Wake-Up Call. Joaquin De Torres

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      As one of the directors for the Contra Costa Homeless Project or CCHP, an underfunded community mental health center, it was my job to find homeless members of the community suffering from severe mental disabilities, and bring them back to our shelter for treatment. CCHP was not a new program; we had been in existence for more than 18 years, barely avoiding the governor’s annual budget guillotine each year. What was new was our Severe Mental Disorders program, which I had introduced and was now the managing director. As more and more centers were cut throughout California because of the state’s ubiquitous debt problem, and of Congress’ indifferent approach to homeless initiatives, CCHP managed to survive largely because of an alarming trend in annual homeless statistics.

      Since 2007, it has been recorded that between 40 and 50 percent of homeless people were mentally ill. According to statistics from several private and governmental authorities, between 150,000 and 200,000 of the homeless have some form of schizophrenia, manic-depression or bipolar disorder. The majority of these cases go untreated. The state’s budget cuts have been devastating in this regard. Newer facilities, wards and wings have been delayed or cancelled, forcing directors to look towards wealthy donors or corporations for sponsorship. Very few respond. Rich politicians or those owned by their corporate overlords don’t concern themselves with the homeless. Like the poor or minorities, it’s not their problem.

      When our transportation budget was cut, we had to sell our vehicles that picked up our patients off the streets. Our aqua blue and yellow vans and buses, once seen throughout the East Bay, were no longer on the road. We suffered a double whammy because our patients were left without transportation, and our staff was going broke trying to pick up as many as possible with their own cars. It was virtually impossible to help them all.

      Left to themselves on the street with no idea that CCHP was still available, patient traffic grounded down to a halt. Then the Bay Area began seeing a rising trend in homeless crimes. A good number of the victims were being treated by CCHP. Robbed, beaten, raped and murdered—there was no way we could protect them all. I took it very hard when those patients in my ward became victims because they were completely defenseless against the outside world.

      I decided to do all I could to protect them and protect our facility. I was already an established author with several fiction thriller titles under my belt. I had earned enough money in advances, sales and guest speaking to invest a large amount in expanding our wing, and paying for more experimental research. I sold my house in Alamo and moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Concord. The $1.3 million I got from the sale went into helping CCHP. Still, it was not enough. There’s just not enough money to protect all the mentally ill homeless.

      I’m a Bay Area boy. I studied at Berkeley where at any given night up to 1,200 homeless sleep on the streets, so I had seen the destruction of these people personally. When I transferred to Stanford, I wasn’t a Yuppie psych major with visions of sitting in a plush office where patients laid on my couch, and paid me to listen to their daddy issues or other petty insecurities. I wasn’t going to be a high-paid life coach. I was hardened by the hopelessness of the American homeless, and angered by the apathy of our politicians who neither passed laws to help them, nor gave voice to their desperate plight. I wanted to do something real in the mental health industry. When I finally got all the certificates and diplomas that most doctors proudly display on their walls, I rolled mine up and threw them in a box. I always felt those fancy embossed pieces of parchment only proved that you could grasp a subject well enough to pass the required exams; they didn’t prove you were committed or devoted to the field. I was determined to be both.

      After my internship, residency and licensing by the state of California, I went straight to CCHP. After my first year, I used my salary and savings to repair parts of our facility, update our technical library, and bought three mini-vans for picking up patients. My next three books will guarantee another three vans and more facility upgrades. But I wasn’t looking to be a hero as many in my field and in the community called me. I actually found no value in heroic titles or in titles at all. Other than the stencil outside my office that reads:

      DR. JAVIER FLORES, Ph.D., NEUROLOGIST

      DIRECTOR of SEVERE MENTAL DISORDERS Unit

      the only other thing that identifies my position is my desk plate and my calling card. And to keep my medical life from interfering with my literary career, I use a pen name: Jason Kaplan. Neither side knows that I’m the same person, and I want to keep it that way. In fact, CCHP thinks I get the money from a small fortune left to me by one rich aunt in Barcelona. That’s good. I hope it stays that way.

      I left Sikes’ Liquors and reluctantly decided to make my way home. It was now 6:15 P.M., dusk was settling in, and I needed to get some dinner, prepare for tomorrow’s work schedule, and try to get a few pages of writing in before going to bed. I had been craving Asian food all day, so I took a couple of back roads to get to my favorite market on my way home. Another 20 minutes of driving off the main streets and into a few residential areas finally brought me to a small strip of stores, restaurants and boutiques on the north side of Oakland.

      I pulled up in front of Fresh Mart Sato, a Safeway-size Asian market equipped with its own restaurant, take-out counters, as well as the aisle-by-aisle selection of exotic foods, vegetables and products from all over Asia. California is famous for these markets. Sato’s take-out line in particular, rife with steaming, freshly made delicacies, was ranked in the top 35 in the Bay Area, but it might as well been number one because I never went anywhere else.

      I already decided mentally want I wanted, so this would be quick. The parking lot seemed pretty full, but I found a place near the far end of the strip mall adjacent to a park. It was a small park with copious benches, a bicycle path, walking paths, children’s playground, and a nice view of the surrounding hills marbled with houses. I’d had a long day, so I thought to eat my food in the park and relax, instead of taking it home. After I parked, I just sat for a moment to review my day, taking in the view of the park on my left, the row of stores and Fresh Mart Sato to my right.

      You can’t save the world, Javier, I thought. At least you’ve given your best effort. You’ve got other patients, and more are surely to come. Move on, brother. Despite trying to suppress my dejection with encouraging thoughts, I was still saddened by the thought that those efforts would be for not. Doug Tuckman was probably dead.

      I reached for the door handle when my cell phone chimed. It was a text but I didn’t recognize the number at all. Oh, shit! Now I know! It was probably the Alameda police department with information I had requested. Earlier I had received texts from the Oakland, San Mateo, Hayward, Richmond, Palo Alto, El Cerrito and Berkeley police departments to see if anyone with Doogie’s physical and mental description had been picked up lately. I had also made similar calls to several major hospitals and emergency rooms. They all answered with negative replies. So far, so good. Alameda P.D. was the last station I’d been waiting for today. In the coming days, I planned to go beyond the Bay Bridge and search in San Francisco itself. Doogie may have found a way to get across from Oakland to San Francisco by jumping into the back of a container truck, stealing aboard a Bay transport ship, hitchhiking over the bridge, or found some money to buy a BART train ticket. I don’t know. All I know is that San Francisco has about 7,000 homeless people. In a city just under 47 square miles, that’s about 140 homeless people per square mile. I had my work cut out for me.

      The cell chimed again. Please, be there, Doogie, I thought with little enthusiasm. And please, don’t be dead. But when I read the message, I was pleasantly surprised to see it was from Brittany Tuckman.

      Hi! Any leads on my brother yet? Let me know when you have time next week. Let’s do lunch! Brit

      P.S. Now that you have my number, call me anytime. ;)

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