For some reason I was running very late, and I had promised to go see Richard in his room at the Cecil, one of the largest of the skid-row hotels – and one of the meanest. Actually, the reason I was late was probably the torrential rain. It was winter, about 7pm and dark.

At that time of day the east side of downtown L.A. takes on a surreal look. Office workers and other day visitors have all gone, leaving the grimy streets to the residents. The whole area has the strident look of a Brian de Palma location.  And on this evening the rain added the final chilling effect.

I parked a block or so from the hotel, saying a prayer over my car as I walked away. The Cecil loomed and I picked my way through the groups that stood (or sat or lay) outside the hotel entrance. The lobby had once been very grand, with soaring ceilings, Grecian columns and acres of space, but the dimensions that once inspired awe now produced apprehension. Dimly lit, the hall was cavernous and gloomy and the shadowy shapes that lurked were not so much the ghosts of its glittering past as the creatures of its forlorn present. The tactic here was to stay near the middle and not probe the darker corners.

One of the three elevators was working so, with some foreboding, I took a lurching ride to the eleventh floor. Fortunately the floor was deserted and I made my way through murky, peeling, labyrinthine corridors to room 1123. I knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Robert, with your food.”

The sound of bolts sliding back, Richard opened the door, then slumped back down on his bed, the only furniture in the room apart from a shabby cupboard and a table. The bed had only a stained mattress bare except for a screwed up sheet at the bottom. As I recall, his pillow was a rolled up jacket. The desolation of the room was not helped by the overhead light that shone through a dull green shade.

Huddled in an old sweatshirt and jeans, Richard was gaunt and unkempt with a mop of disheveled yellow hair. My file indicated he was 32, but he looked older.  He was not feeling well, but he was coherent. We talked mostly about food (I couldn’t even embark on all the other problems) and I promised to double up on the meals we sent. He didn’t have a knife or fork so I promised to send that too. For now it was finger food.

I gave him information about other agencies that could help, but I knew I was just going through the motions. My information and suggestions were appropriate for a rational, functional life, a life not lived by Richard, whose single minimalist focus was food and shelter. We would provide the food, and for now he had shelter – such as it was.  I made a note to alert some other agencies to his condition, and said goodbye.

Back out in the corridor I had no idea which way to turn. It all looked the same. I spent some time wandering the corridors, lit only with bare hanging light bulbs (I would never again complain of being poorly lit). It was strangely silent except for the muffled sound of rain from somewhere in the outside world. I passed one or two hunched figures but have only dim impressions of them as I looked straight ahead in that no-eye-contact way you’re supposed to.

Mercifully, I came to the elevator and stairs – and there was the final choice. Did I wait for the elevator, with all its potential dangers, or run down eleven dark flights of stairs? I risked meeting more people on the stairs but at least there was room to maneuver – unlike the elevator.  I decided to wait for the elevator and, if there was someone already on it, to take to the stairs. It lurched up – empty – I got in and started the long, slow, clanking descent. My prayers that it would not stop on the way were answered.

I came into the lobby and heard, before I saw, a commotion going on at the entrance. There was some kind of fight in progress, yelling, the sound of sirens. Now I could wait for the melee to subside – wait, and become one of the shadowy figures lingering in the menacing gloom of the lobby. No thank you. Better to take my chances.

Oddly, in moments of anxiety, I revert to my old English self – some kind of stress reflex, I think. The accent becomes thick as treacle, and the briefcase turns into a kind of shield, a talisman, providing the dubious protection afforded to a social worker. Clutching it to my chest I pushed through the doors and negotiated the lobby. Calmly, politely, delicately even, I picked my way through the scrimmage - “Excuse me”, “I’m so sorry” “I do beg your pardon”. It works, they pay me no attention, and I’m back out on the street. Impervious to the pouring rain, I make it back to where my car still waits, intact (another answered prayer).

As I drive away I look at the scene in my rear-view mirror – like looking at a movie screen. And I think of Richard, eating his lunch with his fingers on the eleventh floor.