ALONE AND AGING ON THE STREET
Life of one man, newly without shelter in the city, shows how vulnerable elderly are during pandemic
Under the black morning sky, he unfolds himself from Bus Stop 15533 in SoMa. His legs are stiff and swollen from sleeping upright, his hair matted from the seatback.
He darts across Mission Street, loud with the hydraulic hiss of streetsweeping trucks, and hides his flattened cardboard in the lower branches of a magnolia. Several of the trees grow in a line near a historic Catholic church, redbricked and sharpsteepled, similar to the one he attended as a child in Atlixco, southeast of Mexico City.
By the time Juventino Barojas reached adulthood, he says in jest, he probably could have led Mass as well as the priests. These days, though, he doesn’t believe in God — not with his reality. Barojas leans on a cane as he hobbles to the Tenderloin, past windows barricaded with plywood and a jumble of tents pitched on the sidewalk.
The sky lightens. On Ellis Street, he joins a line of people outside a local nonprofit. At 8 a.m., volunteers disperse bagged meals. Sometimes they include M&Ms. Barojas hopes they do today. A man in soiled blue scrubs moans; an older woman coughs into her elbow. He keeps to himself, the blighted neighborhood pressing down on him, as he breathes hot air into his surgical mask.
Barojas is newly homeless at age 77 — and figuring out what that means during a historic pandemic. ***
Statistically, older adults like him are more likely to die of COVID19. The average age of homeless people in California and San Francisco is over 50, but often they appear even older. Street life trashes the immune system, experts say, and can age a person at least 15 additional years. By that
count, Barojas would be closer to 92.
Those unsheltered are three times more likely to be infected by the coronavirus than the housed. Of the nation’s 21,000 homeless who could be hospitalized, about 3,400 of them could die, according to a study released by Boston University, the University of Pennsylvania and UCLA in March.
Already, San Francisco Department of Public Health data show an uptick in deaths among the homeless, a result not of the virus itself but a side effect: The crisis has interrupted vital medical services and programs and closed shelters, leaving people who are already difficult to reach further isolated. Between March 30 and May 24, 48 homeless people died, compared with 14 over the same period last year. Drug overdoses contributed.
Some programs have tried to fill in the gaps. Glide Foundation, for example, now serves 25,000 meals weekly — a 40% increase. St. Anthony Foundation has rented handwashing stations and paid for 30night hotel stays for nearly two dozen seniors. But it isn’t enough. By late June, more than 250 tents were scattered across the Tenderloin’s 49 blocks.
“So many safety nets have come apart because of COVID19,” said Dr. Margot Kushel, director of the Benioff Homeless and Housing Initiative at UCSF, whose research focuses on homeless seniors. “What happens when it becomes really hard to access health care and people no longer have a place to go for safety and rest?”
As Barojas waits for breakfast, other lines form: People wanting to get tested for the coronavirus or apply for one of the thousands of citybooked hotel rooms. Michael Halpin, 69, falls into the latter category. He’s dressed in an oversize coat, a green hoodie cinched around his face.
“When the shelter system broke down, everything became the street,” Halpin said. “In all honesty, it’s chaos. In three months, I’ve gotten five different stories. You don’t know who’s in charge or where you need to go.”
Halpin used to work at Chase Center, he said, earning enough to pay rent on a North Beach apartment. But that was before medical bills from his heart condition began piling up. After losing his job and home, Halpin said he realized that the bottom could fall out on anyone in San Francisco. So he waits. Barojas, meanwhile, has given up on trying to get a room, defeated by the bureaucracy he encountered. A captain from Emergency Medical Services at the fire station on Second Street handed the senior his business card last month, promising to help him find lodging. But weeks have passed: no hotel room. The captain stopped answering his phone and didn’t respond to a reporter’s calls.
“This is a huge problem with the system,” said Supervisor Matt Haney. “There is a very streamlined way people are accessing hotels through the Homeless Outreach Team. They have certain neighborhoods and people that they are prioritizing. This approach, by design, leaves thousands of people, particularly the elderly, on the streets.”
Haney has volunteered parttime at a SoMa hotel since the pandemic began. He sees homeless individuals like Barojas turned away daily — though as of late June, nearly onethird of the hotel rooms were empty. “People come by and say, ‘How do I get inside? How do I get a room?’ ” he said. “We have nowhere to direct them.”
There’s a saying for this in Spanish, Barojas says: “Se oye tan bien para ser verdad.” It sounds too good to be true — and for him, it is. But he keeps the fire captain’s business card in his jacket pocket, just in case.
“People offer things with good intentions,” he says, his hands flapping like delicate birds as he gestures. “I asked for help once — never again. If I have to wait for other people, it’ll never happen.”
The line jerks forward. Barojas collects his breakfast, smiling at the volunteer from behind his mask. He retraces his steps, back to the safety of Yerba Buena Gardens. He unpacks his meal. At the bottom, he finds a snacksize package of M&Ms.
Barojas’ childhood had been normal enough. His father was a charro, a traditional Mexican horseman, he said, who died in a car accident when Barojas was 6 years old. Afterward, his mother raised him and his four siblings in poverty. His early years: Catholic church and parochial school. Then, he said, a job with the Red Cross and a theater company in Mexico City.
Barojas arrived in San Francisco by plane in 1978. He had friends in the city, and found work in the hospitality industry, he said, procuring his green card the following year. Public records show he received a Social Security number in 1979. Barojas worked at the Marriott Marquis on Fourth Street, he said, serving drinks at banquets and conferences. He was debonair, with green eyes and dark, slickedback hair. With tips, he sometimes earned $50 an hour.
But then, in 2006, came the accident. As he tried to load a keg onto a pushcart, Barojas said, he slipped in a puddle and injured his back. Disability paid $728 a month. His budget was tight; his savings dwindled.
ABOUT THE PROJECT
For the fifth consecutive year, The Chronicle is presenting a week of coverage focused on the critical problem of homelessness in the Bay Area. The S.F. Homeless Project aims to explore solutions to homelessness, to ease if not end the suffering of the thousands of people living on our streets and to improve the quality of life for all residents. This year’s reporting also examines the impacts of the coronavirus pandemic, which has made the problem more acute but also offers opportunities for innovative solutions. Complete coverage including guides, interactive graphics and multimedia presentations can be found at sfchronicle.com/ homeless. Join the conversation on Twitter with the hashtag #sfhomelessproject.
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He kept his most important possessions — a laptop and cell phone, his passport and green card, $5,000 in cash — in a briefcase. On a trip to Reno, it was stolen. His misfortunes accumulated, toppling one after another upon him. Last year, he became homeless. Aid was hard to come by. Barojas couldn’t prove who he was, and new paperwork cost money he didn’t have: $540 for the green card, $101 for the passport.
This sort of experience isn’t uncommon, Kushel of UCSF said.
“As soon as you become homeless, it becomes this nightmare scenario,” she said. “People don’t sleep, they get victimized and traumatized. It makes everything harder. Now, you don’t have a place to get mail, you don’t have a steady phone number, there’s no way for people to reach you. Things spiral.”
Barojas would like to work as a census taker or an Uber driver — if he had a car, he could sleep in it, too. He has no children; he’s not sure his siblings are alive. Time passes. Nothing changes. His days follow the same loop: Bathroom at the Salesforce Transit Center. Breakfast at Glide. A bus ride to the airport. He sometimes falls asleep on the drive, lulled by the relative safety and the soft seat.
Barojas likes sitting at Green Beans Coffee in the International Terminal, sipping a cappuccino while his cell phone charges. His figure is soft with layers: four jackets, two pairs of pants and thick polkadotted socks. With his clean hands and green suitcase, though, Barojas looks like any other gentleman on a business trip.
In the evenings, Barojas finds his way back home: Bus Stop 15533. The nearby Super Duper closes, the windows darkening. The streetlights on Mission Street blush gold. He wraps his flattened cardboard, retrieved from the magnolia, around his legs to stay warm. A homeless man passes, screaming: “I just want to f—ing die!”
They’re just sick, Barojas thinks. Borrachos. Drunks.
He remembers the places he’s been: Mount Shasta, the flat sprawl of Reno, Seattle with its buildings of glass and steel. He doesn’t long for adventure anymore. He wants a warm shower, a clean bed. Maybe a glass of whiskey at the end of a long day.
“I was poor as a child, so I’m adaptable,” Barojas says. “The only thing now is the time. It’s passing. And with the virus ... you just don’t know.”
Night folds. As he drifts to sleep, the last thing Barojas sees is the Marriott Marquis across the street. For a moment, he indulges the thought of a hotel room, allowing himself to hope.
Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, the fire captain will call.