The homeless population in downtown Salt Lake City has become more aggressive at the exact time I've become less patient. Coincidence? I think not.
I ride FrontRunner downtown. It drops me off about four blocks from the office, which is still a long walk through homeless country.
During the past year, I've walked around unconscious people, eased past folks throwing up, and, on at least two occasions, stopped to watch cops and firefighters cram someone into an ambulance and wash blood off the street.
A couple of weeks ago, as I was running the "gimme gantlet," a grubby kid asked if I had any money. Since he was holding an iPhone, I asked him if I looked like an ATM.
It seemed a relatively fair exchange. What followed was not. He cursed and grabbed at me. I lashed out and pulled away. Final score: I lost a shirt button, broke my belt and skinned my knuckles. He fell and lost the rest of his mind.
Getting up, he shouted threats as I pressed on, holding up my pants. I acknowledge being a bit scared. I'd have a hard time defending myself or running away with my pants hanging off my butt. I honestly don't know how gangbangers do it.
That would have been fine if it were my only run-in near the homeless shelter that day. It wasn't. More was to come. Some of it entirely my fault.
But first I needed a new belt. If my pants fell off at work, some co-workers might be snowflaky enough to file complaints against me.
The belt I found at Macy's on Main Street was a bargain at $20. The walk back to the paper was not. On 200 South, I crossed paths with another scary-looking guy. This one was screaming profanity at a group of women for reasons of which he himself was probably unaware.
I'd like to say that I went to the rescue of the women, but I can't. Honestly, I was still looking just to get even. Also, this guy was far less robust than a sick lizard.
Me • "Hey, leave them alone!"
Him • "[F-word] you, too!"
This constructive dialogue continued for at least a block. Last I saw him, he was still in the middle of the street making obscene gestures at me.
Back at the office, I pulled myself together enough to get some work done. But eventually it was time to go home. I had a decision to make: I could either ride with the homeless on TRAX to the FrontRunner station or walk there through them. I decided to walk. If a fight starts, there's nowhere to run on TRAX.
It turned out to be the wrong choice. Halfway to FrontRunner, I crossed paths with a few of Mr. iPhone's compatriots. They still remembered me.
"Hey, there's that [word that sounds like 'rascal'] again!"
I didn't say anything. I just eased by. There were 407 of them and only one of me. Something flashed past my head and landed on the sidewalk ahead of me. A pack of smokes.
I snatched it up and scuttled in the direction of a police car half a block ahead, ignoring angry demands for the return of the cigarettes.
OK, I have experience with the homeless, but I couldn't tell you what the answer to the problem is. It's a complicated one and probably expensive.
In just a day, I was down 20 bucks for a belt and ahead by only half a pack of cigarettes.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.
Robert Kirby
