Homeless

Legal aid lawyer Louis Rafti was leading a group of law students on a tour of skid row when he saw it in the corner of a homeless shelter. The cot. The very one, he could swear it was, that he had slept on during his last night on the row a few years before. Rafti froze. He didn't say a word, but a sense of wonder overwhelmed him. Wonder that he did not have a crack pipe in his hand. Or a needle in his arm. That he had a home, a job, a life.

Social service volunteers identified a 65-year-old homeless veteran as one of the people most likely to die on skid row in downtown Los Angeles. The man, who suffers from kidney and liver disease and has lived for decades on the streets, belonged at the top of a new list of 50 skid row residents deemed in urgent need of permanent housing, county officials said.

Seeking more efficient delivery of social services, Ventura County homeless advocates this week released the results of a survey that identifies the typical homeless person in the county as a white male, over 40, with a history of mental illness or substance abuse. "This profile is really not the stereotypical homeless person in the minds of most people," said Karol Schullkin, a program director with the county's Human Services Agency.

Bundled in layers to fend off chills, Ron Morgan snagged a section of coveted downtown sidewalk space and began hawking his only product. "Real Change," he calls out, holding up the weekly street newspaper by that name. Homeless and low-income people push it on streetcorners, pocketing 65 cents per copy. "I detest panhandlers. I am not panhandling. I'm working," said Morgan, who has been selling copies for three years since an injury left him disabled. "It's a good paper. People like it.

Check-in at the Cecil Hotel had to wait a few minutes because Kerri Torrance, the clerk working the graveyard shift one night in November, had to deal with a heist. A man staying on the 10th floor had called down to report that a woman had grabbed his money and bolted. After the woman dashed through the lobby and burst out the front doors onto Main Street, Torrance called police while a handful of guests waited. "She's right out there . . . you see . . . well . . .

With its storefront tributes to Southern California's surfing culture and L.A.'s hipster elite, the leafy dinosaur topiary and gleaming signs that promise multiple movies, Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade is a popular destination for tens of thousands each week. In the middle of the night, it is a destination of another sort for a smattering of the city's chronically homeless. It is those inhabitants whom social workers hoped to encounter early Monday.

Former construction worker John Dutchover found his own tiny piece of Brentwood last year, staking out a space on San Vicente Boulevard for the recreational vehicle that -- with a bed, refrigerator and microwave -- also serves as his home. The Gulf War veteran said he picked the spot largely because it was close to the leafy Veterans Affairs campus, where he receives medical treatment.

Thirteen-year-old Kevin Cedano steps onto the stoop of the Ohio Hotel. "Watch out for the doo-doo." The words tumble out through the peach fuzz on Kevin's upper lip. They come with no hint of judgment, or pain. He might as well be warning you about a pothole or a low-lying tree branch, though the deposit has been left outside his home, and not by a dog but a woman in a blue cardigan who is now toddling off down Ceres Avenue in Los Angeles.

Dwight Smith considers housing the homeless his mission in life. So when the local building industry offered to donate time and materials to renovate Isaiah House, the Catholic Worker-sponsored shelter he directs in Santa Ana, Smith jumped at the chance. Ten months later, however, the volunteer contractors -- hit hard by a mortgage meltdown and industry lull that have left many unemployed -- had to abandon the job.

Citing health and safety concerns, the city of Ontario next week will dramatically reduce the size of a homeless encampment known as Tent City by expelling those residents who cannot prove clear ties to the city. Starting Monday, anyone who can't provide documents showing they once lived in Ontario will be given a bus or taxi ride back to where they came from. The homeless will be fitted with color-coded bands around their arms or wrists that will designate their status.