When the bottom falls out
Greg Hayworth, 44, graduated from Syracuse University and made a good living in his home state, California, from real estateand mortgage finance. Then that business crashed, and early last yearthe bank foreclosed on the house his family was renting, forcing theireviction.
Now the Hayworths and their three children represent a new face ofhomelessness in Orange County: formerly middle income, living week toweek in a cramped motel room.
“I owe it to my kids to get outof here,” Mr. Hayworth said, recalling the night they saw a motelneighbor drag a half-naked woman out the door while he beat her.
Asthe recession has deepened, longtime workers who lost their jobs arefacing the terror and stigma of homelessness for the first time,including those who have owned or rented for years. Some show up inshelters and on the streets, but others, like the Hayworths, are thehidden homeless — living doubled up in apartments, in garages or inmotels, uncounted in federal homeless data and often receiving littlepublic aid.
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“People asking for help are from a wider demographic range thanwe’ve seen in the past, middle-income families,” said Terry Lowe,director of community services in Anaheim, Calif. The motels range fromthose with tattered rugs and residents who abuse alcohol and drugs tonewer places with playgrounds and kitchenettes. With names like theCovered Wagon Motel and the El Dorado Inn, they look like any othermodestly priced stopover inland from the ritzy beach towns. But walkinside and the perception immediately changes.
In the evening,the smell of pasta sauce cooked on hot plates drifts through half-opendoors; in the morning, children leave to catch school buses. Familiesof three, six or more are squeezed into a room, one child doinghomework on a bed, jostled by another watching television. Childrenrotate at bedtime, taking their turns on the floor. Some families, likethe Malpicas, in a motel in Anaheim, commandeer a closet for babycribs.