THE BLOCK
Amid a neighborhood with homes pushing $1 million, Alan Mayfield and Sam Mills sat on the grass in a Capitol Hill park figuring out where they might spend their next night. Earlier on that mid-May day, Denver police officers had cleared them from their latest resting spot, a nearby strip along 14th Avenue, outside Saint John’s Cathedral. Dozens of their acquaintances had been forced to take down their tents and pack their belongings, as well, though no one who looked official could give a good answer as to where they should go next. The city was in its first months of the coronavirus pandemic, a growing crisis for which there seemed to be no plan. “It’s like a ghost town,” Alan said to Sam, placing a partially smoked cigarette between his lips and leaning against his oversize black bag. “The whole world stopped.”
Alan was 42. He had dusty gray-brown hair, and the skin at the corners of his liquid blue eyes was creased. He wore a red sweatshirt that hid his soft, middle-aged belly. He hadn’t showered in 24 days.
At one point in his life, Alan had been a college student in North Carolina who dreamed of becoming “a happily gay Methodist minister.” He partied too hard in school, though, dropped out, bounced around a few jobs and a few cities, had his heart broken by a longtime partner, and became addicted to crystal meth. In this, his ninth year on Denver’s streets, he seemed both younger and older than his age. He had a graying beard that ran toward his neck, and his teeth were worn nubs. Still, he smiled often, and anyone who met Alan was immediately drawn to his friendly, outgoing personality.
He took a drag off the cigarette, pulled a sleeve of peanut butter crackers from his bag, and offered a few to Sam, whose knees were pressed to his chest. Sam was in his early twenties, addicted to heroin, and in the throes of withdrawal. His face was sweat-slickened; his cheeks were red. He waved a hand at Alan’s offer. “Nah, man,” Sam said. “Thanks.”
The two began hanging out this past fall, when Alan was living in an alley next to a dumpster in Capitol Hill. He offered to share the space for a while, no strings attached, if only because Sam looked lonely. They both got tents of their own, and the two developed a friendship. They eventually left the alley and moved outside the cathedral, living under a canopy of old shade trees. Now they were moving again.
“I can’t believe they kicked us off,” Alan said. “I barely had time to pack.”
“You’ve got this coronavirus shit, and they’re pushing us around?” Sam said. “That’s not right.”
“This is never gonna get back to normal,” Alan said. “I guess this is reality now.”
Sam looked over at his friend. He chuckled.
“I’m pretty in tune with reality,” Sam told Alan. “And reality sucks.”
at the corner of 14th Avenue and Clarkson Street later that evening, outside the two-story brick building that houses Morey Middle School. Their new strip of grass was near a stoplight, across Clarkson from the cathedral. It was a strategic position that allowed the men—and dozens of others who also made the move—to stay close to familiar surroundings, including the few services that remained open during the early days of the pandemic. The space was far from perfect: Drivers revved their vehicles’
