Evicted_ Poverty and Profit in the American City - Matthew Desmond Page 0,44

I gotta get a plumber out again.”

The car turned down Center Street, passing a church where Arleen sometimes picked up gift baskets at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She had always aspired to have her own ministry like that, to be the one handing out food and clothing.

“So, Arleen”—Sherrena pulled in front of Arleen’s place on Thirteenth Street—“if you ever thinking about becoming a landlord, don’t. It’s a bad deal. Get the short end of the stick every time.”

Arleen stepped out of the car and turned back to Sherrena.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

PART TWO

OUT

9.

ORDER SOME CARRYOUT

Larraine was up before the sun, dashing cool water on her face. She usually rose before dawn, feeling her best in the morning. The day after her brush with Tobin was different. She had stayed in bed, trying to ignore the situation by burrowing under the covers. She only got up to let Digger out, looking through the cuts in the blinds for Tobin or Lenny before stepping out the door with the leash. Digger was her brother Beaker’s dog, a small black mutt. Larraine had agreed to watch him while Beaker was in the hospital for his heart.

Larraine’s trailer was spotless and uncluttered. When a visitor would comment on its cleanliness, she would smile and credit her handheld steamer or share tips, like slipping in an aspirin when washing whites. She had lived in her trailer for about a year and had come to like it, especially in the morning, before the gossips began congregating outside. She now had everything just-so. She had found white serving utensils to match the white cupboards in the kitchen and a small desk for her old computer. None of this made paying Tobin 77 percent of her income any easier.

The sun lifted higher and the trailer park began to stir with the sounds of children and car engines. Larraine studied her phone. She knew that there were two main programs in Milwaukee for people facing eviction. The first was Emergency Assistance for families at risk of “impending homelessness.” You could apply for these funds once every year if you were a US citizen, in possession of an eviction notice, at or below 115 percent of the poverty level, and could prove with divorce papers, a crime report, a pink slip, or some other documentation that you had experienced a sudden loss of income. But to qualify you also had to have dependent children in your home; so Emergency Assistance was out.

The second program was the Homelessness Prevention Program, offered through Community Advocates and mainly federally funded. But to qualify for that benefit, you not only had to have experienced a loss of income, you also had to demonstrate that your current income could cover future rents. Plus, you needed landlord buy-in, which Larraine didn’t have. Like Emergency Assistance, this service was reserved more for the unlucky—those who had been laid off or mugged—than the chronically rent burdened. Community Advocates was able to offer this benefit to only 950 families each year. It took Milwaukee less than six weeks to evict that many families.1

Larraine dialed a number by heart. “Yes. I was wondering. I was told that you help people with their rent?…Oh. Oh, no?…Okay.” She hung up. Larraine dialed the Social Development Commission, an antipoverty organization. They couldn’t help. Someone had told her that the YMCA on Twenty-Seventh made emergency loans. She called them. “Yes. I was instructed to call you because I was told you could help me with my rent….My rent….Rent. R-E-N-T.” Nothing. Larraine did not dial the number to a tenants’ union because Milwaukee, like most American cities, didn’t have one.

By midmorning, Larraine had dialed all the nonprofit, city, and state agencies she could think of. None came through. On a lark, she dialed one more number. She lifted the phone and heard the indifferent throb through the speaker. Larraine shrugged. The line to the Marcia P. Coggs Human Services Center—the “welfare building”—was always busy.

—

The movers started the trucks early in the morning, diesel engines grumbling as the men gathered with cigarettes and mugs of black coffee. The city was soggy from the previous night’s rain. Some of the men were young and athletic with pierced ears. Others were barrel-chested and middle-aged, slapping their leather gloves on their jeans. The oldest among them was Tim, lean and sour-faced with reddish-brown skin, stubble, and a fresh pack of Salems in his front pocket. Almost all of the men were black and wore boots and work jackets with the name