U.S. Vets reaches out to homeless veterans, but some reject aid
A man in a wheelchair gives a middle-finger salute to cars exiting the freeway onto Tropicana Avenue.
The traffic is heavy and fast on this recent Monday afternoon and no one acknowledges the man with a long, gray beard and wild hair panhandling at the intersection near the Strip. Car windows remain up; his cardboard sign asking for help is ignored. Today, these drivers are not in a giving mood.
By the time the light goes from green to red to green again, the man is gesturing so violently, he falls out of his wheelchair.
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Only three days before, Carl "Doc" Doster, 58, sat in a cushioned chair beneath Flamingo Road, playing Yahtzee with friends Freddie Lee Martin and Ronda Brewer. His wheelchair was nearby.
He's not sure who is winning; it could be him but Martin says Doster has rolled several do-overs that may not count. The three friends are taking a break in their game to welcome strangers to their camp, which is nestled in the desert near Industrial Road.
It's orderly, neat. A mattress with blankets sits on the far edge of camp; stuffed animals provide a homey touch. A table laden with food holds the evening's planned dinner. After the Yahtzee game ends, Martin, 58, will cook collard greens with smoked turkey necks on a small, outdoor grill.
A wire baker's rack holds staples: ramen noodle packages, canned foods, medications. Three chairs surround an end table they use to roll the dice. They have a clear view of the Rio to the west and Caesars Palace and Bellagio to the east. Above, the Flamingo overpass provides some shelter from the sun. But not from flies. Nothing keeps the flies out, Martin says, shaking his head.
The only visitors they usually get are railroad and city cops so representatives from U.S. Vets are a welcome distraction.
Though he can walk, Doster uses a wheelchair to get around. A veteran of the Army's 101st Airborne division, Doster hurt his back during the Vietnam war. He moves slowly, as though he is sedated, but he points out scars on his body. Here, on a forearm, is where he was shot, he says. He details other injuries in a voice that fades in and out. The amber liquid in a bottle at his feet may have something to do with that.
"I used to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. It's not good for the back," Doster mumbles.
His long, gray beard and wild hair accentuates a weathered face that looks tired and unwell. He has been homeless for five years; it's time to get off the streets, Doster tells Deon Derby, the outreach coordinator for U.S. Vets, a nonprofit that helps homeless veterans.
Derby puts his head together with outreach specialist Giovanni Lomagno to devise a strategy. Lomagno makes a phone call.
They will return Monday, Derby says. If he is serious about getting help, they will take him into their program. It will require Doster to give up any booze, drugs or gambling that he partakes in. But the U.S. Vets program will give him the help he needs to detox and get healthy. They will teach him how to find work and give him time to figure out his life. Doster will no longer have to worry about food and shelter, either.
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Three days seem like an eternity when a person has nowhere to go. There is some inherent safety in having a daily destination and four walls with a roof to keep the world at bay. Doster doesn't have these things.
But the delay is unavoidable and necessary, in a way, Derby says. Too often he encounters veterans who claim to want help, only to change their minds once the process starts. This wastes time and resources that could be used on others. If Doster is there when they return, that will show a true willingness to change his life.
Derby and Lomagno travel the valley daily in search of veterans who need help. They work mostly the homeless corridor downtown but venture weekly into the storm drains that run underneath the Strip and other areas of town. About once a month, Derby checks out the bridges and walkways along the boulevard.
The Strip is an attractive spot to some of the valley's homeless, Derby says, providing access to easy money in the form of panhandling and forgotten slot machine vouchers. Can collectors scour the trash for discarded aluminum, which can be redeemed for cash.
There are about 1,350 homeless veterans in the valley, Derby estimates, which is a significant decrease from the 4,000 homeless veterans of a few years ago. For every three homeless people they make contact with, one is a veteran. About half of the veterans they meet will accept some form of help.
"We find the majority just want that conversation, that relationship," Derby says. "They just enjoy our company. They may not want services but they do want someone who will actually stop and listen to them."
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In the beginning, Lomagno and Derby both found their outreach jobs frustrating. It was hard to accept that some people were unwilling to take help when they most needed it, they say. But over time, you develop patience. And boundaries.
It would be very easy to take home the troubles of others. But they learned long ago that, to be most effective, they have to leave their jobs at work. Both men feel that this is their calling in life.
When Derby was 15, he decided to join the Marine Corps. He was influenced by his older brother, who would come home and tell Derby about great adventures he had traveling the world in the Navy.
But when Derby tried to enlist at 21, he learned his history of childhood asthma would keep him out of the military. Both the Marines and the Air Force turned him down. Though he knows disclosing his condition was the right thing to do, Derby sometimes wishes things could have been different.
Eight years ago, he discovered U.S. Vets, thanks to an uncle who is also a veteran. The work, he says, is more rewarding than he ever thought possible.
"I guess this is my way of serving," says Derby, 34.
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U.S. Vets provides the best program for veterans in need, Lomagno says.
He came to believe this when he went through the program himself. A Navy veteran, Lomagno was medically discharged in 1992 after he developed Type 1 diabetes.
When he returned to Las Vegas, it took him only six months to become a drug addict.
"It seemed like all the doors were being slammed in my face because I was diabetic," says Lomagno, 42. "I started using methamphetamine. I didn't want to come to terms with being a diabetic so when I was getting high, I didn't have to face it."
For years, Lomagno got by as a functioning meth addict. He worked steadily, until the drugs made him unreliable. He lost his apartment and started sleeping on the couches of friends and family until he was too ashamed to face his loved ones.
One day, in 2004, while eating lunch at the St. Vincent's Shelter, he met Derby. He enrolled in the program and got a job at a recovery center. A few months ago, Lomagno went to work for Derby.
"I had known for a while I wanted to get clean," Lomagno recalls. "I just didn't know how to go about it until they found me."
Lomagno feels a special kinship with the homeless veterans he encounters during his job. They respond to him because he knows what it's like to be down and out and hopeless.
"I love the job that I do," he says. "I enjoy coming to work every day because I get the chance to help somebody. But I try not to get too attached because sometimes they don't make it. They don't stay, so it makes it kind of hard."
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On Monday, Lomagno and Derby returned to the camp where they met Carl "Doc" Doster. Martin and Brewer were still there. Doster, they said, was gone. They didn't know where. He took his wheelchair and his belongings and left.
Contact reporter Sonya Padgett at spadgett@reviewjournal.com or 702-380-4564. Follow @StripSonya on Twitter.
