Three hours before mealtime, a line begins to form on the sidewalk outside St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church, facing Park Avenue in one of New York City’s poshest neighborhoods. By 5:30 p.m., when plastic bags of carry-away suppers are unloaded from a van and ready for pick-up on a folding table, the line will have twisted around two corners to the opposite side of the block — nearly 300 homeless people waiting patiently, roughly 6 feet apart, some neatly dressed, some heartbreakingly bedraggled. Listening to some of them, and to the staff who operate the daily meal program, this much is clear: However difficult it’s always been to be homeless in New York, it’s tougher and scarier now amid the coronavirus pandemic. For those living in close quarters in city-run shelters, there’s fear of exposure to COVID-19. The Department of Homeless Services has identified more than 650 cases and more than 50 COVID-19 deaths among the 17,000 single adults in its shelter system. For the estimated 3,500 homeless New Yorkers who live on the streets, including most of those lined up outside St. Bart’s, worries about disease are coupled with other new indignities. Scores of them, opting to sleep on the subways, were removed from the trains by police in a clearance operation last week. And with so many closures of coffee shops, rehab centers, even the restrooms at Grand Central Station, it’s harder than ever to find a bathroom they can use, or a place to take a shower. Juan de la Cruz, who oversees the St. Bart’s meal service on behalf of New York’s Coalition for the Homeless, says many of his clients — despite their deprivations — don’t want to stay at city-run shelters. “People are scared to be there,” he said. “They don’t want to be inside because of the COVID-19 situation.” But on the streets, he says, many lack “the simple things we take for granted.” Before the pandemic, de la Cruz said, the meal service menus were often enhanced by food donations from nearby corporate cafeterias. Now, with most offices closed, the servings are repetitive: cartons of milk, oranges, soup, simple sandwiches. Ryan O’Connor has befriended many of the soup kitchen’s clients during five years with the homeless coalition. One of his saddest recent conversations was with a homeless man who’d been able to shower regularly thanks to a discounted gym membership — and now cannot because gyms are closed. O’Connor says clients often ask where they should stay at night. He’ll provide a list of shelters but doesn’t offer recommendations. “Suggesting someone go to a shelter — right now, it doesn’t seem right,” he said. Among the hundreds of homeless people who’ve been sleeping in the subways is Robin Gibbs, 50. He’s been homeless since losing his job as a warehouse supervisor four years ago. “Things just went out of control,” he said. “I hit the streets — it’s been a nightmare since then.’” He has no interest in returning to city-run shelters. Men familiar with them talk about staff burned out by overwork, and newly arrived clients aghast as their possessions — including their shoes — are stolen. “A lot of people don’t want to go to them,” Gibbs said. “There are too many fights, too many drugs, too many gangs.” Gibbs, a […]
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