Giulio Buciuni

Yesterday I spent 9 hours in the street with the homeless. I didn’t plan to spend my day that way, but that is what happened. This is a heartbreaking story about someone that will never have a voice. Please help give her a voice. I was walking down Peachtree street in Atlanta when someone asks me for a cigarette. Without lifting my eyes from my phone I grab my of cigarettes and extend my arm towards the voice. When I lift my head I see S, a young woman on her early 30s. She is wearing a stained sweatshirt and holding on to a pillow. The only thing I could say at that moment is: do you need some help? She asks me if I can buy her a spiked strawberry drink that contains a special chemical that Joe Biden puts in there for her to help her focus. At first I thought she was kidding. She was not. We walk down Peachtree Street to a QuickTrip where I find the drink she requested and sat down on the floor at a nearby building. She demands I keep my head next to the concrete wall to avoid getting shot. It is a beautiful autumn morning with no danger in sight. She tells me that she is vice president of the United States and thar Joe wants her to be the next president. She tells me that she has to pay attention to everything to make sure the bombs don’t go off and we are all safe. She is serious. I sit patiently next to her. She tells me she is friends with the president of North Korea. She tells me that the daughter of a polish terrorist lives inside here head. She tells me that she was forced to have sex with the Taliban. She tells me that her good friend, the president of Russia is dead and that Saddam is alive. She tells me dozens of incoherent stories about how she is saving the world with her mind. She is not particularly high or drunk at that moment. She is in an advanced state of paranoid schizophrenia. I can see the skin between her shoes and pants has been eaten by ticks and bugs. The white of her left eye is still bright red from a recent beating. Every night the purge comes for her. And, as you will see, that part is real. Eventually we get up and go to “the store,” a cvs where I buy her some clothes, wipes, listerine, and other necessities. I give her some cash and walk slowly across the street to a T-mobile store where I buy her a prepaid phone. We sat on the floor until noon when I return to my hotel for a meeting. Two hours later I am out in the street. S is curled up behind a tree watching music videos on her new cellphone. She is scared. All the cars are aiming at her and want to run her over. This time she asked me for food (she didn’t want any during the morning), so I start looking for a place. As I walk I start looking for services I could call. I find a mobile crisis team focused on mental and behavioral health, and have a long call with a kind person on the other end of the line. She understands, but she tells me that she can only send people to make an assessment. I take her offer, give her my hotel address, and go sit next to S. I wait and wait for the phone call. The mental health crisis team is finally at my hotel. We are one block away. I beg them to come to us, since she won’t come to them, and she’s only trusts me. They don’t give me an inch. I walk slowly in their direction and manage to get her to follow me. But as soon as she sees the people (who are nice and dressed as civilians), she bolts. I try to reason with them and explain them that S cannot simply take a phone call from them. The two older people in the team understand. I see it in their eyes. But the team is led by a person in her 20s that doesn’t. I follow S down the street and find her sitting on the floor next to the Quiktrip. I stabilize her. She tells me that these people wanted to kill me and that she will protect me. I text the address to the mental health workers but they wouldn’t come down three blocks. They tell me they can call an ambulance and I accept. – at College Park, GA