Sixteen-year-old "Scott" squats underneath a parking meter in an abandoned garage. He pulls out a rig of heroin from his pocket, rolls up his shirt sleeve and makes a fist. Scott looks at the thin, blue lines that barely protrude from his arm. He plunges the needle deep into a vein and then examines the freshly made track. As the drug takes effect, he closes his eyes and rolls his head back.
Just then, some of the "night crew" stroll into the garage and introduce themselves to Scott. They offer him something to eat, some warm clothes and assistance. In time, Scott finds out what the night crew is about and comes to trust and open up to them.
The night crew walk the streets of the Tenderloin, and sometimes the Haight, as often as beat cops. They are with the street youth long after San Francisco's other youth agencies have shut their doors for the night. Comprised of a few grassroots and religious organizations, the nightcrew work together toward a common goal: helping streetkids find the exit sign off the street life.
On any given night, hundreds of youth in San Francisco call the streets their "home." They leave families that are physically, sexually and emotionally abusive only to be victims harassed once more by adults who treat the youth as a commodity to be bought and sold. Though they try to find help, homeless youth are often discouraged by the bureaucratic red tape they must face, or they are deemed unmotivated or too incorrigible to help, and they end up slipping through the cracks and don't receive the help they need.
San Francisco's Polk Street is known for teen-age prostitution, easy access to drugs and panhandlers. Hustlers stand at the alley of Austin Street at Polk waiting to be picked up by a "date" while youth stand in doorways begging for change. "Spare a quarter for a hand grenade," says a youth to a passerby. The passerby ignores his request. "If it worked for Ronald Reagan, why can't it work for me," asks the youth.
Tonight the mood on the street is mellow. Some of the street youth are high, but most hang out and engage in conversation with Bill Boyrer, who runs Social Justice for Streetyouth, an organization that advocates for runaways, and Tim Golder, who runs Street Alternatives, a ministry to runaways. They serve hot pizza and lukewarm Pepsi from Boyrer's car in Fern Alley at Polk St. Some kids help with the distribution making sure those under 18 years of age are served before anyone else. Some who haven't eaten in awhile gulp their food with gusto and appear satisfied. Two girls compete for Golder's attention while Boyrer talks to a hustler who is upset about an agency who gives him the runaround.
The street isn't always this peaceful. Most of the youth on Polk hustle for drugs and sleep in places like Fern Alley among rats and garbage. Often their lives are played out in mini-drama as they grapple with the latest crises of street living; being raped, beaten or ripped-off by a john or coming down from their latest high, or just being cold and hungry.
Once an outreach coordinator for Larkin Street Youth Center in San Francisco, and a lawyer by trade, Boyrer has been helping street youth since 1988. He is a man with a big heart earning him the name "Captain Kickback" by Polk regulars. Boyrer drives from his home in Los Altos to San Francisco every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday night armed with baked goods from a local Safeway, and sometimes donations of clothing and blankets from a local church.
He is assisted by Chase Connery, a 36-year-old ex-hustler and recovered addict who knows firsthand what street youth face. Connery began hustling at 15 in New York. Connery left New York and his lover in 1991 when he found out he had AIDS. He ended up in San Francisco hustling to support his drug habit. Connery says that working with the kids has helped him to accept his disease. Despite chemotherapy treatments, he finds the strength to help whenever he can. "A lot of kids who knew me when I was strung out know I was doing the same shit that they're doing," says Connery. "I'm living proof you can get your shit together. I feel like I'm a walking example." Connery is back to work after a long respite making faux painted statues that he sells at arts and crafts shows.
A group of kids assemble in front of a parking garage on Bush and Polk that serves as their makeshift shantytown. Sleeping bags, backpacks and Hefty bags sit next to Marlboro boxes, candy wrappers and half-eaten sandwiches. A man wearing a long black robe has just parked his car, and the kids line up with eager anticipation. The smell of garlic is wafting through the air. Brother Lou Bordisso from the Father Francis Homeless Project in Oakland opens the trunk of his car and pulls out a container of fresh, homemade spaghetti. Brother Lou is aided by Sister Delia and two layworkers who serve the spaghetti, Hi-C and muffins to the street kids and homeless people. The homeless project also gives away blankets, jackets and clothing. Funded by donations from parishes, Brother Lou and his entourage have been feeding the kids on Polk twice a month, sometimes more, for more than a year. Brother Lou says that the homeless project is an opportunity to model behavior as well as to accomplish the spiritual task of feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. Bordisso sees the giveaway program as a point of contact. "Kids have said to us that it's nice to know that someone cares. They do more for me than I can ever expect to do for them," he says.
Golder once spent an entire evening waiting with a 16-year-old girl to see a doctor at San Francisco General Hospital. He and Boyrer, who often pair as partners on the streets, were approached by the desperate and scared girl who had said her lungs hurt, and that she was having trouble breathing. She felt comfortable enough to aske them to drive her to the hospita.
Golder began Street Alternatives in 1990 when he saw the need to challenge the religious community to reach out to runaway children. The ministry provides food, clothing, medical supplies, and refers homeless youth to various agencies depending on the need. Golder is funded by donations from churches, and often spends money from his own pocket. His approach is to encourage people to get first-hand experience in dealing with homeless youth, because often they are stereotyped, or simply ignored. "There are very few people who want to spend the time getting to know the kids in their environment because, unfortunately, they have a fear of the city," says Golder. "Besides the kids aren't clean and they tend to be rebellious. They don't want to rub elbows with them."
After five years living on the street, Scott, now almost 18, moved back home to live with his family in Eugene, Ore. He attends a local high school, and hangs out with his friends from the punk scene at a Eugene coffeehouse. Scott likes to play big brother to the younger kids who look up to him. Just a few months before, he was locked up in a Los Angeles juvenile facility for petty theft. And a year before, he was kicking heroin. Though things are far from perfect, Scott is one of the lucky ones. "He learned to trust again before it was too late," says Boyrer. "He knew that there were adults around him who cared about something besides using his body."
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