The stained-yellow circular clock nailed to the wall next to the "No Smoking" sign says 8:15 p.m. It’s really 8 p.m. Sean Cononie swings the door open to the cluttered
back room.
"How’s it going, Randy?" he asks the jittery resident twitching at the chair behind the desk.
"He’s fine. We’re just having a cigarette," the grey-haired man standing next to Randy says.
At the very mention of the idea, Cononie rummages through his deep baggy blue-jean pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack. Behind him are three cartons of 305s.
Cononie smokes five packs of cigarettes a day. With a job like his, it’s not hard to see why.
The 44-year-old is the director of the Coalition of Service and Charity (COSAC) homeless shelter. Originally a communications company, the Corporation of Sean Anthony Cononie was sold and Cononie changed his purpose and opend COSAC in 1997.
"We take all the homeless people that they won’t take anywhere else," says Cononie. "You name it, they’re here."
Although several current and former residents of the two-story building right off the busy streets of U.S. 1 serve as staff members, the place operates like an
efficient hospital.
Maybe that’s because Cononie runs it like a chief of medicine.
After the first drag of what will be at least two more packs, Cononie hands Randy 10 singles for dinner.
"Do me a favor," Cononie says, getting serious for the first time tonight. "Don’t spend it on crack, or I’m gonna be upset."
Cononie grabs the nearest walkie-talkie and barks pilot-like orders at his staff, who quickly chirp automated responses of "10-4." Two of the residents are getting married tonight, and Cononie is making sure the chaos is controlled.
As he climbs into the cushioned driver’s seat of a black car, beads of sweat run down Cononie’s back onto his yellow collared shirt. On the way to the wedding, a caravan of cars follows a police escort across the street as Cononie yells into his walkie-talkie to his right-hand man, COSAC assistant director William Robb.
"Billy, stay on my butt!"
Tailgating Cononie’s ride with his black SUV, Robb shouts back at Cononie: "That’s not very attractive, but we got everybody?"
As the trail of vehicles pulls into the parking lot of Young Circle, Cononie chuckles at the flashing cameras and the large group of reporters gathered at the edge of the park.
"Wow, they must be thinkin’ Princess Di’s getting married," he says.
Cononie hops out of the driver’s seat and trudges up the paved sidewalk hill to the fountain at the top. Although he badly injured his leg twice back in his law enforcement days, it’s hard to keep up with his determined stride.
"It’s usually hectic," he says, pausing as he adjusts his sagging jeans and lights up what must be his fourth cigarette already. "And my pants are fallin’ down. I hope I don’t get a citation."
A two-man band plays the wedding march, as press, staff and shelter residents gather around the grinning bride and groom as Cononie recites his improvised wedding sermon.
"These are the rings," he says as he hands the bands of matrimony to the couple. "I don’t know who goes first, but we’re gonna do it my way."
A jack-of-all-trades in the best sense, Cononie has already used his skills as an event coordinator, pharmacy tech and ordained minister — all in the span of less than two hours.
As the couple embraces in a passionate kiss, the bride looks into the video camera at one of the audience members and gestures toward Cononie.
"He has a heart of gold," says Crystal Vogelsang.
"He will give the shirt off his back."
Although COSAC hosts about five weddings a year, Cononie says tender moments like this are very rare.
"We have more funerals than weddings, unfortunately. We’ve had about 50 funerals in the last eight years."
The ceremony ends and Cononie is once again on the move, nearly charging down the hill back to the car, cigarette in hand.
Acknowledging some of the myths about his "life of luxury," Cononie laughs. Although he has a house about a six-minute drive away from COSAC, Cononie has been sleeping at the shelter for the last eight years.
Just recently, a shower was installed in Cononie’s living quarters. Before that, it wasn’t so pleasant.
"I was showering at the YMCA," he says, finishing his cigarette before he hops back into the car.
The police escort waves his flashlight at the swarm of cars too impatient to wait for the caravan of wedding-goers.
"See how nobody pulls over for the blue lights?" Cononie sighs. "Isn’t it amazing?"
Back in the director’s office, Cononie mentions his respect for law enforcement — an unusual characteristic for homeless advocacy workers. Unlike in other cities, police and COSAC workers in Hollywood work together to help the homeless.
Cononie recalls his own attempt at law enforcement before his leg injury.
"I would’ve been decent at it because I think outside the box. You don’t always have to arrest people."
As he finishes his 10th cigarette in three hours, Cononie makes himself a wrap sandwich at the steel counter of the small kitchen in the corner of his office.
Working on two hours of sleep, he says he has been involved in the fight against poverty for more than 20 years.
"I was feeding people out of the trunk of my car when I was in high school," he says.
Emerging from one of the back rooms, Homeless Voice editor Mark Targett enters the kitchen
and stands beside Cononie.
Targett, 29, may be a father of three, self-taught computer whiz and editor of the second-largest homeless advocacy newspaper in the country, but he was not always as successful. Targett, who is a recovering addict not only helped COSAC, but COSAC helped him about six years ago.
Cononie recounts the heart-breaking tales of overdose, arrest and Targett’s eventual victory over his addiction. Through it all, the two have remained as close as father and son.
"If [Targett] was my own skin and blood," Cononie says, "I couldn’t love him any more."