Donovan

My phone said it was 95 degrees outside, but there was a nice breeze, so my dog Morty and I got in the car and headed for Occidental College for our afternoon walk.  As we drove under the 2 Freeway, I saw a young man slumped in a wheelchair. His sweater-covered arms dangled in front of him and his head lay heavily on his chest.

His awkward position suggested he was unconscious, possibly from heat stroke, but as I got closer, I worried he might be dead. I pulled over. Morty started howling.

“It’s okay Morty, I’ll be right back.” I opened the windows so he wouldn’t suffocate and got out of the car.

“Excuse me sir,” I hoped to get the man’s attention, but he didn’t budge. I stepped closer to get a better look. Flies buzzed around his dirty, bare feet, which were covered with oozing lesions and his gray sweatpants were soiled with urine and feces. His dangling head, which was covered with a mop of matted, dusty, black curls, looked familiar. I got closer and saw it was Donovan, a twenty-something, unhoused man I’d had several conversations with six months earlier outside the animal hospital where I worked. But he hadn’t been in wheelchair then. Could this be the same person?  

“Donovan?” I touched his shoulder; it felt stiff like wood.

The first time I met Donovan, he was sitting on the sidewalk, staring at the sky, outside the bodega next to the animal hospital. His full head of matted, curly black hair got my attention because it was so thick and dark.

“Good morning,” I greeted him.

“Yeah, hey.” He glanced around nervously so I kept my tone friendly. I didn’t want him to think I was there to reprimand him.

“How’s it going?” I felt sorry for him sitting there, surrounded by his belongings. I wanted to help him.

“No, yeah, I’m good.” His eyes darted around at things I couldn’t see, and I suspected he lived in his own world.      

“I’m Martha.” I reached out my hand. “What’s your name?”

“Donovan.” He cautiously reached back.

In his somewhat vacant gaze, I saw a glimmer of clarity as he accepted my effort to be kind. I imagined him as a happy kid, running and playing with other kids, his black curls bouncing on top of his head, before mental illness or poverty robbed him of his joy.

I’ve often wondered if I lost everything or fell prey to my mental illness, if I’d end up on the street like Donovan. I could picture it. I’d definitely have a dog to protect me and keep me company, I’d keep all my things in one backpack, I’d scout out all the public restrooms where I could do my hygiene thing and live on granola bars and nuts.

I wondered what Donovan ate. His plastic bags were stuffed with sweatshirts, knitted caps and a raggedy sleeping bag, but I didn’t see any food.

“Are you hungry?” The least I could do was help him get food, so I pulled out a 20-dollar bill and handed it to him. Suddenly his eyes got more focused, and he looked straight at me and smiled.

Unlike some of the other unhoused people in the neighborhood who cleverly built large fortresses on the median of Eagle Rock Blvd. and moved menacingly through the streets at night like snipers, Donovan looked incapable of stealing or harming anyone.

“Yeah, thank you ma’am.” He tucked the 20-dollar bill into his pants pocket.

“Where’s home for you?”

“Santa Barbara.” He looked strangely wistful, and I wondered if he still had family there.

“Where do you live now Donovan?”            “Just around, you know.” He pointed with his head in several directions.

“Do you get cold at night?”

“No, no…I do okay,” he nodded toward his sleeping bag.

“Would you let me help you find a place to live?” I asked even though I had no idea how I would do that. My gut told me he was a good person, and with the proper help he could have a better life.

“I’ll do some research and when I see you next time you can tell me if it sounds like something you’d like to do, okay?” I put my hand on his shoulder to let him know I was sincere.

When I got to my desk I googled “How can I help an unhoused man in my neighborhood?” I submitted an outreach request on the Los Angeles Homeless Outreach Portal and hoped for the best.

A few days later I saw Donovan near the bodega again, eating a creamsicle.

“Hey Donovan, did anyone from Social services come to help you?” He squinted his eyes and tilted his head. He had no idea who I was, or what I was talking about. Maybe he didn’t want any help. I gave him the little bit of cash I had in my wallet and a Starbucks gift card and left him alone. I felt so helpless.

He disappeared after that. To make myself feel better I imagined that someone had come and helped him get back to the fictitious family in Santa Barbara that I’d dreamed up for him.

Now, six months later, looking at this lifeless man slumped over in a wheelchair under the 2 Freeway shattered that dream.  

How long had he been here? Why hadn’t anyone stopped to help him sooner? Could he have been saved? I couldn’t just leave him there, so I dialed 911.

“911 What’s your emergency?”

“There’s a dead man in a wheelchair under the freeway near my house.”

“What’s the address?”

“Under the 2 Freeway on Verdugo Rd in Los Angeles, 90065.”

“Okay I’m transferring you to a responder.”

A second later a man answered, and I told him about Donovan.

“Could he be sleeping?” he asked.

“I really don’t think so. When I touched his shoulder, it felt stiff.”

“Okay, ma’am…” He sounded like he didn’t believe me or didn’t care.

“You don’t believe me? This poor guy is dead and nobody gives a hoot! Please send someone!”

“Calm down ma’am, we’ll send someone out.”

I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Now he thinks I’m crazy.

“Thank you, sir.” I hung up.

Morty and I waited in the car for an hour, but nobody came. My phone now said it was 99 degrees and Morty needed his walk. There wasn’t much more I could do for Donovan at this point anyway. As I drove away it hurt me to see people driving by without even noticing this poor guy in the wheelchair. I had to let it go and trust that the EMT guys would come.

The next morning, as Morty and I approached the bridge, I could see that Donovan and his wheelchair were gone. To keep myself from descending into an empathetic hell hole, I looked at Morty for comfort and said, “We did all we could, right?” His coiled pug tail wagged enthusiastically. I scratched him behind the ear. “Thanks buddy.”