People & Places
A new home, an arrest - and a disappearance
By BILL REITER Register Staff Writer 07/16/2003
Pregnant, her eyes puffy, Gabrielle Slocum opens the door. A scent of urine drifts into her apartment from the hallway. She's been crying."Things have changed," she says. The pregnant 20-year-old, homeless weeks before, sits down slowly in the apartment she cannot afford. Her boyfriend, a self-described recovering alcoholic whose constant affection for her once colored every move she made, has left. It's a few days before June, and humidity blankets the apartment. There is no air conditioner. "The lifestyle change," she says, indicating the apartment, and her belly. "Well, everything. He went back to drinking." It began when Cowboy skipped work. Gabrielle begged the owners of the Elliott Apartments, a converted hotel where the couple lived, to give the 39-year-old Cowboy a job. They saw the young woman's desperation. "He got drunk and didn't come," says Ed Nahas, the former owner whose son, James, now runs the building. "She came and begged us to give him his job back. I did. He got drunk one week later. She kicked him out. Then she begged me to take him back. I did." Cowboy missed work again. Gabrielle told him to find a job or go. So he picked up his quart of beer, she says, and walked out the door. Now she waits, puffing nervously on her final few cigarettes. This month's food stamps are gone. The money is gone. She's hungry. Her daughter will be born in about six weeks. "I don't know how things are going to go," she says. "I know I need to let him go, but I don't want to." She waits all evening, and when Cowboy returns, Gabrielle takes him back. He apologizes, tells Gabrielle he loves her, promises they will make it work. He leaves a few days later, and Gabrielle takes him back again. He leaves again, and she takes him back once more. And again. Tension mounts. Anger builds. Resentment grows. And the baby's birth gets closer. * Matt Witt's future at the Buchanan Transitional Living Center, which provides temporary shelter for homeless youths, was decided one week after his interview. His application was denied. The homeless 19-year-old, known as Congo, would stay on the streets. Minutes before the interview, Buchanan's program coordinator, Mitch Henry, handed Congo a check for $200. After two nights in Buchanan's emergency bed, the Iowa Homeless Youth Centers' employees wanted to help. The money, taken from a special fund, would buy Congo a pair of glasses. All Henry asked in return was a receipt. Congo could use the leftover money however he wanted. Just bring back a receipt. Congo didn't buy glasses. "He was having real problems being honest with us," Henry said. "There were problems with the stories he told us. His biological father being 87 years old, having 27 children, and he's getting married for the 11th time. His dad being able to bench-press 700 pounds at 87 years old." And the money - a fortune to a homeless kid. Congo took it and ran. "The thing is, he's a good kid. We didn't have any behavior problems. He just wasn't honest," Henry says. "Some youth, when they come from the streets, are not able to make that leap into transitional or independent living." Congo returned to the streets, and his behavior grew erratic. He seemed disoriented at times, threatening at others. Weeks later, with an early wave of June heat hitting the streets, Congo and some friends will sit at a bus kiosk on Walnut Street, tear up cigarette butts and recycle them into street smokes. There are deep, red blotches on his arm that weren't there before. "Bulb burn, bulb burn, cigarette burn," he says, identifying each mutilation. University of Nebraska researchers who tracked homeless youths in Des Moines from the spring of 2000 through fall of 2001 found that 32 percent of males and 62 percent of females had experienced a major episode of depression. Congo lives the numbers. He's begun to burn himself. * For days and days, Zack Oyen talks about the good news, and about the former elementary school teachers he'll share it with. He even has one teacher's telephone number, her home number, recorded on a crumpled piece of paper. Proof someone cares about him. Hopping onto his bicycle in the same stained outfit he wore the day before, the 19-year-old leaves Churches United Homeless Shelter for what he hopes is the last time. A social worker responsible for his disability checks has set Zack's money aside, and Zack's case manager has made arrangements. The homeless teen will get an apartment. He rides his bike with a fury, legs pumping, body bent over the handlebars. He slices through downtown, through traffic, through Sherman Hill, past the cemetery, up 28th Street to Smouse Opportunity School, a school for children with disabilities. Little kids gather for the day. Zack looks out of place, even if he feels right at home. He parks his bike, opens the main door and walks into his old school. "Where are you going?" a teacher demands. "Where I always go," Zack says, ignoring the many eyes that turn to him. "To the office." He adds, when out of earshot: "Screw you." He enters the office all smiles. He has an apartment. He can't wait to share the news. Women behind the counter throw nervous glances. Zack stops at the office of Principal Susie Guest. "Hi," he says. "Zack," her voice comes, "we have a school to run. I've told you. You need to leave." "Yeah." "You need to leave, Zack." "I just wanted to talk to my two old teachers and tell them - " "I've talked to them, Zack," she interrupts. "They're busy." "Yeah. OK." "Have a nice day, Zack." He turns. "I tried to come early," he pleads to no one in particular. Shoulders slumped, embarrassed, he leaves. Guest feels bad. "I love Zack," she says later. "But I can't have him wandering the building because of safety issues." Zack goes outside. Back to the bike. He rides the hill to the bottom in a flash, crosses Ingersoll Avenue and pulls up at Golden Circle Behavioral Health, a nonprofit human services organization. He's 90 minutes early. After a long wait - the case manager, Robert Long, still has some loose ends to tie up - Zack is told to be at the new apartment in two hours. Back to his bike. "The great thing about a bike," he says as he heads through downtown toward the Capitol, "is while you're on it, you can do anything you want!" He pulls up to a park near his new home on the city's east side. "Hello, apartment." Long arrives, and he and Zack go into the building. They sit down in an office, fill out paperwork, go over the rules, listen to the manager, talk things out, head to the apartment. "OK, kiddo," the manager says as she opens the door. "It's all yours." "Yes," Zack whispers. He looks up. He smiles. "Ahhhhh." He's off the street. * June moves on, and Congo, Zack and Gabrielle continue their struggles and successes. But Michelle can't be found, and the worry about her spreads. Gabrielle is sweating away the days and waiting for her daughter's birth, Zack is enjoying his air conditioner in his new apartment, and Congo is trekking the warm streets when word gets out: Michelle's in jail. The police report was short and to the point: P.C. Warrant Theft 2nd Probation Revocation. . . . Crime Alert Caller stated that Ackelson was outside 2443 Railroad. Check found Ackelson to be there. . . . Verified the listed warrant. Transported to Polk County. Steve Ackelson pulls up at his home in time to see his niece bound in handcuffs. It was a sad sight, but not surprising. "She lived with me for a while, until I threw her out for smoking drugs," Ackelson says. "She lived with her grandma for a while, and with her mother for a while. The only reason she's homeless is because of all the crap she does - the drugs, the disrespect, all of that." Ackelson watches the patrol car pull away from his home. He thinks his niece is a nice girl. "She's got to get her head in the daylight," he says. "There's definitely two sides to her." Michelle was taken to jail. She was off the streets. * And then he was gone. The towering figure just vanished. The bus kiosk seemed larger, the skywalk emptier, the streets quieter. Matt Witt, the teen known on the streets as Congo, was gone. For weeks after he failed his interview at the Buchanan facility, Congo seemed to slide toward a life of alcohol, desperation and depression. He'd said methamphetamine once owned him - would take him in a flash and dump him hungry and cold under a bridge or into a camp of addicts. Moments became jarred memories, with only bruises to show what had happened. He said those days were over. But his temper had grown shorter. He'd hover over people, his eyes dancing in ways they shouldn't. Then he was gone. The rumors followed. There was talk that Congo had given in, that the drugs had taken him again. Congo was still missing when Howard Matalba, an outreach worker with the Iowa Homeless Youth Centers, returned from a vacation. So Matalba looked. He climbed into his van and hit the regular spots. At an apartment crammed full of homeless kids, Congo had left hard feelings, but no clues. "He's gone and he can't come back," one girl said. She said he'd been using drugs again. She said he'd cut himself again. She said he'd talked about suicide. "He's just saying that," the girl said. But Matalba wasn't so sure. "With these kids, you always take suicide seriously," he said. Matalba knows the numbers. The Nebraska researchers found that 48 percent of Des Moines' homeless youths said they had attempted suicide. Nearly 80 percent of those youths had tried multiple times. Matalba got back in the van. He looked worried. He went to a park. He looked under a bridge. He cruised the street. No Congo. "How," he asked, "could someone that big just disappear?" * This is it, Gabrielle says. She's done with Cowboy. It's 32 days until her baby is born, and Gabrielle has rearranged the apartment. "I don't want to be reminded of him," she says of her boyfriend. She goes to the closet and opens it. "I put all of his stuff in here," she says. "I'm leaving him." She sags in her chair with her baby in her belly, alone as midnight approaches. "Bad things always happen to me at midnight." She dwells on the man she loves. Too much drinking. Yelling. The threats. But she won't run. She needs a cigarette. Gabrielle lifts herself from the couch and hobbles outside. Java Joe's Coffeehouse is hopping with happy customers. Gabrielle lights her long cigarette and blows a sad trail of smoke. A friend who also is pregnant and once lived on the streets stops to talk. "If you see" Cowboy, Gabrielle says, "tell him, 'Don't come here. The cops will be called." " "OK." "Spread the word. Tell everyone." They cross the street and claim a table. It feels like a good life here, with those who have one. As they talk, down and across the street, Cowboy appears - just before midnight. Gabrielle doesn't see him. Cowboy carries two bottles. He walks into an alley and re-emerges empty-handed, then goes inside the apartment building. Gabrielle sees him. She stands. "Call the cops," her friend pleads. "Here we go," Gabrielle says. The pregnant 20-year-old waddles into the Elliott building. "He just went up," an old woman at the desk says with worry. Up the elevator, down the hall, he leans and waits for her. "Hello," he says. He's drunk. The word slurs. "You need to leave. It's over." "No," the voice pleads. Voices are raised. Finally, again: "It's over." "No!" "It's over." "Open the door." She doesn't. He screams, and the words are blurred by alcohol: "I dragged my ass all day to get you a . . . vehicle!" "It's over." She adds after a moment, scared, "You've been drinking." "A little," he admits. Gabrielle raises her voice. "Last night I had to sleep in the street!" He chased her out of the apartment last night, she reminds him. "Decide who you want!" he thunders. "Your boyfriends? You . . . whore!" He stomps off around the corner. He's gone. "Don't come back or I'll call the police," she adds. He's back. "WHAT? WHAT? Call them now!" Cowboy leans into her, right to her face. He spews more and stomps off again. "Have your friends come get your stuff," she says. He stomps back. "I'll do what I want!" He leans in and puts a finger to her face. Gabrielle winces. She tries, "I want to keep my child safe. . . . " More curses, more threats, then down the hall and into the elevator he goes. A neighbor opens a door. "I wouldn't let him in," Gabrielle explains. "Where'd he go?" asks the woman. She looks baffled. "I'm going down to call the cops," Gabrielle says. Gabrielle gets to the elevator. He's there, waiting. "OK. Call them! Call them, Gabrielle! Call them!" She tells him to go. She tells him she will make the call. She tells him to go. Calmer now, as the elevator closes, he says, "You don't want to . . . with me, bitch." He walks outside. And waits. Summer finally arrives, but better weather does little to dispel the troubles of Iowa's homeless youth. As the streets heat up, four young people face what seem like insurmountable odds.
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