Nonprofit races to vaccinate homeless
Capital City Rescue Mission staffer trying to coordinate maximum participation
In David Poach’s left hand was a sheet of paper printed with 25 names of unvaccinated homeless people and staff at Capital City Rescue Mission. In his right was a pen he’d used to update that paper early Tuesday morning with more names after the Albany County Sheriff ’s Office told him 15 more doses of the Johnson & Johnson vaccine were in their possession, ready to save lives.
Sheriff ’s office employees were spread out at three tables, opening the boxes with vaccines inside. They partnered with local legislators to bring vaccines to the mission, to the homeless population that has often been overlooked during the pandemic, and now during the vaccination rollout.
Next to the officers, in the corner of a white room crammed with people, was Poach, 61, mission chief of staff, in his brown suit and tan vest, looking at his list, writing and crossing off names as he got word of cancellations and requests to “please” be put on the list.
“We’re gonna get you in there, don’t worry,” he told the first man to be put on the backlist.
Forty vaccines. Forty lives to save in less than an hour, before the vaccines expired. This was his mission that afternoon as he scurried around the building, masked, breathing heavier and heavier as he searched for the people who had registered. The nonprofit had advertised the vaccine date all week.
“Where is Nelson?” Poach asked, and in came Nelson Martinez, 51, a Bronx man with an easy laugh who “found God” here. He smiled as the needle entered his arm, next to the tattooed crown of Jesus Christ.
At 1:25 p.m., Poach crossed off the name of a man who would not make it in time. Then he crossed another at 1:28 p.m. because the homeless person could not be found.
He ushered in Brandon Frazier, a man who had sought out the mission last year as he slipped into addiction during the pandemic, searching for a place that could save him. He was number 23 on the list. Then came Reaz Masih, number 30, eager to be done with “all of this.” Then it was 1:34 p.m., and Poach had a half-hour to find the next 14 people scheduled.
He fast-walked to the church, where a man with a plastic bag full of clothes and chips slept on top of three chairs. He went to the next room, where people also slept, maskless and against the wall. Others gave Poach a blank stare.
“Are you here?” Poach called out, and then he told the volunteer working the intercom system to call out the name again. Fifteen minutes left, and 11 people were still missing from their vaccine appointment. Poach looked at his iphone. The veins on his hands jumped as he pressed the wrong apps, dialed the wrong number, opened texts from people updating him on their whereabouts.
Poach jogged from the
hallway to the noisy vaccination room, where officers were telling newly vaccinated people to wait in the hallway for 15 minutes.
The people moved in and out of the narrow door’s entrance, and as Poach bumped into them, trying to reach the officers so he could update his list, newcomers asked him how they could be saved from COVID-19, too. Eight vaccines were left.
“Do I just go in here?” one man asked.
“Well, let’s see. Are you on the list?” Poach asked, putting on his glasses.
And then Sgt. Dave Poole called out to Poach: “If we don’t get this done in the next 15-20 minutes, we’re gonna run out of time.”
“Yeah, yeah, right, OK,” Poach said.
Poach had helped get around 250 homeless people to the Times Union Center after officials called him about leftover shots. He took people there in a van, and when there wasn’t enough room for everyone, he told the rest to walk the 5-minute trip as fast as they could.
Now he was practically running inside the building, searching for the people on his penscratched list. “Not here,” he wrote again and again.
He thought of how the pandemic had compounded all the issues the mission was trying to address:
More poverty, more depression, more drug use. The mission was averaging 10 calls to 911 a week for overdoses. Almost every staff member had saved someone since the start of the pandemic with a shot of naloxone, used to resuscitate someone who has overdosed. Running around the building, saving people, was becoming a grim habit. And here he was with a sweaty shine on his nose, racing against minutes to inject as many as possible.
“We’ve got 10 minutes,” Poole said as four vaccines sat unused.
“Absolutely,” Poach replied, sliding across the tile floor in his matching brown shoes.
One more person on the list walked in. Six minutes left.
Another woman on the list walked in who wanted to call someone first before getting the shot.
“Please,” Poach said. “We have two minutes.”
So much of the pandemic’s destruction had been out of his control, he thought. The homeless people who contracted the virus. The residents who lost their jobs. The grief that led so many to drugs, and, for far too many, to death. But this was in his hands. Two shots left, and two people left to save.
He found one more person on the back-list near the entrance of the building. He called the owner of the store across the building, who rushed inside. Both lifted their shirtsleeves and received the shot.
“Done,” Poach finally said, wiping his brow.
He drew a line through a name. Next to it were others that had been written in a frantic scribble on the page.
That afternoon, they remained unmarked.