SIZING UP THE HOMELESS SITUATION SPECIAL CENSUS WILL DETERMINE LOS ANGELES COUNTY NUMBERS.

Byline: DANA BARTHOLOMEW Staff Writer

Kelly Fitzthum once owned two homes, drove a Cadillac and was one of the top-selling real estate agents at her national firm.

Now homeless for months after a few bad breaks and bouts of severe depression, the last vestige of her former middle-class life is her member card from Costco.

``I'd never dreamed of being homeless, or what homelessness was,'' said Fitzthum, 41, a green-eyed redhead, tears rolling down her face.

``I was like everybody else. I've got a Costco card -- to be somebody, you've got to have a Costco card.''

This week, Fitzthum and 90,000 other homeless residents across Los Angeles County were tallied during the country's largest homeless census.

Hoping to preserve some $60 million in federal funds, 1,500 paid homeless workers and volunteers fanned out across 500 census tracts.

Results of the $819,000 census -- more than double the cost of the inaugural $350,000 count two years ago -- are expected to be released by June.

``Los Angeles is the homeless capital of the country and we have every intention of working toward a regional solution to homelessness,'' said Rebecca Isaacs, executive director of the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority, the city-county agency that coordinated the census.

Progress, if any, has been glacial, homeless advocates say.

A blue-ribbon panel last spring determined it would cost $12 billion over the next decade to end the county's homelessness problem.

Meanwhile, some say that a $100 million plan to open five homeless-service centers throughout the county has been stalled by community opposition.

``What's happened (is) we haven't done anything to end homelessness,'' said Bob Erlenbusch, executive director of Los Angeles Coalition to End Hunger & Homelessness, an advocacy group that served on the panel.

``We're actually moving backwards.''

Although officials say a crackdown on Skid Row has pushed transients to other parts of the city, a two-hour search this week along the streets and parks of North Hollywood turned up nary a transient.

``That's it, nothing but zeros out here,'' said Taronce ``Pink'' Odie, 33, of South Los Angeles, a former crack addict wearing a baby-blue coat with matching rabbit trim.

Now clean and living in a transitional shelter downtown, Odie dreams of getting four of her children back and landing her first real job.

``I want to make my boys proud,'' she said. ``This is the first paying job I've ever had.''

Robert Harris became homeless after losing his $300-a-week job as a carnival worker. Now living in a shelter downtown, the former Granada Hills resident and father of seven grown children said he's determined to get back on his feet.

``The Lord has just given me the feeling that, if I direct people to him, then he'll give me triple what I lost,'' said Harris, 52. ``So far, it's working.''

The problem, some say, is that there simply aren't enough shelter beds -- 14,000 in Los Angeles County -- or low-cost apartments to serve the poor.

Kathy Proctor, homeless clinic administrator for the Northeast Valley Health Corp., said there are ample mental health, substance abuse and health clinics -- but too few beds.

``While we can run around like crazy with all those services, having no housing sabotages all the care,'' she said. ``It's hard to stabilize someone on the street.''

During the cold snap earlier this month, Leonard Segal found Fitzthum, with her pet Dalmatian, ``Sparkle,'' crying in front of a Northridge Rite Aid.

She had no food. She had no blankets. She had no money for medicine.

There was no indication that she'd once earned $18,000 a month selling homes in Washington state.

``I've always taken care of myself,'' said Fitzthum, who had resorted to collecting Social Security on account of her depression. ``I was not the person you see now. I have worked so hard.''

Shivering with cold in the burned RV of a fellow transient, she had prayed for an angel -- and found one in Segal. He bought her food, he bought her a blanket. He stored her bags. He helped place her dog so she could sleep at the Sylmar Armory.

And he found her daytime help at a social service center.

``There is no system to rescue people who are dying in the street,'' said Segal, 51, of Northridge, a substitute teacher and union activist.

``Because poor and homeless people don't vote and because nobody wants them in their neighborhood, elected officials aren't doing anything.''

After awaking at 5 a.m. each day, Fitzthum and other transients are transported from Sylmar to Van Nuys, where they are dropped off before dawn without breakfast.

Until it warms up, they huddle for warmth in a makeshift brick ``castle,'' to prevent being roused by police.

``It came from being somebody to poverty, homelessness, hopelessness,'' Fitzthum said. ``I feel so hopeless now ... I feel so bad inside.

``I want help.''

dana.bartholomew(at)dailynews.com

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CAPTION(S):

photo, box

Photo:

A homeless Kelly Fitzthum spends her days at Cornerstone, an agency in Van Nuys that provides services to the homeless. Homeless residents such as Fitzthum often rely on services from local governments, which can receive millions in federal funds for the dispossessed.

Evan Yee/Staff Photographer

Box:

Los Angeles County homeless crisis

SOURCE: Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority

Gregg Miller/Staff Artist