On Wednesday June 18, 2025 at 5:42 in the morning, Elmer the husky and I walked out of our home in the Empire district of Coos Bay. The destination never changes: The Empire Boat Ramp, eight blocks away. There, we descend to the beach and launch our day.

In making our way to the boat ramp, we encountered:

A 60/70-year-old man riding a kid’s bicycle and towing an improvised baby stroller carrying his possessions.

A woman asleep against the wall of a grocery store.

Two homeless men in their 30s waiting for the post office lobby to open at 8:30 so they could retrieve a leaf bag full of cans and bottles they had stashed there overnight.

A man asleep under a mural depicting Empire’s former grandeur.

A man or woman asleep under the awning of an addiction treatment center and surrounded by a bicycle, improvised trailer, and piles upon piles of possessions.

Two homeless men walking and talking across the street from me.

A young woman asleep with her dog in a battered 90s sedan.

A homeless man without pants doing something inexplicable to the landscaping of the Subway shop.

May I remind you: this all occurred in ten minutes within an eight-block radius of a city (population 15,000) on the Southern Oregon Coast.

Elmer and I hit the beach just as drizzle began falling. We passed the tent pitched in the willows, a presence going on almost two weeks. I’d said hello to the occupant a few times in the morning and he greeted me warmly, always complimenting Elmer’s good looks.

That had been the extent of our interaction.

Elmer and I did our thing and it never gets old watching an osprey build a nest. On our return, I saw the tent’s occupant outside scavenging firewood. I picked up a stray piece of cedar kindling to lend him a hand.

He greeted me. Elmer and I went up to him. I handed him the piece of kindling and he thanked me.

For some reason, and I can never predict what prompts me to engage a homeless man or woman during an encounter, this morning was one of those times for engagement.

I said I had just moved to Empire and was thinking about writing a book about this unique Oregon place. Would he be willing to tell me how he became homeless and ended up living in a tent on Coos Bay? I’d pay $20 for his story.

He smiled and agreed. I told him I’d leave a $20 bill in a journal with some pens tucked inside if he wanted to write it up. He said he’d take a run at writing—as a kid, he’d stapled together a couple of children’s books about his maniacal German shepherd.

“Why don’t I just tell you right now?” he said.

“That would be great,” I said. “My name is Matt.”

“I’m Rick.”

Some 20 minutes later, Rick had riffed his story with very few interruptions from me. I interjected a few questions to practice some basic journalism. I was not taking notes. There might be a few errors.

Rick was fifth generation Coos Bay and grew up in Englewood. He graduated from Marshfield High School (in the 80s). His daughter still lived in the family home, but was in a lot of (unspecified) trouble. He’d been homeless a year. In 2022 he was released from the Oregon State Penitentiary after serving eight years (he didn’t name the offense) of a sentence the result of a trial decided by a non unanimous jury verdict. In 2020, the US Supreme Court ruled Oregon’s non unanimous jury convictions violated the Constitution and the state had to throw out all the convictions or retry the cases. Rick was released and he expected significant financial compensation for his wrongful conviction. A free man, he returned to Coos Bay, began working for a seafood processor, rented a room for $450 a month, and then his father died and he spiraled out of control on booze. He lost his job and room. He sought help from The Devereux Center, which, “offers support systems and advocacy for the homeless, those suffering from mental illness, and veterans.” Unfortunately, he became entangled in that non profit organization’s well publicized chaos and got into a fight on the property with four homeless men and their dogs. He presented himself to an addiction treatment center and was turned away. He had never been contacted (or officially counted as homeless in the farcical Point-in-Time counts going on annually across the nation) by a city or county or non profit outreach worker to assist him into housing. Yes, he wanted into housing. You want to live outdoors in Coos Bay? Was there any such official outreach? (No). Was there any readily accessible temporary housing? (No.) Was there state, federal and other grant money available to the the county’s Homeless Response Office coffers to fund such temporary housing? Such as in right now! (Yes. Just watch their board’s monthly meeting on Zoom for confirmation of this.)

Rick and I conversed for a few more minutes after he concluded his narrative. We mostly talked about dogs.

How could I possibly help this homeless man in Empire? If I were still living in Portland I would know exactly how to find him a spot in a Safe Rest Village. It only took me two years to figure that process out.

As Elmer and I walked across the parking lot of the boat ramp, I saw a homeless man and woman sitting at a picnic table smoking cigarettes, talking to gulls and crows. By now, the drizzle had turned to light rain.

A great Coos Bay notion flooded my mind.

Why didn’t the county’s Homeless Response Office purchase an RV and retrofit it as a mobile service provider for the county’s homeless. The idea: meet them where they are—go find them—make an immediate assessment of their needs. ID? Referral to an addiction treatment center? Phone call to a relative. Sign up for legally entitled benefits such a the Oregon Health Plan? Job opportunities? Rides? Temporary housing options? Get to know them, establish relationships like an old time beat cop, and solve one problem at a time in the RV and take it from there. The Empire Boat Ramp should host a weekly if not twice weekly visit by the RV. It’s a perfect place to conduct this ad hoc social service: restrooms, water, dumpster, no businesses that might complain, plenty of parking. Ideally, the RV would be staffed by two people and perhaps a cadre of volunteers.

It’s called action—on the ground. Not meetings, mission statements and endless grant applications. The county takes this on, not a non profit. The county takes responsibility. Someone doesn’t pass the buck.

I know it could work, at least with the homeless people I’ve met in Empire. Every one I’ve interacted with wanted into housing but there was absolutely nothing like the Safe Rest Villages in Portland and elsewhere in Oregon and Washington. There should be—two or three years ago.

These same homeless people of Empire are incapable of advocating consistently for themselves. They survive; they have no knowledge of what’s out there to assist them (not much in this county). Many are addled.

Why not pilot a project? Why not try? Why not have an outreach worker go up to Rick’s tent and shout out hello.

Rick is salvageable and is worth salvaging as a human being, a Coos Bay native son. I make that claim because I’ve stood in front of him and heard his story.

A 35-foot white RV named The Dolphin rested in the parking lot of the Empire Boat Ramp as Elmer and I drove up for an afternoon walk on the bay beach.

I surveyed the rig with my extensive expertise in all things RV when it came to the homeless living out of them. In fact, I might be the country’s leading authority on the subject.

The Dolphin began its journey in the late 80s or early 90s. It sported maroon, black and turquoise accents and of course, three goofy dolphins leaping out of the ocean.

The driver side windows had no curtains and I saw possessions crammed to the ceiling, including slabs of wood one might use to fashion cutting boards or coffee tables. I counted two potted plants on the dash.

Atop the rig, all manner of items were tied down: carpets, folding chairs and tables, a kayak, a kiddie pool and other inexplicable things. Two rusting mountain bikes were strapped to a carrier on the back.

Elmer and I parked and exited the car. I saw a purple-haired woman in her 60s outside The Dolphin. She was yelling at a barking dog named Honeybee inside the rig.

The front hood of The Dolphin was open and several engine parts littered the asphalt.

Elmer and I descended to the beach. The tide was rolling in with gusto. Assorted weirdos crabbed off the pier or vaped tobacco or weed or worse in their shitty sedans. A country music ballad played loudly in one of them. One woman sang along, pounded the steering wheel, and sobbed.

I saw a woman down the beach carrying a big plastic bag. Great! A citizen picking up trash!

We met. She was in her 60s. I asked her if she was cleaning up the beach.

No, searching for cans. The Dolphin had run out gas and she was hoping to raise enough dough so they could keep on the move.

I asked their destination.

Lakeview, inland, near the California border. She had just bought some property.

I fished out my wallet and gave her two bucks. It was all I had.

She thanked me. I asked how the RV ran.

Not well. She constantly had to repair it.

The idea of The Dolphin making it to Lakeview seemed as remote to me a single Republican in the US Senate start caring about poor Americans. It will probably end up like so many older RVs I’ve seen abandoned all across Oregon. They just stopped running for good and whoever was driving them perhaps lived on the side of the road for a spell and then one day walked away with whatever they could carry. A dog probably followed them or led the way.

I told her I was curious how people acquired the older RVs. (I actually want to write a book on this subject). She told me she bought it off Facebook Marketplace for $2000 from someone in Roseburg.

She thanked me again for the money and I wished her luck.

Back in the parking lot, I surveyed The Dolphin again and offered a little silent prayer for its life to continue.

A young man wearing pajama bottoms and mismatched slippers roamed the neighborhood picking up dog shit. It was noon and raining.

My local OTA joint asked if I might be interested in helping publish the poems a beloved dead regular who spent several decades writing eulogies for all the dead patrons. I said sure: trade for beer. Apparently the man brewed his coffee in the morning with Natural Ice beer instead of water.

A man stood in the garage of a dilapidated house that I thought had been abandoned. He was obese, red haired, wearing shower booties, scratching his balls with one hand and playing with his phone with the other.

A pierced and tattooed man and his two dogs romped at the bay beach. We met. Elmer played with the dogs and he said he’d just moved here from Coos Bay. Someone had beat the shit out of him while his dogs watched. He had to get out of the Willamette Valley. He really wanted to emigrate to Norway. He was trans and felt unsafe in America.

A woman with collage-bloated lips at the boat ramp spoke to the sky in weird guttural voices. I couldn’t make out the gist of the conversation.

An OTA woman at the bar said she felt bad about beating up her elderly male neighbor. He tried to secretly throw away some shit in her dumpster and she caught him red handed. No, it didn’t matter that he had dementia.

Three miscreants rode ATVs through the neighborhood.

A 400-pound man wearing shorts, a sweat soaked mu-mu like t-shirt, work boots (no socks or shoestrings) entered the local market and bought a package of mini frosted chocolate donuts.

A group of elementary students clammed at low tide.

I built my first Coos Bay driftwood fort. It might last all summer. I keep adding to it.

Two homeless men held a profane conversation inside their fort hacked out of a thicket of blackberries. It had something to do with fellatio.

A tiny and gnarled old woman vacuums a massive red carpet with her right hand while using a cane with her left. The carpet was unrolled on a front yard of a house decorated with dozens of lawn gnomes.

A young woman sleeps in her old sedan and Elmer and I walk by her every morning. She has stuffed animals with her and a tiny brown dog curled up next to her.

People with physical compositions that I’ve never witnessed in my life go about their daily lives.

A homeless man living out of his pickup with his girlfriend walks his four dogs on the crabbing pier.

A female bartender says she gave up shots after drinking a half gallon of Early Times whiskey and woke up with a knife slash over her eye.

A homeless woman takes a quasi shower at the fish cleaning station at the boat ramp.

A homeless woman digs in the mud at the bay beach.

This is a good place to write. Sturdy wooden table. Tile floors. Led Zeppelin pinball machine. A library (surprisingly no Bible). The sound of the industrial washers and dryers mutes the terrible 70s/80s rock playing on a boombox.

Quarters only. The machines won’t take bills or debit card. No WI-Fi either.

A young woman is reading a book about color composition.

A young obese couple is eating fast food and drinking huge sodas from the convenience store a block away.

The employee who runs this operation runs a very tight ship. I just thanked him for keeping it clean. His boxer follows him around.

Outside, homeless men and women pass by on a regular basis.

I stashed one of my books in the library. Why not? It might remain there for a quarter century before anyone reads it or reads it at all. Where will this nation be in 25 years?

Most customers don’t hang out inside. They play with their phones out in their vehicles.

I have been thinking about purchasing a washer and dryer for the house, but don’t mind coming here.

Who owns this laundromat? How does one get into this kind of business?

We know so little about how a vast majority of Americans earn a living. Writers don’t write enough about modern American jobs. The same could be say for musicians or visual artists. The Democratic Party follows this same line.

Was “Takin’ Care of Business” the last great rock song about work? Springsteen used to write a lot of songs about work. (“The Factory” and “Working on the Highway” come to mind.)

I just remembered Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman.”

My agenda after the laundromat: mow front lawn, build shelves, take Elmer to the beach (third time), read.

I continue to think about my father’s death, certainly not in some traumatic way. Just remembrances. These thoughts typically emerge when I am performing manual labor. I can’t truly let him go until I wrap up estate matters with the kind of alacrity he taught me.

Total cost of this visit: $6.50.