Name: Tony
Nickname: That guy in the alley
James Hungaski
The Sucklemeister.
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Hangs out: In front of the Green Tortoise hostel, in shadows
Career highlights: When he was 18, Tony smoked crack at a party in Tennessee. He liked it so much that he's now homeless and sleeping in alleys. But he's not sleeping alone—you're never really alone in the downtown blocks of Pike and Pine. "I've had rats run across my face in the middle of the night," he says, his body shaking from either bad memories or withdrawal. "I've seen people sleep with rats, and rats go in their coats and they roll over it and the rat bites them." Tony's seen other unpleasant things from his alleyway: hookers doing it among garbage, 13-year-olds putting needles in their veins, senior citizens dying in wheelchairs. "I've seen people get flesh-eating virus from shooting dope," he says. He posits that the heroin gets infected when smugglers hide it in cattle. It's not all horror, though. "You meet good people, too," says Tony. "People here are all your friends if you have drugs or money."
The Funky Drummer
Name: Glen Freeman
Nickname: Pops
Hangs out: Outside the Westin, in the woods
Career highlights: Freeman says he once played percussion for Lou Rawls. (His credit can't be located on any of Rawls' albums, but getting snubbed wouldn't be a first for a musician.) These days, he snoozes in the woods along Aurora Avenue, and comes downtown to jam for food most afternoons.
Here, the 58-year-old faces competition from vanloads of street violinists, panpipe players, and bagpipe-drum combos, not to mention the random crazed screamer. Freeman drowns them all out by banging on an office-cooler water drum, à la Deer Park. "I found this one in an alley somewhere," he says, displaying the 5-gallon container fixed to his shoulder strap. "The water drum, it doesn't weigh anything. It's much lighter than carrying a conga."
During the summer, Freeman claims his plastic pounding might have two dozen people "dancing in the street." It's slower in the winter. Today, he still hasn't scrounged up enough money to munch at Mickey D's. He writes lyrics in his downtime to augment his R&B-style rhythms. One of his songs includes this verse: "Men, they cry too." "I lost my family in a car accident, November 2005," says Freeman. "Two brothers, a boy, and a wife."
People on the Ground
Names: Unknown
Nicknames: Suspect No. 1, Suspect No. 2
Hang out: At the bus stop at Third Avenue and Pine
Career highlights: From his loafers and dress pants, the old man doesn't appear to have led a life devoid of dignity. But now he's handcuffed and face-planted on the sidewalk at Third and Pine, moaning incoherently with a bloodied nose. This is the same intersection where one person was gang-stomped in June and another was shot in July. People just seem to wind up on the ground here, making it Seattle's premier "mystery spot." "He was trying to make me go with him," says Adriane Jackson-Yolanda, an elderly woman whom the man followed onto a bus. "He called me a bitch, said my momma was a ho."
A police officer rummages in the man's pockets, pulling out handful after handful of complimentary salt packets. "I want to go home," sobs the man. A wave of confusion passes over the gathered commuters. The crowd parts to reveal another man lying supine on the ground about 15 feet away. He stares up into the night sky. "You need some help?" asks a sheriff's deputy. The man lies for a few minutes more before slowly getting to his feet. He then does a strange jig, never saying a word. "I think he's OK," says the deputy.
jmetcalfe@seattleweekly.com
