Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
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LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 12.14 99 It's bad, but not as bad as it was at Campbell. Tose at Spider had a gun line at Campbell. A gun line, like in that movie Life. Tey weren't shooting, but they had to stay protected. Tere was violence. People were cut with axes, beat with hammers and bricks, killed. Tey had to keep the chaos at bay. Lt. Hensler says Campbell had a higher rate of criminal activity than most places in the city. He says he's glad it's gone. He expected campers to spring up here and there in Campbell's place. He says his ofcers already know of a couple camps they're regularly checking up on. Tey won't move them without complaint. "One person camping in the woods doesn't bother me," Hensler says. "Tree doesn't bother me." If small encampments develop over the years that don't cause crimes or call for emergency police services, the camp members are in a strong position to maintain their camp for a long time. Spider recognizes safety in smaller numbers. But then here comes Trouble with its shirt of and a little vodka on its chin. t's Monday, Nov. 3, and it feels like Christmas. Chris is back. He's got to check into Wayside by 4 p.m., so the police have an address for him. Tammie has a CD in her hand. It's the spinal MRI results from Jewish Hospital. She has the Passport Health Plan now, what she calls "poor people insurance," but this is the proof she needs to get her disability check. She holds it like a present. She doesn't know what's going on with Rally's or Speedway on Brownsboro Road, where she was supposed to start work last week. Tony, George, Curtis and Travis sit in front of George's tent on coolers and portable folding stools. Rum sloshes over the sides of their 12-ounce cups with holly leaves printed on them. Today, Tony got his disability check (some $300), and this afternoon there are two handles of Captain Morgan out. One's already empty. Te other's half gone. No, half full. Te frst of the month is Tony's time to drink. He's usually pretty quiet, will nod in agreement with a shy smile. But when he's drunk, he's talkative, with a deep- country stutter hard to understand. He's talking about his hometown of Coldwater, Michigan. He's only been back one time and doesn't want to return. Apparently he's got a brother-in-law there that he hates. "In my heart, love hurts," he says. He pokes and pats at his chest with pride. "But love don't hurt family, nuhmsayin? We'll see everybody up in heaven. Tank you." Travis is dressed in a brown dress shirt and some khakis, of from work at Stir the Pot, a small-batch cookery. He's clean-cut, hair short, and doesn't use any Pepsi with his rum. He walks back from Trouble Camp and says, "You're not going to have a problem with any of them again. I took care of it. Tey were worried Curtis and I. . . ." "Tey were worried?" George asks. "Tey're scared of me? With a broken back?" Curtis cackles. He's going to the doctor to get his X-rays this week. Ten to a Social Security disability lawyer in Louisville, one of the best in town, Curtis says. Travis says, "Don't have to worry about it anymore. Everything is copacetic." Everyone's feeling pretty good and then the guys get to arguing, nice and loud. Tis time about religion. Travis says he's read seven versions of the Bible, but he believes in evolution too. Tinks there's a reason they put horoscopes next to the comic strips. Travis asks, "Who are you going to quote, Einstein or Jesus?" "I may not follow everything in the Bible, but I'm going with Jesus," Curtis says. "Jesus, Jesus," Tony says. George is skeptical, starts a point but doesn't fnish it. Travis brings up Confucius, Anaximenes, Freud, Jung. Says, "You can't quote one human without quoting another. Might as well come up with it yourself." Says to write down two words. Priori posteriori. He can't spell them. rouble repeats itself. Trouble gets drunk. Trouble burns down tents. Trouble gets the cops called. Greig will be one of the frst to leave Camp Spider. He's looking for higher ground. He says he doesn't know what it means to belong. Kiddie Camp shley at Kiddie Camp knows what it means to belong. She says this is her domain. No matter where life takes her, this will always be home. Here, she's queen. Tis queen wears no robe, only a sports bra and some sweatpants. Her tum hangs over the elastic lining. It's a late-October dawn, and she stands on a boulder by the fre, stabbing it with a poker. Ashley is fve-foot-two, and the poker is to her chest line. It's like a scepter without jewels. She uses it to point out her camp's boundaries: a wide, hilly radius. She's named this land Kill Yourself Island. Beyond the ravine isn't hers. Tere are three separate camps within Kiddie Camp, as it's referred to by outside camps. Te impression is that only kids — mostly runaways and nobody older than 18 — live here. Camp Runaway. But that impression is wrong, the name inaccurate. Te camp is in some woods near the intersection of Frankfort Avenue and River Road. Most of the group are older than 20, some in their 40s. Near October's end, 14 people are staying at Kiddie Camp, but the numbers are always changing. People come. People go. Tere's Kill Yourself Island at the bottom of the hill. Before that, Camp Dog Walk, marked by a "Do Not Enter" sign, camp name scrawled on it. Within, animals stir, eight dogs and many nicknames: Tiger, Mouse, Cricket. You mess with them, they'll "dog walk," or beat, the hell out of you. (Tey moved here from a spot behind the nearby Tumbleweed parking lot.) Tere's a Legend in these woods. He stays in the frst camp up the trail, sings Rastafarian music. Julio, Ashley's Irish-Puerto Rican "husband" from New York, is squatting by the other side of the fre, unfurling aluminum. He's her king. Te reason she quit doing meth. Te reason to live. Tey're waiting to get into permanent housing. Got on the list a couple months ago, but they haven't heard anything yet. If they get the Section 8 voucher from the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, they'll be set free. But numbers are limited. With a budget cut in federal housing funding, from $84 billion to $43 billion since the '70s, there's not enough money for everyone. Veterans are looked after frst. Ten money flters to Where They Don't Belong Continued from page 59 T I A