Shakedown Street

Angela looks worried as I pull into the parking lot at Southwood. As I heft the crate of food donations toward our site, she meets me halfway. “Please tell me you brought a snack! I can’t find the snack I brought anywhere!” I didn’t bring a snack, but offer to set up while Angela goes to a nearby grocery store to get something.

The motel janitor has already marked off the play area with traffic cones, so I begin setting up our tables. I’m arranging the food on the donation table when a police car drives by, slows down, backs up, then turns into the parking lot. It stops a few yards from where I’m setting up and a police officer emerges.

“Are you selling things here?”

“No, these are donations.”

“Well, it looks like you’re selling things. You can’t sell here. You need to clear all this stuff away.”

“They’re not for sale; we’re here from the Lutheran church down on Sweet and South, we run a ministry for the kids and families every Saturday, and these things are donations for the people here. We’re going to give them away.”

“What church is that?” I repeat the name of the church, and the location.

“That church is pretty far away. What are you doing all the way over here?”

The church is six blocks away, and while he might not know the church, he knows the intersection. I’m starting to get annoyed with this cop, but am determined not to show it. “Well, it’s really only about six blocks away, and this is just the motel our church was given to work with by the city’s homeless program."

“Who told you you could be here?” I give the name of the man who runs the city’s homeless outreach program, and explain he’s the city’s homeless coordinator and works at City Hall. “Really, I assure you, we’re supposed to be here. We run this ministry every Saturday. The motel management knows we’re here. We’ve been doing this nearly a year.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” I explain about the Lutheran church collective in our area, and how my partner just ran to the grocery store because we forgot to bring snacks. I explain about the crafts, Bible story, and handing out food and clothing.

“I don’t see any kids around. If you have something here all the time, how come no kids are here?” “Probably because you’re here,” I want to say, but don’t. In the past, a woman from church brought her dog to play with the kids, and some kids told us later that they thought the barking meant there was a police dog there, so they were afraid to come out. “It’s early,” I point out. “We set up early and the kids start coming out around 10:00.” He looks at his watch. I take a look at mine and am pleased that it’s only 9:50. “Yeah. About 10 minutes to go,” I say.

“Well, the problem is this stuff is a hazard, and you can’t have all this stuff in the parking lot here. You can’t just take over a parking lot.”

“OK, I understand that. But this is the spot the motel manager asked us to set up in, and we use it every week. What if you come with me to the motel office and we can explain this together and get the manager to give us another spot, maybe back there on the grass.” There is a grassy area, but the motel owner doesn’t want us setting up back there for some reason. Angela has asking to use that area, rather than the parking lot, for months, and I’m hoping this cop can maybe be an unwitting accomplice in getting us a healthier place to run the ministry.

Judging by the extreme look of distaste on his face, the officer doesn’t like my suggestion to go talk to the manager together. “The manager knows you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to sell any of this stuff?”

“No. It’s all donations and will probably be gone in about an hour. We wouldn’t sell to the poor.”

He looks around and makes one last try. “You can’t have those cones there.”

“OK, no problem. They’re not ours, though. The motel management puts those down. I’ll go tell them they need to come get them.”

“The motel put those there?”

“Yes.” He’s beaten, now. The motel management has the right to do whatever they want with the motel, since it’s private property, and we both know it.

“OK. You have a nice day. Remember, you can’t sell stuff here.”

“No danger of that, Officer. You have a great day, too.” Finally, he gets into his car and slowly backs out. Angela passes him in the driveway. “The police were here? What was that all about?” I fill Angela in, and we laugh at the overly officious officer. We both wonder, too, if the motel residents have to put up with the same kind of police attention to their daily activities. It was obvious the police were present while the officer was there; he left the car’s radio on and it was loudly broadcasting police radio traffic throughout the parking lot. Although the parking lot is a social gathering area and there are usually some people out going about their business while we’re setting up, this morning there is not a soul astir.

A few kids come out after a while, but it’s a very slow day.