I climbed, or more exactly, drove up the hill. Over the last seven years, developers had transformed Campus Drive from a weed patch leading to Merritt College, into a row of luxury homes, many with tiled roofs that glowed in the afternoon sun. It had a great view, a place where you could watch the Blue Angels zip through the clouds.
I lived at the bottom of said hill but had never been inside one of these homes until the mayoral race, entered a large kitchen, a slab of granite large enough to butcher a grown deer, set with a row of wine bottles and a tray of profiteroles, flaky puffs spilling over with custard. An older woman, wearing a diaphanous blouse that floated around her midriff, arranged the profiteroles on a large aluminum tray, and stepped back for a quick moment to admire her handiwork. The home was crowded with people like myself who’d come to meet and greet mayoral hopefuls discussing homelessness in the city.
Homeless tents had moved from beneath freeways and around industrial warehouses only to colonize parking lots and cul-de-sacs, make-shift homes and chop shops with rusting car parts littering streets everywhere. But here at the top of the hill, I looked into a garden where groups of neighbors held wine glasses and plates of food. Children chased after bubbles pouring from the mouth of a plastic elf. Now the host mounted the speakers platform. Everyone ebbed toward the front lawn and stood before a makeshift stage.
Jill Trenton took hold of the microphone like she was born to go first. There was a round of polite applause. She began a story about escaping years ago from drug dealers and coming to the Bay Area. She launched into her plans for dealing with homelessness which involved offering more social services and building more housing, but wasn’t specfic about implementing any of the services.
The other two candidates stepped from side-to-side waiting for their turn to speak. Suddenly, the stage was rushed by a man in bright red pajamas. “This is just a bunch of words. You’re doing nothing about homelessness, nothing!” The intruder tripped over a ball that a youngster had kicked across the lawn. He landed face down, whereupon two hefty bouncers from a local high school football team grabbed him.
The profiterole lady took control of the situation. This was her party. This was her gathering. The flesh beneath her arms flapped angrily in the air. “You have to leave.” She pointed to the street.
He looked at the refreshment table. “How about I fix myself a plate first?” The host pushed an entire shrimp tray into his chest. “Go,” she ordered and pointed to the door. He tripped and spilled the shrimp on the ground. He started to cry on his knees. The profiterole lady helped him pick up the shrimp and put them back on the tray.
As he walked downhill, the next candidate took the stage . “Homelessness statistics are down,” he said, “but like our friend who has just left, “if you are homeless, statistics mean nothing.” The arms of both candidates twitched for another chance at the microphone.