Homes for the Homeless, Bargains for Everyone

Obviously, the sinking economy means politicians must make big cuts, and some of those cuts will hurt. But in a city that wastes tens of millions every year on grants to almost 200 community groups, some of which hardly account for their spending, the $19 million Housing First initiative seems like one that should be held harmless.

"We will find the dollars so we don't have to put anybody out on the street," says Clarence Carter, director of the D.C. Department of Human Services. "But we will not be able to put additional people into housing."

Bellamy, who was about 12 when her father died and her mother put her out of the house, says she drifted from the care of one addict to another through years of a heroin haze. After she kicked heroin, she ended up on the streets, using crack cocaine and serving time for assaults that she says resulted from her mental illness.

"I can't do it no more," she says. For the first time since the 1970s, she has a kitchen and a TV, a couch and a bunch of detective novels to read. "I'm going to be in this place till I'm gone." She's cooking now in her Northwest apartment -- chicken and rice, ribs and greens -- and she's saving some of her disability payments (30 percent of her income goes toward rent). She hopes to get a job; she was once a secretary for the D.C. Department of Corrections.

Holton, a jovial former football player at Anacostia High School who describes himself as "unpleasantly plump," ended up on the street after his grandfather died. Pulled off course by a brain tumor, seven surgeries and a rough case of depression, he lost all his possessions, including his football trophies, when an uncle he was living with was evicted.

On his own, with no income except his disability check, Holton drifted between shelters and hospitals. The 911 operators became his lifeline, forced to play long-distance parents for a young man desperate for a respite from the drug-ridden streets.

When Pathways counselors offered him an apartment in the Congress Park section of Southeast, Holton jumped. Now, in a living room empty except for a love seat and a chair, he dreams up new recipes and waits for his turn to watch the TV he shares with his next-door neighbor (the set is moved back and forth between the apartments every noon and midnight).

Holton suffers from swollen ankles, asthma, obesity, depression and a thyroid condition, but he's leaving 911 operators to real emergencies these days. "I got my place, and that's giving me a chance to eat right and sleep," he says, and he lets loose a hearty laugh. "I love this joint."Join me at noon today for "Potomac Confidential" at http://www.washingtonpost.com/liveonline.