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Meanwhile, a tourist with a goatee enters the block from the northwest, so Jo Anne Bennett stops him and asks the same thing. "Yes," the tourist says, pointing down the street to his hotel. Bennett tells him why she's asking. "Oh, sorry," he says, "No, I do quite well."
But the man with the white cart isn't doing so well. So when asked, "Tonight, do you have some place that you consider to be your home or the place where you live?" he says, "No." And voilà: New York City's fourth annual census of the street homeless had found one.
An hour earlier all three women were sitting at the Group G table at Baruch College drinking coffee and eating granola bars with a couple hundred other volunteerspeople from church groups, students, social workers. The site was one of 26 citywide where more than 2,000 census takers were getting ready to brave the cold and count the city's street sleepers.
Onstage was Danny Farrell, a Department of Homeless Services official, explaining how the count works. "You need to sell it as comfortably as you can," he says. "You want to approach as if there were an invisible wall between you. You want to consider spatial boundaries. Don't just go right up to them. People who live on the street feel themselves in shark-infested waters."
To some in the room, it seems a little strange to take a street census in 25 degrees and darkness. The timing is deliberate. It's on a Monday to avoid pedestrian traffic and at the end of the month because that's when welfare benefits are running out. And it's in the middle of winter and the dead of night (midnight to 4 a.m.) because that's when only the most desperate people are sleeping on the sidewalks.
"I think it's to count those who are really living on the street, who are a challenge to engage," Fran Winter, the acting commissioner of Homeless Services, tells the Voice. It's a "snapshot in time" of the street population, she says. But it's also the stick by which the Bloomberg administration is measuring its progress toward a five-year goal of, by 2009, cutting the estimated street-sleeping population of more than 4,000 by two-thirds.
Midnight nears, so Farrell delves into the rules for the count: Volunteers are supposed to walk every sidewalk in their assigned areas once and speak to everyone they see. No doubling back to catch someone. No going into delis or bodegas, even if there's a homeless-looking person inside. No entering abandoned buildings. Only public areasbut if an alley way looks sketchy, a volunteer doesn't have to go there either.
The constraints mean that volunteers don't actually see too many homeless people. But to make up for any letdown, there are T-shirts and thank-you notes from the mayor when it's all over.
Group G bundles up. The coordinators split the group in two parts: Wagner, Sinclair, and Bennett get five square blocks in midtown, from 44th to 49th streets, between Fifth and Sixth avenues.
At this hour, Midtown is a land of vacant spaces and bright lights. Massive lobbies glow silently, a clean-swept plaza is fenced off and blanketed in street lamps, diamond store windows are empty but for bare plastic necks, and people are moving fast. Wagner, a social worker at the Center for Urban Community Services, makes the first approach and gets rebuffed by a man with a mustache and a satchel. Whether or not someone participates, and regardless of what they say, the volunteers have to answer Question 6: "Do you believe that this person is homeless?" The satchel man is a "no."
Around the corner, Sinclair, who works at a Homeless Services intake center, gets a fuzzy answer. "If he says he has 'a place to sleep,' what does that mean?" asks Sinclair. Is he homeless, or staying at the Ritz?
At one point, Bennett, a research scientist at the Department of Mental Health and Hygiene, sprints down a block to catch a guy getting on the M7 bus, snagging him just before he goes off the map. The whole count hinges on random paths intersecting: the chance that a homeless person is asleepor heading in the right direction at the right speedon the right street at the right time, isn't in a sketchy alley or a deli, and either admits to being homeless or really looks the part.
The white-cart guy makes the task easy. "He was so sweet," Wagner recounts as the group heads up Fifth Avenue. "He said, 'I'm working on it, I'm working on it. I'm gonna stay inside.' "
They turn left onto 46th, and Sinclair talks about work at the intake center. Sometimes the guys cry. "I used to cry a lot myself," she says, "because I saw the deterioration of men." Back on Sixth Avenue, they turn north. "Oh! Oh!" Sinclair whispers, and nods toward a doorway next to the Big Apple Delicatessen. There's a guy lying there. Wagner asks if he's warm enough; he has no gloves, but he says he is.