Where Do You Put an Old Homeless Man on a Friday Afternoon?

I received a call from a local bank recently. An elderly gentleman who, according to the bank manager, appeared to be "homeless and suffering from Alzheimer's," had wandered in and out of his branch office at least four times within the past hour, each time trying to withdraw money with a bank card from a different bank.

The manager contacted me asking for suggestions on how to address the situation before he called police.

Anyone who has spent any real time on the streets knows immediately the typical fate of those who "appear homeless" when the cops are called, so when I get an opportunity to assist someone in avoiding this often hair-raising, occasionally life-shortening experience, I make all due haste to do so.

Upon meeting "John," I discovered he was trying to withdraw money from his bank account but couldn’t remember which bank he used. I was able to convince John to come with me so we could figure out where his money was.

Turns out the man was 74 and had valid ID and a local address. He'd spent the previous night on a bench downtown and had made it through the rain that passed over around 2 a.m. I got him some food and as he ate, I began trying to figure out how best to serve the man, since it was obvious after only a few minutes that although he was lucid, sober and aware of his surroundings and situation, he had absolutely no short-term memory and couldn't even recall where it was he'd last lived.

He wasn't a veteran, so no help from the VA. I contacted a friend down at the cop shop to run a check on the guy to see if someone had reported him missing. Struck out there and learned only that John had been arrested just once back in 2004 for public intoxication.

The police had an address on file for him that matched his ID address, so even though he said he didn't recall living at this location, we decided to check it out in person.

As I drove him past the place, which turned out to be a dilapidated trailer in a less than savory part of town, I watched for signs of recognition from him, but the only thing he said was that he'd been "unable to get along" with "an old friend" in the trailer so he had moved on. I pulled in, left John in the car and spoke to the man inside, who confirmed that John had once stayed with him several months ago. He said he'd prefer that John not return.

I then decided to check out Bank of America, since the man had a BofA card in his wallet and who knows, this old guy might be one of those folks who wander around city streets appearing destitute while hoarding hundreds of thousands of dollars in the bank.

I had another advocate accompany John and me to the bank and let me tell you, when three men wander into a bank and try to talk privately to a bank manager, guards take notice. After the bank manager on duty listened to my story and recognized we were legitimate, he accessed John's account behind a privacy screen and discovered that the savings account had been closed back in June and prior to that, Mr. Doe had just two deposits for $100 each in January and March 2009. The account had been closed about three months earlier. The address listed on the account was the same as John had on his ID. No emergency contact or other account holder was on the account, either.

We headed back to my office to figure out where to go from this point, but options were sparse. Since he wasn't a threat to himself or others, the local crisis unit was out of the question.

I contacted the one respite center in the city for folks experiencing homelessness who also have serious ailments and spoke to the head nurse. The bottom line for John here was that since he still had several wits about him and was essentially uninjured, not addicted or suffering from any illnesses, they wouldn't accept him, since they have a heavy demand and simple triage would send him so far to the back of the line he'd probably not access a bed there until somewhere around 2016. That he had no real need for respite care eliminated that option entirely. A poor memory does not equate to a medical emergency. Sorry.

By this time, we were closing in on 4 p.m. on a Friday afternoon and in many cities, if you haven't found something suitable for your client by 5 p.m., you'd better start looking for a place to bed him/her down for the night.

In Nashville, that left us with just one option, the local mission. Unfortunately, John was far too vulnerable to go to a place that has more predators lurking nearby than the Serengeti Plains. Even though he had no money, he had a watch, decent sneakers and jeans without holes in them. I'm not saying that anything would have happened to him at the mission itself, but he was just addled enough that he may have been easily convinced to leave it for what might have sounded like better digs by someone who had an ulterior motive.

The Salvation Army men's emergency shelter closed last summer, so that option had long since disappeared, and the only transitional housing he really had available to him, since he had no real alcohol or drug problem and wasn't suffering from a severe and debilitating mental illness was ... the local homeless encampment.

So we took John down to the camp, got him a tent and bag issued, and put him with a group of guys who I knew would watch out for the man until Monday, when additional services might materialize. As I walked away I could hear John regaling the men around the coffee fire with some story about getting a meal at a local soup kitchen and I knew from years of interactions with the good people at this particular camp that he would be safe, protected and cared for until "traditional" routes of assistance could be marshaled.

Here's my point in this encounter: if all we can offer a man on a Friday afternoon in a major U.S. city is a homeless camp, what does that say about us as a society? While the need for affordable housing is huge, the need for immediate access to transitional housing is absolutely critical. Put your own father in John's place and tell me you don't agree.

Photo credit: Hexadecimal Time