JASON: The Toy Collector
Jason has very little love for people. He has even less love for people who throw away toys.
“A child will play with a toy, even if he’s missing a leg or an arm or spray-painted a different color,” he said. “It’s not the condition of the toy; it’s the fact of the toy. It irks me. [People] throw them away, but a child would’ve enjoyed that.”
Jason picks up any abandoned toy or stuffie he comes across. A few months ago, he adopted a scruffy Elmo plush. That Elmo lived on the top of his tent for a few weeks. Then the police came to remove Jason from his street, and Elmo was thrown away. Jason says it’s OK, though. He’ll find another one.
—
Jason has a nickname: L.A.
L.A. is nearing five years of homelessness in Los Angeles. He lives in a tight bundle of tents and tarps, just east of the 110 freeway. Most tents around South Central are tattered and faded. Jason’s home has a big comic tarp with “BOOM” and “POW” speech bubbles pinned across his front wall.
Jason, 44, doesn’t act like a “normal” homeless guy. His favorite hobby is shopping. He doesn’t shop for anything specific. He says that he’ll just walk around stores. You don’t know what you want, he said, until you see it. For him, that’s half the fun.
Jason smells good. He dresses well. He brings in around $300 every couple of days. He sells clothes, watches, and other off-the-record products. He listens to NPR. He doesn’t drink. He tried shrooms once and hated it.
“I do smoke weed, though,” Jason laughs. “Why else would I be in California?”
—
On a good day, Jason wakes up at noon. Lazy days, he’ll be groggy at 2 p.m. First order of business: clients and friends. He’ll check up on everyone with three questions: Do you owe me money? Do I owe you money? Did anyone die when I was gone?
Then, he’ll probably grab something to eat and drink. He loves pizza. His favorite is 7-Eleven pizza. Pro tip: don’t buy a slice. Order a whole pizza. They’ll pop it in the oven, and three minutes later, Jason’s eating “the best thing in the world.”
He loves Pepsi and hates Coke. He lived in Atlanta, the headquarters of Coca-Cola, for over seven years. He swears that if you blindfolded him and gave him a cup of Pepsi and a cup of Coke, he could tell the difference every single time.
After eating, he’ll bike or ride the train. He’ll go anywhere, far away from his tent. Despite his nickname, L.A. hates being around Los Angeles. It’s not the city. It’s the people.
“Any place far away… I’m somebody else,” Jason said. “I love the control I have. I can be whoever I want to be. Or I could just be nobody.”
He doesn’t tell his clients he’s homeless. Most people assume or have preconceived notions when he tells them.
“I’m fine,” Jason said. “I just let them play with their own thoughts.”
—
Jason’s been all over the country. He grew up on the South Side of Chicago. East 63rd Street and South Kimbark Avenue, just south of the University of Chicago Law School, that was his old stomping ground. It was all poverty and gang wars. So, his mom moved him out to Los Angeles when he was 9. He came back in high school, but the gang activity never stopped. Soon after, he went to live with his sister in Wisconsin.
Every friend he had eventually got involved with gangs. Even the girls. But Jason didn’t. He doesn’t know why, but he’s thankful for it.
“It was weird,” he said. “I’d probably be dead or in jail.”
He was a cook for seven years in Atlanta. He loved to travel. His personal pride was the jetski he owned in Georgia. He had a condo. He seemed like the kind of guy who had made it out.
In April 2018, he decided to move back to Los Angeles, where his mom and older brother by seven years, Chris, lived. Two months later, that June, he got a message on Facebook.
“I knew it was all bad,” he said. “They ain’t ever try to contact me on Facebook.”
Old age and poor health. That’s all it took. In a week, Jason’s mom died.
And Jason spiraled. He splurged his money. He stopped going to work. He didn’t know how to cope. He visited multiple psychiatric wards in Los Angeles. He felt crazy. He wanted to know if he actually was crazy. Doctors tried to medicate him, but he refused.
“If a pill is all that it takes, then I’m already better,” Jason said.
That’s when he gave up on life.
“Once I lost my mom, I lost my mind,” he said. “Things that used to scare me, they don’t scare me anymore. And that’s kind of scary. I’m not myself anymore. I don’t think I ever will be.”
—
It’s December 1986. It’s Christmastime. Jason is 7 years old. He’s hanging out in the living room with his mom. And then he hears a scream.
Jason turns his head in time to see the family’s Christmas pine tree, decorations and all, fall on his mom. An almost annoyingly loud woman, Jason’s mom went down screaming and yelling and cursing.
Being the good little mama’s boy that he was, Jason rushed to lift the prickly tree off his mom. He still remembers the first thing she said.
“She knew to say, ‘Chris!!!’” Jason laughs. “I couldn’t do it at my age.” That is, lift the tree off her. Chris, then 14, older, stronger, was in the next room over.
That’s his favorite story to tell of his mom. There’s an innocence and childlike nature about him that comes out. He can’t stop cackling while he tells it.
Jason’s dad would buy him stuff, but he wasn’t around. He only came by when he had a gift. Jason’s mom was the breadwinner. She’d always tell him to be more Christlike, hold his head high, and take responsibility for his actions. She taught him, he said, how to treat women.
“Even if I don’t like the woman, I still got to respect her,” Jason said. “It’s as if my mom was standing over me, watching over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t have any other big reasons why his mom was so important to him. She was his mom. What more do you need?
So, when his mom died, Jason was lost. He hit the streets almost immediately. He knows his mom would be disappointed in where he lives. But it doesn’t matter.
“My mom wouldn’t feel anything if she saw me,” Jason said. “Because she’s not alive anymore. And that’s how I feel about that.”
—
Jason’s gotten used to it. He’s had five years to adjust. He doesn’t care about what other people say or think. Nobody understands what it’s like to be homeless, unless they are homeless.
He’s grown to hate rules and regulations. He thinks it’s funny that civilization has agreed that normal living is behind closed doors, surrounded by four walls, and under a roof.
He doesn’t really care about his life anymore. But he’ll never jump off a bridge or anything.
“I got too much pride,” Jason said. “I live in a tent, and I got too much pride.”
He’d like to leave his tent. He has a daughter, Cameron. She’s 22. She lives in North Dakota with her mother. Jason hasn’t seen his only child since 2018: his mom’s funeral.
But he’s scared of the consequences and repercussions of reality. He hasn’t followed rules, a regimen, a structure in a long time.
“A lot of people are assholes,” Jason said. “Entering the real world… it’ll make me snap. And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
—
Jason loves animals. But he’ll never get a dog. He loves kids. He’s always wanted a stable family. But he’s given up on that.
“When I do meet a girl, if she hangs out for more than two days, I get irritated, even if I like her,” Jason said. “I don’t want to get attached and lose again. I guess I keep people at a distance, so I don’t have to worry about that.”
So Jason doesn’t have friends. He loves talking to people, about anything from politics to the weather, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t take medical help.
“I’m always lonely.”
Silence.
He looks down and fiddles with his watch.
“Yeah, I’m always lonely.”
He swallows. He recovers quickly.
“But I’m used to it.”