out of awareness, but he could hear them, they were sure. Next to him were a pink paper coffee cup and a baby bottle. Peter was in his sixties or seventies, with gray hair and glasses. His face was red and blotchy. The orange jackets knew he struggled with alcohol, and they were trying to entice him into a shelter yet again.
Peter asked for Sharon, a caseworker he liked from an earlier shift. He wasn’t pleased to learn she had gone home. Every so often, his legs kicked out and swung back in. He had a hospital bracelet on his wrist. According to a search of the database, he was registered at Kingsborough Star shelter, but he refused to go back there.
A worker’s phone rang. S.I.U. had found a bed at Jack Ryan, a shelter not far away, on Twenty-fifth Street, which belonged to B.R.C. A good fit.
“Peter! Jack Ryan. We got a bed for you. Jack Ryan,” the outreach worker said.
Peter suddenly seemed asleep.
Lojo tried this time. “Come on! Come on!” Peter was barely responding. The B.R.C. workers were generally discouraged from touching clients, so they had to use their voices. This wasn’t working. The two orange jackets rattled a nearby metal barrier to wake Peter up. This worked just enough to get him to say he wouldn’t go.
Lojo and her colleagues conferred. It crossed her mind that Peter might be in bad enough shape that she could pursue involuntary removal and transport to a hospital, known in the field as a 9.58. In recent years, New York City has made it easier for social workers to do this, by clarifying that the requirement for removal goes beyond a subject posing an imminent threat—whether to others or to themselves—to a subject’s mental illness leaving them unable to provide for their own needs. But, on inspection, Peter was responsive, sort of; he was engaging, sort of; he wasn’t as bad as they had seen him. Lojo was happy that he had at least found this stretch of corridor, which was warm.
