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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100 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 12.14 mynortondoctor.com housing for the chronically homeless. Tere's no telling where Ashley and Julio are on the list. Placing is determined by a vulnerability index issued by the Common Assessment program, which analyzes which homeless individual needs housing the most. It measures physical and mental health, how many times hospitalized, the total amount of time homeless, among others things. Across camps, several stay on the list. Ashley isn't very vulnerable. Hasn't been since she was growing up in Portland with her older brothers pushing her through walls. Tat's when she learned how to fght. MMA, cage-fghting style. Backyard style. No rules. Julio takes a sip out of an opened Miller High Life, the single can of beer here. It's warm. Julio doesn't really drink anymore. He says he used to be an alcoholic. He caught his frst felony robbing a liquor store, back in his New York gang days, his war beads black and yellow. Had a bottle of Bacardi 151 in his hand when the cops saw him. He looked at the bottle, the cops, the bottle, the cops. Ten he ran — into jail and then rehab. He says he drank because he was depressed. Lost love, lost kid. Eventually a lost father. Julio was the only son that wasn't taken from his dad during his parents' split. His dad played the bass guitar, showed him Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, the Eagles. Instilled that love for music in Julio. Hip-hop. Wu-Tang Clan, Jedi Mind Tricks. Julio dreams of a career in audio production. Julio thinks he sufers distress from his dad's death from cancer in '07 at 55. Julio, 35, says that means he has 20 more years to live. OOT, WOOT!" Chris calls from the top of the hill. It's the camp's greeting call; lets one know someone's coming and lets the other know someone's here. Chris is back to camp without money. Junkyard George said there isn't any work today and probably won't be for a while. Chris has heard this before about day labor, which is what a lot of campers do for work when they work, places like Labor Works on Preston Highway and Labor Express Plus on 18th Street. But, alas, nothing today, nothing tomorrow. Chris starts untangling his necklaces. Has them on a table, picking chain from chain — not an easy thing to do because one of his index fngers is a nub. He was an electrician for 22 years, and one day he blew it of. He's had most of the necklaces for years. Real silver. One necklace has a small anchor on it. Chris' life has never been very stable. He grew up in Louisville and ran away from home at 11 and again at 14 because his dad was a violent alcoholic. Tat's why he doesn't drink. He pulls at another chain. He lost Jesus of this one. Doesn't know how — Jesus just came of. His hood is up, the jacket a swirl of colorful skulls, custom-made while he was in California. Tey're his designs. He likes to draw. Skulls, black roses. In his wallet, a folded paper of his latest doodle: Celtic knots. Was bored at a library in Boston when he drew that one. He's been back home in Louisville for a couple months, but he talks about Boston frequently. Shows pictures of the city on his fip phone: sea and gull. He talks a lot about Memphis, too. Was in prison there for eight years for a murder he says was self-defense. He says it was the worst: "Tere, you had to know which side to go to. Which side to fuck with. Tey've got Peckerwoods, Lightning Bolts. Tey've got the cops marching. Aryan Nation Brotherhood. . . . Tey told me I wouldn't make it out alive. But look at me; I'm still standing. Still breathing. Tey said choose this side or this side. White or black. I didn't choose either. I rode neutral." ricket is Cricket because she's always hopped around. She's 21 years old and has been through 26 foster homes and six group homes in 12 diferent states, and was adopted twice. Her last parents kicked Cricket out when she was 18, no longer a government check. Tey kept everything of Cricket's, including her bike and car. Whatever. She hated them anyway. Always a slave, cutting hundreds of coupons for her mom, whose back she had to massage for hours. Cricket went to a North Caro- lina community college at 16 but couldn't study auto mechanics like she wanted. Mom wouldn't let her. Mom made her take botany because Mom wanted a garden. In hydro- ponics class, Cricket says she learned to grow weed. Sold it. Made enough for a bus ticket to New York. She came to Louisville earlier this year to stay with one of her adopted sisters. But sis is strict. Real strict. Freaked about Cricket's tattoo: a cross on her back. Sis thought it was a gang sign because it's blue. Freaked about cigarettes. Cricket couldn't take it. Cricket wishes she could reset. "So, it's ofcial," Cricket says. It's a Monday evening in late October. She's down from Camp Dog Walk, chillin'. She's blue-eyed, heavyset and loud, every sentence amplifed. "I'm getting my name changed in a week," she says. "What? How?" Chris asks. "Who you marrying?" "No, no. I'm changing my whole name," "W C