No job, no house, no worry:
A scroll through your Facebook feed might reveal a friend like Adam Kaufman. Now 45, he graduated from Columbia University in 1994. He used to hang out with the Hamptons crowd, including names recognizable from the social registers. He has a LinkedIn profile and a contact list of trustfund types, as well as a blog chronicling his life in New York.
But in the years between the freewheeling Hamptons days, when he worked for a p.r. firm, and now, Kaufman has weathered some hard hits: a heart condition, myocarditis; depression; and a 2004 diagnosis of bipolar II disorder. All that left Kaufman without a job or income. Eventually, he couldn’t pay the rent on his Upper East Side apartment.
Now, Kaufman’s a digital nomad — part of a growing community of homeless New Yorkers using the Internet as a means of survival.
Apps like Tinder, Airbnb, Facebook and GoFundMe offer solutions for virtual panhandling, finding companionship and even scoring a place to sleep for the night. And the free Wi-Fi flowing in most cities means the Web has become the great equalizer.
At first Kaufman survived by couch surfing, but invites to stay in his friends’ million-dollar homes were few and far between. When he ran out of options, squatting at Starbucks during the day and spending nights in ATM vestibules, he turned to Facebook to reconnect with other old pals and make new ones.
“Guys, we’re expecting a snowstorm and I’ve got no place to go. I haven’t eaten in two days . . . My shoes have holes in the soles of them. Does anyone have a couch I can crash on tonight?” one of his winter status updates read.
He wasn’t interested in going to a shelter, and he has never been to a food pantry. In fact, Kaufman doesn’t know any homeless people. “Going to a shelter to me would be the ultimate defeat,” he says. “Not to mention, I’d stick out like a sore thumb.”
Accordi ng to the Coalition for the Homeless, the problem now is at its highest level since the Great Depression: In April 2016 there were 60,060 homeless people sleeping in New York City shelters each night. Nationwide, more advocacy groups are going high-tech. OurCalling, a Dallas-based nonprofit, has created an app to help source nearby shelters, free meals and job training. And a San Franciscobased app allows users to access information about local shelters.
While there are no immediate plans for such apps in New York City, the NYC Department of Homeless Services points to the new computer lab at Kensington Family Shelter, where users can search for jobs and housing.
Kaufman, though, still prefers to do things his way. At one point, his social-media status updates became angry, challenging followers to spend the night on the street with him. He had no takers. Some followers unfriended him; others sent him money through the payment-transaction app Venmo.
Once, while house-sitting for a friend, he wasn’t able to afford food. So he hit up Facebook again. That time he asked friends to buy him meals though his Seamless.com account. He could fill his virtual cart and people could log on and pay his meals directly.
He has launched GoFundMe campaigns and raised $4,000, which he used for food, lodging, cellphone service and prescriptions for his bipolar II condition. Kaufman says he has never missed a day of meds — he uses an app, LowestMed, that reduces the expense from $80 a month to as low as $9.
He has an old iPhone, a remnant from his former life, and pays his monthly bill online. He also totes around a laptop in a Tumi bag.
“My electronics are the centerpiece of the illusion that I’m like everyone else,” he writes on his blog. “If someone pulls a gun and demands my computer bag . . . I’ll die before I’m giving it up. It’s more valuable than I am.”
Kaufman’s wit and photos from his time as a personal trainer make him a popular choice on dat- ing sites OkCupid, JDate and Tinder. A self-proclaimed sex addict, he uses the apps for hookups and the temporary shelter that follows.
“When I’ve found myself in a moment of crisis about where I would spend the night, my first thought is Airbnb. SROs [singleroom-occupancy units] can be hit or miss, but every Airbnb comes with reviews and pictures, so you know what you are walking into,” he says. “Hostels start at around 60 bucks. I can find a private room on Airbnb for half that.”
Recently, Kaufman landed an Airbnb in Somers, a Westchester town an hour from Manhattan. He had enough money for three nights. His host was a woman. They flirted, and he told her about the book he wants to write about his life. She invited him to stay on free of charge in the master bedroom with her. A few weeks later, when she started introducing him around town as her boyfriend, he split.
For the past four months, Kaufman has been living in New Jersey with a woman he’s seeing.
“I’d like to say I’m formerly homeless,” he says, “but if I get in a fight with the woman I’m staying with today, I’d probably be back out on the streets.”
Hostels start at around 60 bucks. I can find a private room on Airbnb for half that. — Homeless New Yorker Adam Kaufman