A community hidden but close

NO-WORK GARY, Liberty Justice, Big Larry, One-Arm Larry, Uncle Joe, Little Joe, Tanker John, John John, Duckman, Screaming Eagle, Diamond Dave, Just Randy, Josey Wales, Whiskey, Beef Jerky, Home Guard, Papa Smurf, Pops, Pappy, Pyro, Chaka, Modoc, Magoo, Butch, Tiny, T.J., V.T., R.D., W.C., The Flying Dutchman, The Mayor, Pretty Girl, Snowman ... they've all lived in Kansas City or live here now. But none is officially here. They are nearly invisible because all of them are homeless.

Ron and his feet Ron Aerts doesn't have a nickname, at least not one he'll reveal. But he does say he grew up in De Pere, Wis., near Green Bay, where his family was in the wholesale liquor business. He wanted to be a priest when he was in high school but the '60s got in the way. He came to Kansas City in 1975 for love.

It lasted more than four years. He bounced around from job to job, not making much headway. Ron didn't save any money, and he was estranged from his family.

In 1996, he lost his job at a delicatessen. It was tough finding another job. With only a high school diploma, he was competing against college students less than half his age. Eventually, he ran out of money.

"So I graciously moved out of my apartment," he says, laughing. "My landlord was a good guy. Why cause him a lot of trouble?"

Ron means it when he says "out." He moved outdoors, into some bushes near Indian Mound, a wooded area on Cliff Drive on Kansas City's northeast side. He had been homeless before, so he knew how to hide himself and feed himself out of Dumpsters. Later, a friend and former deli customer invited him to camp out with him and another guy.

Ron was there three years, gradually turning a canvas lean-to into a home furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, and a few other pieces of furniture. He scavenged everything; the place even had a little patio.

"I had a really beautiful river view. It was a high-dollar estate," Ron says.

Ron supported himself by picking up cans three times a day, seven days a week. He'd walk three separate routes, starting around 3:30 each morning during the summer and finishing around midnight. Sometimes he'd pick up discarded pizza and sandwiches along the way. In between routes he'd nap, play with his little dog, Missy, clean his camp, and drink. Can money was for vodka and tobacco. He was polishing off about a liter of vodka and smoking a pack of cigarettes every day. His cigarettes were (and are) hand-rolled -- standard for the homeless.

Even without plumbing, Ron says things were good in the summer because he could wash up in the river. In wintertime, clean socks are a luxury that must often be foregone, and Ron would pay dearly for the lack of that amenity.

"In the winter you wear the same clothes for maybe two weeks in a row. You take off your coat and boots and climb into your sleeping bag," he says.

His socks had gotten wet from constant perspiration -- a lot of perspiration. Ron is 6'7" and wore a size 15 shoe then. His feet hurt and he was walking on them all the time. He finally decided to get some clean socks from Uplift, an all-volunteer organization that helps the homeless.

"I pulled off my socks and half of each foot was black. I had been walking around on them about a week that way. Sure they hurt, but I didn't care. That's the alcoholism," he says.

One day, Ron went to the hospital and got his 15 minutes of fame. Hospital officials showed medical students his feet. A nurse took pictures of them, saying his frostbitten feet were worse than the ones shown in medical textbooks. Eventually, half of each foot was amputated. It took two operations in two days; the surgeons couldn't get it all with one operation.

Things are much better now, even though Ron has no income. He's trying to get the minimum Social Security disability payment so he can get a room somewhere and maybe some job training.

Ron could save the government $2,500 a month by getting off Medicaid and into the Social Security system, but he says he's been denied disability status because he didn't get frostbitten badly enough. Ron can walk only for short periods of time, using a cane. He can't walk at all without prosthetic shoes.

Ron is philosophical about his Kafkaesque situation, if a little bemused. He says his life is 400 percent better since he quit drinking. He's now a volunteer at Uplift, which he says gives his life a clear sense of purpose.

"Cardinal (John) Glennon (of St. Louis) has been great to me, just great, but they have to follow the state's rules," he says of his home. "But you know, they've got some nice bushes out in front. Maybe they'll let me live there."

Then Ron laughs again.

Momma Jo Jo Lecount, Uplift volunteer coordinator, is known as "Momma Jo" to hundreds of Kansas City's most powerless residents.