Raymond Byrnes awakens on the cold sidewalk, grips his rosary beads tight and prays for strength -- thankful to have made it through another night on Los Angeles' skid row.
At 61, he has been homeless for nearly a decade, spending most of his nights at the corner of 5th Street and Gladys Avenue.
At the top of 5th Street, the downtown drug corridor known as "The Nickel," the crown of the 1,000-foot-tall US Bank Tower glimmers in the black sky. Around the corner on Gladys, a tent city renders both sidewalks impassable. The smell of urine, vomit, feces and garbage hangs in the air.
Each night, Byrnes sleeps in the same spot against a windowless, cinder-block wholesale liquor store -- under a sign that warns "no person shall sit, lie or sleep in or upon any street, sidewalk or other public way." There's a homeless shelter two blocks away and others within walking distance, but Byrnes prefers the familiarity of his skid row corner -- no matter how dangerous or difficult it is.
By day, he falls into a routine of military precision that would have made his Army colonel/ police chief/prison warden Irish American father proud.
Today, like most of Byrnes' days, starts at 5 a.m. Over the next 24 hours he can count on one meal, two church services and a dozen cups of coffee -- all the sustenance he'll need to survive.
"My philosophy is you find what you need," he says.
Byrnes rolls up his handmade sleeping bag and packs his lone knapsack with a tattered cardigan sweater, a stocking cap embroidered with "L.A." and a patched jacket. Everything has a place and everything is in its place.
In an outside pocket, he stuffs his own personal concoction of spicy lemonade: a blend of lemon, lime, grapefruit and jalapeno in an old soda bottle. The juice doubles as a drink and holy water.
In another pocket, he stores seven rosaries -- one for each day of the week. Blue for Monday, red for Tuesday, yellow for Wednesday. He swaps out yesterday's rosary for today's and begins the Apostles' Creed.
Finally, he folds up a blue plastic tarp that serves as his mattress, revealing a faintly smudged cross on the sidewalk: an X marking his spot.
His ragamuffin wardrobe rarely changes: scavenged Rockport sandals, threadbare socks, high-water khaki pants and an oversized Lakers T-shirt. He pulls his thinning hair into a short ponytail. His defining characteristic: an unruly gray Santa Claus beard that stretches to the top of his round belly.
