January 14, 2004

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Palo Alto Online

Whatever happened to Willie Branch?

by Sue Dremann

Standing next to displays of plump oranges and grape fruits outside Whole Foods, Willie Branch flashed passers-by a smile, a plastic cup at his feet ready to accept a spare buck or two. A much beloved fixture of the now-defunct Co-op Market, Branch used to serve many of the customers who now offer tokens of support.

One such customer, Catherine Shinners, recognized and embraced Branch. Looking at the man who once loaded her groceries with a smile, she couldn't help but wonder how a friendly, steadfast person like Branch could end up on the streets.

"Willie is a very familiar face. We shopped at Co-op for years. He was a member of our neighborhood for so many years," she said.

Reflecting on his current state, she said, "I don't think any of us understands how this happens. I can't imagine how discouraging it must be to be out here and to try to get off the streets."

Branch reached for her groceries. "For old time's sake," he said, as he loaded the bags into her car.

For nearly 60 years, Co-op was a Palo Alto institution. At the Depression-era market, people bought food in bulk for lower prices, and volunteered to take groceries to the homebound and elderly. Branch's helpfulness, singing and trademark whistling made him something of a Co-op institution.

But at age 52, Branch hasn't been able to find steady work since the Midtown market closed in 2001.

Described by all who remembered him as capable, helpful, hard working and friendly, Branch exemplifies how easily someone can fall out of society. The reasons can be simple. Sometimes it's illness, injury, age or depression. Sometimes it's pride.

In Branch's case, all these things contributed to his current state. And although he has eight grown children and 16 grandchildren, Branch won't ask them for help. "I was always taught that a man takes care of his family, his family doesn't take care of him. I'm too proud to beg," he said.

Ironically, now he's begging on street corners. "I thought a long time before I started panhandling. I had to work up the courage."

Branch's popularity stemmed from his eternal friendliness and willingness to help people, said Mary Bay, a former Co-op board member who has known Branch since he was 17 or 18 years old.

"He was very friendly and knew everyone by name. He'd be working and looking through the window. If he saw a customer having trouble with his car, he'd be right out there helping to fix it," she said.

"There wasn't a job he didn't do. He had a very loyal fan club of shoppers. There were lots of people who would wait in his line just to check out with Willie," said Duane Bay Sr., former head of Co-op's board of directors.

Accrued over a lifetime of service, it's a large fan club. Branch estimated nearly 350 people passed through his checkout line each day. Over his 30-year working period, that amounted to at least 2.75 million customer contacts.

Old-time Co-op customers like Maria Makela had a tearful reunion with Branch outside Whole Foods. Her face showed a complex of emotions ranging from love to bewilderment. "You were always in a good mood," she said.

"I still am, I still am," Branch responded, which prompted Makela to cry.

A few days before Christmas, Branch sat in a nearby park, talking about how he became homeless. Settling on the back of a bench, canopies of stately redwoods protected him from the chilly air.

When it became apparent that Co-op was folding, other checkers moved on and found jobs at area markets, but Branch hung on until the end. It's a decision he now regrets. He eventually found a job at Whole Foods as a buyer, but after three-and-a-half months, he was demoted -- with a substantial cut in pay -- after his work performance slipped. He had become depressed when both his grandparents died. The cut in pay depressed him further, and he eventually abandoned the job.

"I tried Alpha Beta, Lucky, Andronico's, Piazza's, but they were all promoting from within. If Co-op had stayed open, I'd be only three years from retirement," he said.

Duane Bay believes Branch is being overlooked because of his seniority among applicants for grocery clerk positions. "It's the single most (obvious) reason why he doesn't get (hired) on.

"Clearly one of the problems with seniority is that those employees are at the very top of the pay scale and are union. When the economy is tight, (the stores) go for new, young people," he said.

Branch isn't sure he can handle a job in the grocery business again. He struggles with severe asthma and COPD, a deterioration of the muscles around the lungs. The stress of street life has made the conditions worse, he said.

"Without medications, I'd be a dead man."

When he couldn't pay his rent, Branch applied for general assistance. Rather than taking payments from the government, Branch said his landlords refused to sign the papers. Instead, they evicted him after a 17-year tenancy, claiming his rental agreement allowed for eviction if he became unemployed.

Three months ago, he applied for disability assistance, but so far has not heard from the government. "It sucks because I paid taxes for 30 years and now I can't get help. I worked too hard all my life to be out here on the streets like this," he said, as tears ran in rivulets down his cheeks and nose.

He used to deliver newspapers from his car, but eventually developed a hernia from throwing the five-pound Sunday papers. Until recently, he earned a little cash transporting homeless people in his car, but it barely covered his gas money, so he's turned to panhandling.

He worries about paying the storage fees for his belongings, and he's lived with the humiliation of being rousted from nearby neighborhoods because residents called the police when he slept there in his car.

But there are kindnesses. He often stops at the Shell station on Alma Street to pump air into his tires. Recently, on a blustery night as he pulled up to the air pump, he was intercepted by a mechanic who knows Branch is homeless. He insisted on filling the tire, so Branch wouldn't have to leave his car and get wet.

Branch is grateful for the car. It separates him from the extremes of destitution experienced by other homeless, he said. The storage space behind the seats is loaded with blankets, sleeping bag, clothes, and a few cans of food. He keeps the car, his belongings, and himself clean. He bathes at a local recreation center.

Sleeping in the car isn't comfortable -- he pushes the seat down as far as it will go, but it's a tight squeeze -- Branch is 6-foot-2. It gets pretty cold, and he turns the heater on from time to time to warm up, snuggling under the blankets with "Taz," a whimsical feline stuffed animal given to him by a friend. Taz, and a few drinks, keep him company at night. If he's lucky, he may get a few nights off the street when a friend offers temporary refuge.

Branch opened his wallet; the cracked brown leather holds the pieces of his life together. Instead of dollar bills, the wallet holds dozens of pieces of paper -- phone numbers of old friends, reminders of doctor appointments, schedules of organizations serving the homeless.

Daily life largely consists of making the rounds to various centers providing food, clothing and toiletries to the homeless.

Early in the morning, he drives to Urban Ministry's Drop-in Center near the downtown Caltrain station. At 7 a.m., under a canopy, volunteers serve hot soup, coffee and a pastry. On days when area churches contribute, he'll eat eggs, sausage or bacon. He may get a clothing voucher, toiletries, or check his mail and phone messages.

Forty or so men and a couple of women sit on folding chairs, eating or quietly chatting. Once in awhile, a voice raises, sometimes angrily, sometimes with humor. On sunny days, Branch usually hangs out until 11:30 talking with friends and warming himself in the sunshine.

Days are filled with transporting friends, panhandling or doctor visits. When it's cold and rainy, he sits in his car, running the heater in half-hour increments to stay warm.

Sometimes he eats lunch at St. Anthony's Dining Room in Redwood City. At dinnertime, he takes meals at one of the area churches feeding the hungry.

At First United Methodist Church, Branch climbed the stairs to Fellowship Hall, taking in the lukewarm heat. Dinner was served by a crew of volunteers from Vineyard Christian Fellowship, including a half dozen children who were learning about giving.

"It's kind of alarming to see this many homeless people, said Tish Wiser, assistant food manager for Urban Ministry. She estimated he program serves between 75 and 125 people nightly.

Branch dug into his meatloaf, green beans and scalloped potatoes. The food was tasty. For dessert, there would be cake from Prolific Oven and ice cream. Wiser said she depends on donations from restaurants and the farmer's market, and utilizes experience in her mother's restaurant to whip up balanced, flavorful meals.

As dinner was served, a minor altercation broke out in the hall. A man in a wheelchair shouted angrily at Weekly photographer Chihiro Koga, upset that he had been homeless for seven years and no one had ever written a story about him. Wiser rushed over to soothe the man, and a space was quickly made for him at Branch's table. He introduced himself as Carl Swanson.

Branch reflected on his homeless experience: "Even though I'm homeless, it's been a learning experience, more than ever. I don't think a lot of people can handle this -- it's why a lot of people commit suicide around the holidays."

"I was thinking about doing that this year," said a man at the end of the table.

"Don't say that," Branch said quickly. "You don't want to be going there, man."

Swanson looked up from his meatloaf, "Sometimes adversity is more of a blessing than wine and roses."

After dinner, Branch planned to seek shelter at a friend's home in the South Bay. Maybe he'd stop at a nearby bar and shoot some pool. Steeling himself against the chilly night air, he ambled back to his car, whistling a trademark whistle heard by hundreds of satisfied Co-op customers.

Weekly photo intern Chihiro Koga contributed to this story. Sue Dremann can be e-mailed at sdremann@paweekly.com

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