Greg doesn't want his picture taken. He sits quietly on the steps of a church. He politely eats the bread and chili provided to him by the free lunch program at St. Andrew's. On the step next to him next to his crumbling sneakers is a sack lunch with a roll of toilet paper in it that was provided to him by the church. This is one of several lunch programs that Greg will visit in the week; he knows them all.

"If you go down to the big white church near the pier, there is a woman there who does a really nice job," he said. 

It's obvious that he appreciates the charity of others, but would rather be working. Greg looks to be in his early fifties, his thinning hair is combed into a neat side part. His shirt is tucked in under beige windbreaker. Greg doesn't want to give his last name.

 He grew up in Redondo Beach; his grandparents moved out from Kansas in the mid-'20s and he has been here ever since. When asked if he had a family Greg choked off a laugh and said, "I couldn't afford one if I did."

Greg used to be a journeyman marine electrician, working on ships up and down California—following contracts wherever they took him. He has been out of work since the mid-'90s, when large portions of the ships he worked on were bought and maintained by foreign companies. He survives off a combination of government assistance, food programs like the one at St. Andrew's, food stamps, and any odd job offered to him.

He has tried several times to get work through civic services to no avail. Part of the difficulty is that he's been out of work for so long that he has no old pay stubs or personal references. The other difficulty is that even the most menial jobs are fiercely competitive.

"There was a part-time position as a janitor in Hawthorne—they had a stack of applications an inch thick, and some of those people had MBA's," Greg said.

Because of this never ending feedback loop of joblessness, made worse by a recession with no end in sight, Greg does what he has to in order to get by.

"All of us steal recyclables. I'll do just about anything," he said. "We would work if there were jobs."

Greg is keenly aware of his situation. He spends most of his days at the library and he is intimately acquainted with politics and the details of the recession. He has his degree in economics and a minor in psychology.

"Look down the street, drive down PCH and count the empty store fronts," he urged. "Everyone is too scared to make a move; those are empty lots, they aren't bringing in any money."

In 2008, the numbers lining up outside for the free lunch at St. Andrew's began increasing markedly. There are people who believe that the poverty of the homeless and low-income lined up outside the church is a passing phase until they and the country get working again.

There are people whose mental deficiencies keep them from gaining a foothold in the work force. And then there are people like Greg, who have relegated themselves to day-to-day survival, and have little hope for the future.

In a moment of unexpected levity Greg joked, "I wish I could invent something like the pet rock or something like that. I'd like to, you know, live West of PCH or in Malibu or something."

Greg is one of many stories of the homeless and low-income in our community. Where it is often times easier to avert your gaze and chalk poverty up to an easy answer like drugs or alcohol, most of the time the stories are far most shaded than we would like to believe. 

It's hard for many people to relate to those like Greg who have fallen on hard times, particularly now, when everyone is watching out for their own bottom line. Perhaps that's because of the idea that the impoverished members of our community aren't that different from us.

Earlier: Homeless in Redondo: A Growing Problem Without an Easy Solution, She Feeds  Their Bodies, They Feed Her Soul.