Rough Sleeper

Crutches

2007-03-22T01:54:00.000-05:00

This is one of the first pictures I ever made of Steve. He's the one in the wheelchair. There are more, buried somewhere in a file cabinet downstairs. I haven't seen them in a while. According to Barney (also pictured), Steve was doing pretty well until he got hit by the car that broke his leg. Prior to that, he was working regularly and for the first time in years, paying forty dollars a month rent for his apartment.

When the accident happened, his status as an alcoholic meant they couldn't send him home with anything to kill the pain. So naturally, he used vodka and that worked pretty good except that he had the cast on for ten months.

The culprit

2007-03-21T21:44:00.001-05:00

For hard times

2006-06-15T16:22:00.000-05:00

Ever spent a day at the food stamp office? Technically, it's the Department of Human Services although I've yet to hear anyone who goes there, call it that. It's something like the Department of Motor Vehicles except at the food stamp office, you have kids. Lots and lots of kids. Sick ones, loud ones, miserable and happy ones, all of them, poor. Same with the adults.

You go there, and you check in with a lady at the front, who is dressed in a security guard's uniform. I assume that means she's a security guard but truthfully, if I were meeting and greeting all those people every day, I'd wear one too. Anyway, she gives you a pencil and a form to fill out and reminds you politely to return her pencil - and you do. Then, she says, Go stand in section A.

In another part of the room, there are about two hundred chairs, split evenly into two groups that sit perpendicular to one another. Did I say there were lots of kids? Everything is clearly marked and according to sources, far more streamlined than it used to be. So, we're standing in section A in a line that moves rather quickly. After a short burst of questions, my friend is given an appointment time of one forty-five in the afternoon. It is eleven thirty. He is told to have a seat and asked not to leave because he could be called early.

He turns and goes straight out the door and I follow him. There's a two person smoking station there on the street, in line with the exhaust fumes, along the edge of the driveway. Smokers are invited to stand on the curb or sit on a concrete flower pot, filled with sand and ashes and cigarette butts. It doesn't smell like people have urinated nearby but that's the impression you get sitting there. One that says, you're the fire plug, in case you didn't know. A lone, hispanic hot-dog vendor, yells ¡HOT DOGS! If you're thirsty, he'll sell you a 12 oz. bottle of water for a dollar and tell you it's the special price - for beautiful lady or (presumably) amigos, if you happen to be a man.

Once we sat among the throngs of people seeking assistance of some kind, I noticed exactly how many people there were, talking on cell phones. Some were calling everyone in their address book to pass the time. Others made plans to meet each other, hang out, get together, hook up. Of the ten conversations I overheard pieces of, no one reported being at the food stamp office. There were several other conversations, that were incomprehensible. At one point there was an extended Chinese family on the row behind us, an extended Hispanic family in front of us (five kids in tow), and three white, American girls on our left, all dressed in pink, all talking on the phone. More than one toddler was outfitted with a plastic cellphone, into which, they had their own private make-believe shouting matches.

It's amazing the degree to which parents have learned to ignore children who are yelling at the top of their lungs in public. In a lot of cases it was like they were hypnotized. A dad in front of us rewarded such behavior with the playful tapping of a newspaper, after the child had screamed for five minutes. He did this every five minutes. The mom never heard it.

Two hours and forty-five minutes after we arrived, a bitter woman with a clipboard called my friends name. She dismissed me without a glance and proceeded to interrogate him about his work history in her office. She suggested he sign on for a job placement program. He told her he was unable to work due to alcoholism, illness, homelessness and his impending death. She wasn't buying it. In her mind, it translated to lazy. He sat before her, all one hundred twenty pounds of him while she insisted he prove that his situation was dire. As if showing up to ask for food stamps wasn't proof enough.

If this woman, this shining example of insensitive, cookbook social work, had taken a look around the waiting area, she might've noticed that the man in her office was the most desperate person there. He didn't own a cell phone or a car or a pink outfit or a new pair of Nikes. He couldn't afford a hot dog if he wanted one. He was sober, polite and respectful. Yet, there was the badgering, a lecture and a phone call, before she temporarily approved one hundred fifty-two dollars a month in food stamps. That's five dollars a day. She made it clear she was doing him a big favor and he thanked her for it.

One day about a month later, I spotted a stray envelope filled with cigarette butts. Ironically, it was pre-addressed to the Department of Human Services. There's that woman's proof, I thought. Desperation, sickness, poverty, death; all right there in that envelope, as far as I could see.

Why are you saving these? I asked him, and you know what he said?

For hard times.

Do it yourself

2006-03-30T09:44:00.000-06:00

Speaking of grocery carts, Steve and I found ourselves (last) Friday, at the Kroger Pharmacy where I pointed out (with mock accusation) , a sign to him upon which was written:

All grocery carts are the property of the Kroger Co.

He said he thought they might be missing a few.

Also, a guy passed us on a bicycle with half a plastic shopping cart hitched to the back of it. The wheels on the cart had been replaced with bicycle tires. Steve identified it as originally having been "the property of Home Depot".

(Note: Originally, these words were posted on my other blog, with a picture of Barney carrying a giant yard bag full of laundry. This one, his personal laundry/grocery cart, had already been posted. The whole conversation reminded me of the designer chairs being chained together. In fact, I use that imagery sometimes just for a good giggle. )

How would you rate your pain?

2006-03-27T23:53:00.000-06:00

"I've been reading about cirrhosis of the liver."

"Did it say on there that it'll kill you?"

"Yes."

"Did it say it was a long, slow, painful death?"

"Yes."

"Nothing that a length of rope and one of them tree limbs out there wouldn't fix."

"You better be careful with those tree limbs. They're rotted. You'll hit the ground and that tree limb will follow you right down."

"Then I'll wake up and somebody'll be saying:
'Mr. Grady, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?'"

Sitting

2006-03-20T21:45:00.000-06:00

When we all get up to Heaven, St. Peter is going to be on a lunch break.
Instead, there's going to be a guy there, that goes by the name of Shorty.
He's gonna' be kicked back in one of those collapsible nylon chairs you get at Wal- Mart, with a 40 oz. Natural Ice in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I think a lot of people are going to be very surprised.

My apologies for leaving you all sitting. Lots of things have been happening and first I should say thanks for the kind words and e-mails of late from a wide variety of people. Your thoughts and comments are not only appreciated but many times thought-provoking and educational.

The last three weeks have been something of a blur. There are too many stories to tell and not enough time to sit and write but eventually, I'll have to tell them because there is beauty and humor, even in the worst of it. Also because there are a couple of people who will hound me like a dog, if I don't.

To answer the pressing question of my last post... Yes.

Steve dialed his family from my cellphone that day and although it was an emotional experience for everyone, I believe it went very well. The good thing (and with someone else it might have been very different) was that they were happy to hear from him. It allowed him the chance to reconnect in his own way and it spared them the phone call that for years, they believed would eventually reach them.

Yesterday, Steve returned to the hospital and was admitted once again with another round of complications. At the moment however, he is resting comfortably, in the care of some good nurses on the fifth floor.

A few days back, he saw this photo on my computer screen and announced:

"I know that's in a rich neighborhood."

"Really," I answered, "how can you tell?"

"Well" he said, "they're not chained together. If they were in my neighborhood, they'd be chained together."

If you've got time, check out Yellow Cab by anthropologist, Robert Leonard.

Phoning home

2006-03-16T21:23:00.000-06:00

"Your appointment with the liver doctor is April 6th."

"My brother's birthday", he said.

"Your brother, is he older or younger than you?"

"He's about five years older."

He went back to reading. Then looked up from the book and said (with regard to the computer)

"Do you think you could find Tina on there? She's into that computer stuff too."

I found an address and telephone number for his brother and sister-in-law in about two minutes, wrote it on a post-it-note and handed it to him.

He lit a cigarette and studied it carefully. He laid it over on the table and still looking at it from a distance, he said,

"She don't like me to call collect but I could send them something I guess, letem' know I'm okay."

Without looking up at his face, I reached for a cell phone that was between us and turned it slowly, to face him. A beat later, I shifted my gaze to meet his.

"Free," I said, pointing to the phone.

He lifted his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Uh-huh. I pay one price regardless of who or where I call."

(So okay, that was mostly true.)

"You can use it if you want to."

I went back to typing, held my breath.

The goal was to remain neutral and let it be his decision. Journalistically speaking, in this case, I've already broken a number of rules. There are some rules about being a decent person though, and one of them is: Don't deny a man a telephone to call his family if he wants to.

"How long since you've talked to anybody?" I asked him.

"Must be close to ten years by now," he said, reaching for the phone.

Things we take for granted

2006-03-09T11:53:00.000-06:00

I was whining yesterday about how I was going to sell something to buy a digital voice recorder and Steve, who humbles me regularly, in case anyone isn't hip to that yet, just looked up very matter-of-factly and said,

"Aintcha' got a pencil?"

"Well, yeah, fine," I said, feigning aggravation and reaching for the keyboard. Then as if that weren't enough, he agreed with me that it probably would be better hearing him tell it (which was the absolute truth and exactly my point). Here, in his words, is a story about a street dog he once knew called Buddy.

A lotta' people out there knew Buddy dog. I'd go out pickin' up cans and hit them motel dumpsters all along Murfreesboro Road there and he'd go right along with me. He'd go as far as Continental (Motel) with me, get his stomach full and lay down out there in the sunshine. When I got done and it was time to go, he'd look at me like I was crazy. So, I'd just say, I'll see you when you get home Buddy and go on. And he would be, sure enough. He'd be layin' right there in the yard by the time I made it back to camp.

I knowed him since he was a little bitty pup. He started out somebody else's dog. They abandoned him on the creek bank and that's when he took up with me. He wasn't like no regular dog. We go through them dumpsters and he didn't gobble up the bones or just anything because he always knew there was more to come. After everything was gone - then he wasn't shy of that bone but up til then, he'd pick little bites off a chicken or a pork chop and keep going.

Most people remember him because he run up and down the road there a lot of the time, with a quart bottle in his mouth. He was a labordaor retriever and all we had, down there to throw in the creek for him was quart bottles. He'd go out after 'em and then he wouldn't give'em back.

Went down to Spur one Sunday morning, get me some cigarettes and Buddy tagged along. We got there and there was a crackhead standin' in front of the air machine, he told me when I come up, he said,

"Get your dog."

I told him he wasn't my dog.

Then I looked over at Buddy and I told him, I said,

"Watch 'im Buddy."

Dog hunched down and stared in the man's eyes.
I went on in the store. I come out a few minutes later and him and that dude was still looking at each other. I figured it wasn't gonna' be til twelve o'clock I'd get back by and I hated to leave ol' Buddy standing there til' then, so when I got to the corner of the parking lot I looked back and I said,

"C'mon Buddy"

And we went on down the road.

(Note: The dog in the photo is used for illustrative purposes only. He's a lot dog as opposed to a street dog and his name is Chopper. That was terribly amusing three months ago, when he was a puppy. Thanks to Barney, he is occasionally seen sporting a four-dollar rawhide bone.)

Blinders

2006-03-09T11:27:00.001-06:00

He sat in the chair reading the contraindication pages given to him with four different prescriptions. He laughed and read aloud:

Tell your doctor immediately if you become thirsty or confused. Hell, he said, that's my whole problem.

The doctor always prescribes a few things that aren't covered by his limited insurance. It's a nice gesture, wasted; a cookbook version of treatment. I don't know why it doesn't occur to them that the only money he's got is the bus fare they're going to give him when he leaves. Even then, sometimes people act like they're doing him a favor. Like, hey here's a dollar forty-five so you can get back over to that bridge you've been living on for the last few years. Don't forget to weigh yourself regularly and have your blood pressure checked and oh, by the way, stop drinking.

On the other side, and there is another side. There are some health care professionals who actually get it. They're hard-working, bright compassionate people who'd do just about anything for anybody they could. Their only limitation is the broken system. The one that discharges you on a Sunday knowing you can't get any medicine until Tuesday. The one that says we heard you say you'd like to try rehab so why don't you make an appointment for a month from now.

Three days ago, the Tennessean printed an article with a headline, General Hospital needs image transplant. Straight from the mouth of the Metro Hospital Authority's chief executive:

"We want to get the public to perceive us differently," Coopwood said.

How? The hospital has made some low-budget strides with a television commercial. They have a new slogan: "Experience the new General. Get to know us."

Does anyone actually believe that a new slogan is going to fix General's problems? That's the mentality that probably drove it into the ground in the first place. General Hospital needs a staff transplant. Again, let me make it perfectly clear, I believe there are competent, well-trained people working there. Unfortunately, they're surrounded by a cloud of complacent, irritable, employees drowning in bureaucracy and underfunding. By all means, spend tens of thousands of dollars on a commercial. When the ambulance driver asks Dr. Coopwood what hospital he'd like to be taken to, what do we think he's going to say?

Emergency room

2006-03-04T10:54:00.000-06:00

Down the hall there was a little boy screaming. It lasted the better part of four hours. I stared at the pattern on the linoleum floor while Steve nodded off on the gurney. He'd sleep in two minute intervals for a while then wake up for fifteen or twenty and we'd have another conversation. He was hurting all over this time. Grouchy, but apologetic.

On the way to the emergency room, a girl crossed Eighth Avenue in front of us and after she'd almost gone, he said,

"I wish I could still walk like that."

There was a long silence and then he added, "but it's too late for me."

My arm instinctively turned off the radio and we crossed over the train yard, surrounded on all sides, by the lunch time traffic.

"If they drain this fluid off when I'm there," he said, "maybe you could take a picture of that. Maybe it would stop some motherfucker from drinking himself to death."

The next light came and I studied a familiar profile, sleeping on the bus stop bench by the offices of our daily newspaper. It was seventy-four degrees and the man on the bench couldn't take off his winter coat because someone would've stolen it, in a matter of minutes.

I tried to relax my jaw and said, "Maybe ".

The message on my answering machine the day before was cryptic. Could I come by sometime tomorrow? He didn't say Hey I need a ride to the hospital. Or hey, my liver is about to make my stomach explode.

He said "Hey, Sue could you come by tomorrow if you've got time? "

In the message, he was very drunk. He didn't know how to hang up the cell phone and the ensuing conversation between he and another man gave me great pause. It was a five-minute dialogue that I could have gone my whole life without hearing. I couldn't begin to describe it here.

His voice has changed dramatically over the last two months. Sometimes it heaves like the old garbage disposal under my sink. Rocking gently between homelessness and alcoholism, death and now a subtle form of hopeless regret, he would talk for the next nine hours, seven of which were spent in the emergency room, waiting patiently for a double shot of arrogant indifference. I foolishly believed it wouldn't happen but Steve knew better. He laid it all out beautifully, before we even got there.

(In memory of Wayne E. Frampton, who died in an abandoned car, on the morning of Saturday, February 25, 2006. He was fifty-five years old.)

Same as it ever was

2005-12-23T10:15:00.000-06:00

It's been unusually serious around here over the last month or so. Thanks to you who are still checking in and the newcomers as well. I thought I might let you all know that there may be a short break, not in picture taking but in blogging. It came as no surprise that four days before Christmas with a looming deadline, I managed to burn up a hard drive. This led to one night of CPR, mild panic, an hour's worth of tech support, a trip to the emergency room and pending surgery (for the box, not me). A telephone call yesterday from the Mac doctor said he was able to save the goods (glory hallelujah) and that the part I needed might be in today. I had to fight off a laugh then. We all know these people are standing around a conference and/or a mail room table right now, drinking cheap wine out of a plastic glass and trying to decide what to eat next. I don't blame them a bit.

In any event, this page is due for some festivity but at the moment, I can't say when that'll be. Enjoy the holiday. I wish all of you peace, prosperity, hope, and a comfortable pair of shoes.
Bisy Backson, SA

Responses

2005-12-20T02:04:00.000-06:00

These comments followed the previous post, a day after it was originally published. They were some of the most insightful comments to date on the topic of alcoholism.

My name's Terry, and I'm an alcoholic. I first said those words eight years ago, so I think I qualify to answer your question.

You believe, because friends and family of drunks are often co-dependent. It's a vicious cycle that can't be broken by wishful thinking or self deception.

If Steve is as much an alcohol as you suggest, then he is likely beyond medical help. He has a spiritual malady that can only be overcome through spiritual means -- and, I'm sad to say, this kind of help is very rarely found in church.

As the book of Alcoholics Anonymous says so perfectly, "We were in a position where life was becoming impossible, and if we had passed into the region from which there is no return through human aid, we had but two alternatives: One was to go on to the bitter end, blotting out the consciousness of our intolerable situation as best we could; and the other, to accept spiritual help."

Regrettably, this is a choice only he can make. When King Alcohol finally wreaks enough havoc in his life, he will find himself at the stepping off point. Let's hope he has the courage to ask for help. My prayers are with you.

A day later, Gunner added,

I was 13 so i cannot honestly say I saw my dad drink himself to death, but he did. He never made my 14th birthday.

The problem is that if you feel he cannot make rational decisions on his health and life then who does? American history is full of movements to control alcoholics who could not control their drinking. Do a basic google search for alcoholics and eugenics and see how badly society treated them..

I stand by Terry's comment above, He cannot do it himself and he needs higher form of help. Good luck

Paperwork

2005-12-19T02:20:00.000-06:00

The follow up

2005-12-19T01:58:00.000-06:00

At the end of last week, Steve did his follow-up visit at the hospital. I was going to take a picture of his chart (it's eight inches thick; going back only to 2001) but it made the doctor nervous and I didn't blame her. We'd never met before that moment. I wouldn't have let me do it either but the fact is the thing was eight inches thick.

He predicted that he'd be examined and then lectured about drinking, which is more or less, what happened. Two different doctors each took a turn (he's never had the same doctor twice). Both were painfully honest with him, about his condition. There was also the (somewhat) vague offer of inpatient treatment. If he had expressed an interest in sobriety, I believe they would've kept him there but then, he isn't the one running the show (where his options are concerned), alcohol is.

So, I might ask the question, of people who know more than I do about it...why do so many of us continue to believe that alcoholics are capable of making rational decisions? If alcoholism is a disease, then why isn't that the symptom we treat first? Why not a pill or a shot that releases the grip of alcohol long enough for a person to want treatment? Steve's been dependent on alcohol since he was eighteen years old. That's twenty-six years (of the same well-intentioned approach).

View from the bridge

2005-12-14T01:28:00.000-06:00

This isn't new and many of you may have seen it already but because of the subject matter here of late, I went looking for it. It's a golden piece of work (which may explain why PBS has it). NeedCom Market Research for Panhandlers.

The photo above is the view from what I've been calling Steve's bridge. Beyond the pair of white doves, he has two vivid recollections about working the bridge. One is when a woman gave him money and then jumped his case about using the word God on his sign, and the other is the time a man in a suit and tie got out of his car and asked to pray for him. Steve said it was fine and afterward, the man gave him forty dollars. He tells both of these stories, but always returns to the woman who lectured him.
I just can't believe there are people who get offended by a blessing from God, he'll say.

A little wind burn

2005-12-13T15:00:00.000-06:00

It turns out, the shave, wasn't altogether intentional. Steve took a shower at Barney's the other day, his first in over a month, and according to him, he went to shaving and had a miss hit. Personally, I think it looks sensational but I didn't say too much about it at the time. Men have their own reasons for facial hair or lack thereof. I try not to interfere.

Now, nearly a month after Steve was released from the hospital, he's finally begun to recover a little, in spite of his living conditions. Don't misunderstand, he still has the belly, but he's getting around a lot better and taking his medicine regularly.

That plastic bracelet would've driven me insane by now.

The message

2005-12-05T15:00:00.000-06:00

So yes, I was going to let Steve have a day or two of rest and now according to my voice mail, he's gone and shaved his beard off. I thought I had taught these people to call me when such things are about to happen but clearly it was something more spontaneous.

Christmas window

2005-12-03T00:41:00.000-06:00

Unfortunately, sometimes the best picture is completely out of focus. I didn't find the woodcarvers yesterday but I did run up on this scene, where a homeless man does his first bit of Christmas decorating in twenty years. What a production. The first thing that happened was that Barney pulled the rope on that crusty set of blinds in his window and the whole shebang broke out of the brackets. I wasn't there for that part but he marched up to the office and demanded that new ones be installed immediately, which of course, didn't work.

He spent another hour talking about how he was going to have to lie there all weekend, buck naked, in front of the window and did I want to get a picture of that. Eventually, he and Steve hung the lights with little trouble and made a curtain out of wrapping paper, in order to spare his neighbors the unrepentant view. Once it was all finished the two of them went outside and declared it the best decorated window on the street

Accessories

2005-12-02T10:46:00.000-06:00

I'm not supposed to say who this elegant shaving kit belongs to.
You'd laugh if I did anyway.
All smiling and proud of himsef, he said, You know how long I've had that can of shaving cream?

Well yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. Congratulations.

I'm off today to find either of two men who carve walking sticks. One of them uses a magnifying glass. Think about that for a minute. According to Steve, he even works sometimes on cloudy days. The other man uses a knife. Some of his goods were stored in the girlfriend's truck, last week. ~~Cheers~~.

Barney's Christmas tree

2005-12-01T10:32:00.000-06:00

Just fifteen minutes after I posted last, there was word on the voicemail that Steve was summarily evicted from the van. Not unusual. Sources said he was up at the bridge but there was someone else working that corner when I got there so I checked at Barney's and there he was still feeling, and looking, a little better. He's decided to stay there for a few days and rest up. When I left the two of them (around 5:30 p.m. yesterday) they were planning to string blue Christmas lights around the window. I probably should've stayed for that.

Photographers will want to know that Slate and Magnum have partnered to bring us regular online interactive feature stories (everybody say ooooh baby). The introduction is here. Don't know if it's my browser or a bug but the sound was sketchy or missing in some places. Regardless, the stories couldn't be better.

A change of scenery

2005-11-28T00:00:00.000-06:00

Staying in a car isn't that bad. The bad thing is waking up at four-thirty in the morning knowing you got to go to the bathroom. If you've got gas in the tank, you can turn on the heat for awhile and get warm again. Then, all you have to worry about is not falling asleep with it running. -Steve

He can't lay down because I'm storing shit for every hobo in the city, in the back of my truck. -the friendgirl

As far as I've been able to determine, Saturday was the first time Steve found a place to physically lie down in the six days since he'd left Barney's apartment. I found him stretched out on a blanket, lying face down, but not on his stomach. The weather was windy and mild (after two nights of twenty degree weather). For those who are unfamiliar with Nashville, the weather patterns along with the temperatures fluctuate wildly between seasons. It's an area where tropical moisture in the morning can lead to sleet that afternoon. The only predictable thing about it is that it will most likely occur during rush hour. Anyway, Steve planned to sleep outside Saturday night, if possible. He and the girl changed their location because the parking lot where they'd been staying became excessively rowdy over the weekend. It was a brilliant move I thought, since the arrest of either one could lead to some new disaster. Things change very quickly on the block though so just about everything I write is old news.

Here's a story written last week by my friend, John Spragens. (Sorry it's late, I thought I linked to it days ago) I'd just written the first post of Steve's story when John and I went to Lewisburg to meet with people there, who lost their TennCare coverage. It was a troubling day. Reports of tornadoes followed us all the way home and it seemed perfectly appropriate.

Thanksgiving day

2005-11-25T13:00:00.000-06:00

These are just a couple of shots from yesterday. There won't be an update on Steve today unless someone calls me. All those Social Security papers went out today. We filled them out on Wednesday, in the diner where a lady he used to work for spotted him and expressed her concern. Paydays in the diner are a sight to see. Someone had told me that people line up to buy lottery tickets but I hadn't given it much thought until the place was packed. Steve was able to remember a lot more about his past than he expected and he did great considering the traffic around us.

John Brecher, at MSNBC.com, posted an interesting piece about The Cars of Katrina, a couple of days ago. The random destruction seems to give these inanimate scenes a life of their own.

Green Street Church of Christ

2005-11-24T00:18:00.000-06:00

When we arrived at the church (maybe forty minutes early), there was a pretty large group of people, sitting out on the steps waiting for the doors to be unlocked.

This second version of the Green Street Church of Christ, was built in 1930 although the congregation's history goes back much further. An article in the Gospel Advocate; May 29, 1889, lists the church as one of two mission points in the city of Nashville, the other being on the west side. A fellow by the name of David Lipscomb, along with others of the Restoration Movement, preached there in 1897.

Form(s) and function

2005-11-23T23:11:00.000-06:00

Steve received two applications yesterday in the mail (his mail is directed to Barney's), from the Social Security Disabilities office. Combined, there were eight pages of medical and employment questions for him to answer, beginning with the question: Where is your pain located? He has fourteen days to return the papers. He is required to list the names and addresses of his employers for the past fifteen years and I'm curious to know, why doesn't Social Security already have this information?

We spoke briefly again yesterday about the loss of his TennCare coverage and again, I'd like to stress the fact that he isn't bitter and has never held anyone accountable for his problems. But, this is the conclusion, as he sees it:

It wasn't the sick people that ruined TennCare. It was the doctors and the hospitals and the pharmaceutical companies. They're the ones who ruined TennCare.

Here is today's opposing viewpoint, from Glen Dean. Mr. Dean notes that Tennesseans take more prescription drugs than any other state. If Tennesseans are over-medicated (and I believe they are) how exactly does a blanket rule of five prescriptions help? For example, if I'm abusing the system in order to receive Oxycontin, that's going to be my number one, name brand choice. Meanwhile, those individuals who require seven or eight prescriptions, sacrifice either their lives or their (already compromised) quality of life, based on the abuses of others.

This is a book of religious poems that Steve's girlfriend used to read from. The photo was taken a couple of years ago. The poem, her favorite, reads:

FORGIVENESS
So Little and So Much

In that I have so greatly failed thee, Lord,
Have grace!
A place!
So little of fair work for thee have I
To show;
So much of what I might have done, I did not do.
Yet thou hast seen in me at times the will
For good.
Although so oft I did not do all that
I would.
Thou knowest me through and through, and yet thou canst,
Forgive.
Only in hope of thy redeeming grace
I live.
-John Oxenham

Being thankful

2005-11-23T23:02:00.000-06:00

In the spirit of lighthearted optimism, Barney thought it might be good to get a shot of his Thanksgiving Dinner. He is a true bachelor and looking forward to the holiday. I'm ninety-five percent sure that there's a more traditional dinner available nearby, if he changes his mind. His neighbors are pretty good at whipping up a holiday dinner but he says this is the best one because it's already made.

Steve and the friendgirl have been planning all week to ride the city bus over to Green Street Church of Christ tomorrow. They try to go there and have a meal each Wednesday. Today though, they backed off the idea (mostly because Steve is still unable to walk more than a minute before he has to sit down) Their friends and the people from the block are planning on serving Thanksgiving dinner in the bar so they won't have that far to go. I might mention (and I only realized it today) he's had less to drink this week than I imagined he would. Physically, he's bound to a certain number of ounces but he's managed to avoid any extra. I hate to say that's good news but in somebody's world, it is.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. Have a safe weekend.

Laundry day

2005-11-23T22:50:00.000-06:00

This was tucked in a pocket with a quarter and fourteen pennies.

Full stomach

2005-11-22T23:31:00.000-06:00

Steve told me a story once about a pair of white doves that live near the bridge. He's probably the only person that's ever seen them since they live basically, on an interstate. I could tell by the way he told it that they were something special to him. Yesterday, I went down to the camp where he stays periodically and there was a lady I'd never seen before, sleeping in the bushes. She had red hair so initially, I called hello and when she raised her head I apologised for having disturbed her and said I was just checking to see if she was Steve. Shrouded in a muddy blanket, she sat up and called back to me that she hadn't seen him yet today. There were clothes hanging on a makeshift line between two evergreen trees and I wondered as I was leaving, if that was where the doves had lived.

Do not take on an empty stomach.
I forgot to mention in the last post that although Steve went for a day and a half without his medication, it was returned to him, yesterday afternoon. It appeared that milk was Monday's beverage of choice.

Lunch in the van

2005-11-21T23:44:00.000-06:00

Back to the street

2005-11-21T23:38:00.000-06:00

How many days has it been? Five?
Steve left Barney's apartment yesterday morning. In his newfound responsibility, Barney set about cleaning up the room some. He didn't worry too much because he knew Steve was only going as far as the parking lot next door. It was Sunday which meant no liquor sales.

Then along in the cleaning, Barney ran across Steve's dirty clothes which he had wadded up, and put behind a door. Mind you, these aren't what average people think of as dirty clothes. They're the clothes of a sick, homeless, alcoholic man. Barney then proceeded to have what Steve called a tizzy fit. He came storming up to the bar and told him that if he couldn't keep himself clean then he wasn't invited to come back. Period. Understand he did this, believing it would give his friend a kick in the pants. It didn't work of course, and Steve spent the last thirty-six hours, in the van; a day and a half without medicine.

He said it was just as warm there as it was at Barney's and that in a day or two, he'd go on back over and try again. Then he offered me half of a turkey sandwich and some Ritz crackers. I took the crackers and told him that some people had mean-mouthed him on the internet.

He seemed a little shocked at first but I added that there were others, who had kindly, risen to his defense. No response. We had a long conversation about his stay at the hospital. I noticed the congestion in his voice. Congestion that wasn't there on Saturday and fully three conversations later, he asked if there was any way I could write a note and tell those people thanks. I said I would and left him there, sitting in the van.

Better days

2005-11-20T20:49:00.000-06:00

Whattaya' been up to James?
Been to church.
And did you speak to God while you were there?
Many times.

Steve had his own apartment at Mercury Courts (he estimates) for 2-3 years. That's when we met and he'd been on the street then for a good long time. It's also why he has ties to Barney. They were neighbors. I wrote in that original story (which is no longer linkable) that he moved in with two hefty bags of other people's clothes. It's important to understand that Steve is an individual. He isn't the cookie-cutter model for every homeless person or every alcoholic or everyone that needed assistance or housing and I don't want to project that image. He is not representative of anything or anyone, other than himself. He's in this story because I've known him for so long and because he's willing to put up with me asking him stupid questions. Yesterday, I used the term - stupid question, when he and I were talking in the van. I wanted to ask him a hygiene question and didn't know how to phrase it. He leveled his eyes and the hand holding the cigarette at me and said:

There are no stupid questions. The stupid question, is the one that isn't asked.

The friendgirl is hidden in this photo because she's always been nervous about being seen anywhere, let alone on the internet. This was taken about three years ago.

Denial

2005-11-19T20:38:00.000-06:00

Steve was sitting in his friendgirl's truck (that's the way he's always refers to her) at the bar today when I caught up with him. He was eating a fish sandwich and debating with himself over whether or not to go in the diner and get some packets of salt. He didn't.

He seemed to feel a little better than when I left him yesterday. It may have been the forty ounce bottle of beer in his lap. His friends are determined to deny him vodka but that didn't stop them indulging in the late afternoon ritual.

Barney's dog

2005-11-19T20:17:00.000-06:00

Again, the short version (almost as predicted). Steve left walking yesterday morning and didn't return until sunset. He made it to the bridge with his sign and stayed five hours, long enough to make fifteen dollars. He rode the bus to the liquor store and spent twelve dollars and something on a half gallon of vodka, so he wouldn't have to leave the house again all weekend. As he was returning to the bus stop, someone (God, was my guess) snatched the bottle out of his arms and ran. He returned defeated, crippled, exhausted and a little bit fired up. He got in my car and let me drive him down the hill to Barney's. He didn't ask me to drive him back to the liquor store, he didn't ask me for any money, and as usual, I didn't offer.

The choices

2005-11-18T20:02:00.000-06:00

When Steve left the hospital yesterday, he was instructed to go to the second floor pharmacy and pick up medications that the doctor had ordered. Wait, let me back up for a minute. The day he arrived, he explained to the staff that he could go without alcohol for two days. On the third day, he told them, it would begin to get bad. On the first and second days he was given librium, two capsules per day. On the third day, by his account, he was given eight. Not surprisingly, there were no DT's beyond some very minor confusion and a slight tremor which could have also been from the liver dysfuntion. He was awake as late as ten o'clock that night, I know this because he called me that night, for the first time in three years. He asked if I had an old pair of pants that he could wear home.

I mentioned before that Steve lost his TennCare when the cuts came and according to him, it's his fault he isn't covered. He was told that he would need to reapply on a certain date, if he wanted his coverage to be reinstated.

It was during that week that it rained six days, he said. I'd been staying under the bridge and when the time came to go downtown, I was sick and wet and I was gonna' have to have to go up on the bridge and make bus fare, I just decided I couldn't do it so it was my own fault.

At the moment, he is enrolled in Bridges to Care. Thankfully, that covered the cost of his medication and presumably, the three and a half days of hospital care. When he got to the pharmacy though (after being handed a piece of paper that instructed him to stop drinking and smoking, cut back on his salt intake, and weigh himself regularly) there was not prescription for librium or any other type of sedative. There is a rationale behind this of course. Librium can be sold on the street for example, or blatantly misused. Regardless, at that very moment, he knew he had two choices. Delirium Tremens. No Delirium Tremens.

There had been three choices, one of them ideal. The Campus for Human Development. When Steve's social worker (at the hospital) failed to arrange this option, someone else did it for her. If she had walked in the room that morning and said, we've arranged for you to stay at CHD and you can only leave if you go there, he would have done it. Perhaps it would have been a failed attempt but I know he would have gone under those circumstances. Steve chose not to go there on his own because in his mind, he has always associated it with the Rescue Mission and other, similar places. There was little time to educate him about the vast differences between the two and besides that, when it came time for him to *hobble out of the hospital, he'd been twelve hours without a librium, ninety hours without a drink. The choice was clear.

(*Note: When his last visit ended, a month ago, someone put Steve in a wheel chair and rolled him all the way to the bus stop. I suspect it might have happened this time if it weren't for the fact he had a photographer tagging along. As he shuffled down the hall leaving though, I noticed an unusual number of people stopped what they were doing and watched him go. I wondered silently, if I was the only one who wanted to scream. He quietly expressed his thanks to a couple of the nurses and made a point of telling me how well they'd treated him over the last few days.)

Some place to go

2005-11-18T19:17:00.000-06:00

Last night there was a message on my phone from Barney. His is the apartment where I last left Steve. For descriptive purposes, I should mention that it's a motel room. He said in the message that Steve's visiting privileges had been extended beyond the three days. This is good news but before any of you doctors out there start to feel vindicated, I should add that Barney suffers from his own brand of chronic alcoholism. He has a perpetual half gallon of vodka, by the side of his bed. He also has a gigantic heart and has taken Steve in many times, over the last year and, in spite of the fact that people threaten to wring his neck occasionally, he makes for a truly genuine friend.

The final breathing treatment

2005-11-18T18:26:00.000-06:00

Before Steve was discharged from the hospital, he was read a list of numbers he could call for medical assistance. I found myself having to resist the urge to snatch the paper and start dialing the phone. Is this really the face of a man that's well enough to go home (as they referred to it)?

The reason I went as early as I did was to speak to his doctor, the doctor who never showed up; the same doctor who didn't return my phone call yesterday. I wanted to ask him if he felt anything, letting this man leave the hospital. I wanted to know if he was sorry that the rules are what they are. I wanted to know if he ever thinks of breaking those rules simply because they are immoral and unjust. I wondered if he understood that this patient of his planned to spend the night, passed out on a concrete floor (which is, so far as I know now) exactly what happened. When I finally left him, he'd been offered that same floor (there's a blind assumption that he'll stay there) for the next three days only, then it's anyone's guess.

The wallet

2005-11-17T18:07:00.000-06:00

Because I know for a fact, that Steve doesn't want this to be all doom and gloom, I must tell you now about the wallet. This morning he opened the sliding drawer in his tray table and pulled out what would appear to be a pack of loose tobacco (ordinarily, he rolls his own cigarettes and can roll one faster than you can open a new pack and get one out). He opened it like a man does his wallet and pulled out a card with a number on it. He studied the card for a minute, returned it and tossed the package onto the bed.

I lost my wallet four times, a few years back, he said. Four times, I had to replace all my I.D.'s and numbers, everything, whatever I could. And I got thinking one day and thought, you 'aint ever lost your tobacco. So instead of buying a new wallet that last time, I made one and I 'ain't lost it since then. Oh I got it stolen once, when I passed out in the yard at Labor Ready but I haven't lost it.

In honor of some of the more ignorant (unwitting - might really be the word) things that people said to him today, things like when you get home, and try to avoid food with salt in it etc., I asked him if he planned to participate in the Great American Smokeout. He laughed and I thought how nice it was that he is still able to get my jokes.

Also, congratulations to those of you who did in fact, participate in The Great American Smokeout. I wonder now, why there isn't a Great American Drinkout?

An update

2005-11-17T16:52:00.000-06:00

Update on the previous entry: Today Steve is able to walk. He's slow and he's bent, but able. More later.

I got to the hospital this morning at 7am. Steve's walking papers were pretty much ready to go. His social worker filed an application for his Bridges to Care extension. I'm not exactly sure what it is that covers but she added that where he went from here, is pretty much up to him. She was offering him bus fare to the mission, which tells me she's totally unfamiliar with the mission but then, I am not a social worker.

As a postscript, I put this image here because of the swelling in Steve's midsection. He'll give me some hell about that but it's important to note. This toxic spare tire is what's left after three and a half liters of fluid were drained. Without it, he'd weigh (probably) less than a hundred pounds.

Along the time I was making this post, Steve's breakfast came and he offered to share it with me. Twice. I thought things were pretty surreal yesterday, and the day before, but this morning, this morning started on a whole new level.

Where've you been?

2005-11-17T00:06:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, I did a little rant about a homeless man in Nashville and homelessness in general. I found myself out looking for Steve, who'd been admitted to the hospital with cirrhosis of the liver. He was released (escorted to the door actually, in serious but stable condition) back to the familiar sights and sounds of the bridge under which he lives. Before I get started, I should add here that according to sources, this sort of thing happens all the time. No biggie. Insurance-free, he was released homeless, swollen, immobile, and told not to drink. I'm sure his doctor meant well.

He then stayed a couple of nights under the bridge and a few on Barney's floor. I caught up with him at both places but I didn't speak about the visit to Barney's (the middle of last week) because by then, I was afraid for his life and so was everyone else. He looked terrible. He was was passing blood and unable to control it. For the first time, there was real fear in his eyes. Steve is forty three years old. I urged him to return to the hospital and he assured me, sipping vodka from a shot glass to keep off the shakes, that there was nothing they could do for him, without insurance. He was readmitted Sunday night.

As of today, his three days are up again. This is a homeless man who has a pair of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a windbreaker, who is dying and can't stand up. He has a hard time getting to the bathroom, when it's five feet away. What is going to happen when he crosses the threshold of the hospital and there's no bathroom? No toilet paper. No food. Unless something changes, he'll be handed over this morning, to the frozen-hard, air. Last night it was twenty something degrees. He'll get his sign (which says Homeless, please help) and go back up on the bridge long enough to make a pint.

This nightmarish scene is set to loop until we find him either in the intensive care unit or dead under the bridge.

Should've knowns

2005-10-23T23:37:00.001-05:00

I should have known that Steve was let go from the hospital because he (and 200,000 other needy people) lost his TennCare coverage. He can't remember exactly when it stopped but, it's been a while. I found him and Brandy yesterday, sitting near the interstate bridge where they've spend so much time these last few months. The temperature dipped Friday night so I was happy to learn that he'd spent the night at a friends house.

Out Looking

2005-10-22T23:47:00.000-05:00

The day before yesterday, I went looking for my old friend and subject Steve, who's been living on the street now for seventeen months. Some of you may remember that he was courageous enough to basically slit open his veins and bleed on this page back then, giving readers an up close look at a world some of them couldn't have otherwise imagined. He was brutally honest about his addiction, his choices, and his future.

I went looking for him this time, because it would seem, Steve's future is now.
The last seventeen months haven't been good to him. He suffers from a variety of illnesses including cirrhosis of the liver and all it brings with it. His close friends haven't seen him since he was released from the hospital sometime last week, his hands and feet so swollen, he could no longer walk.

This begs the question, what sort of system is it, that turns a man out onto the street to die under a bridge? Also, as another friend pointed out, why is it we have the audacity to think that the rest of the world ought to want such a system?

Anyway, I'm still looking and when I find him (assuming I do) I'll post a fresh picture of him here, whether he looks like a rock star or not.

(Note to Google: I'm also looking for someone's mom. Her name is/was Nancy Sue Hill and at one point, she lived in or near San Antonio, Texas. She has a son named Steve too, but it's a different Steve. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact me privately. Thanks)

La fiesta

2005-08-27T17:03:00.000-05:00

At the end of winter and throughout spring, Steve lived on the front porch of what used to be La Fiesta restaurant (pictured). He kept a mattress in the part of the porch that made a little alcove and nobody bothered him there despite the fact that he was just a few yards from the road. Some of you may remember that a year ago June, Steve left his apartment and headed back to the street in order to help his girlfriend. He's been out fifteen months now.

I saw him in July for the first time in a while and he said,

Now I've got a story for you.

That statement can be the kiss of death, but not when it's Steve, so I pulled up a folding chair and he started telling it.

You know I been sleeping up there at La Fiesta, on the porch, right?

Yeah, I said.

Well, I was passed out on that mattress one night and I felt somebody lay down beside me; on the inside, next to the wall. I just assumed it was Becky because she hadn't been back for a while. So, I roll over about half asleep still, and open my eyes and I'm face to face with this giant black man that's so strung out on crack, his eyes are like baseballs. And they're right here (he holds his hand out about eight inches from his face, to show me).

Jesus, I said, then what happened?

Well first, I jumped straight up in the air and then I told him, You're gonna' have to come up off my mattress mother... (he gestures the rest randomly, to spare me the profanity). You 'aint invited to lay there, I told him.

Then, he said, next thing I know, that sumbitch is chewing my ear off Sue.

He turns his head to show me the badly injured ear, one in a long line of injuries he's suffered over the last few years (including being hit twice by a car, and beaten badly enough that he spent two weeks in the hospital, before Christmas which he said, was a relief, since the temperature dipped into the single digits).

He would've gotten my whole ear, but this lady cop came out of nowhere and pulled him off. Thank God for her. I don't even know where she came from but seriously, if that guy'd ate my ear off he'd have had to kill me after that.

We all laughed and I remained amazed that fifteen months of drinking and sleeping outdoors hasn't erased his sense of humor. There's still a good, funny guy in there who doesn't feel like anyone owes him anything.

The Crossbar Motel

2003-10-21T21:50:00.000-05:00

Some may remember an early post about my friend Barney whom I picked up once from jail. He and I and his neighbor, Steve had a conversation about jail last week that I thought I would pass along just because it's pretty typical for some people and typically astounding to others.

Steve had just spent twelve days himself in Nashville's city jail (CJC), a place not unknown to him. He said he ate more there in two days than he had in the two weeks prior to his being arrested and although he hadn't any desire to go, upon seeing two police officers heading toward his room, asked them if it was him they'd come for.

It was, indeed.

Steve knew before he went to jail that a friend of his had signed a warrant for his arrest in a vain effort to deny that she'd lost a fight with a girl on the street. She ended up though, with ring marks in her bruises and Steve doesn't wear any rings (a fact he hopes will clear him when he comes before the judge).

I wouldn't lie about it, he said I've beat her before, but not this time.

To address the look on my face he added,

When somebody smacks you awake with a saucepan Sue, you get up and whip their ass, it doesn't matter who it is.

Will she change her mind and clear you of the charge? I asked him.

She's in jail too, he said. They arrested her for having two FTA warrants (failure to appear) so she won't show up in court.

I asked him how many cell mates he had and to my utter amazement, he said fifty.

Part 2

Twice now, I've walked along with Steve to the liquor store. It's a straight shot up the street about a quarter mile, placed thoughtfully, between the Drake Motel and the projects; one of those liquor stores where the cashier sits unaffected and smiling, behind bullet proof glass. He and his neighbors pool their money, and buy half gallons of vodka. If Steve doesn't happen to have money, he (or anyone, for that matter) is afforded a drink simply for doing the walking.

The first time we made this trip, he noted the place where he'd most recently been hit by a car. Upon discovering that Steve had been drinking, the man who hit him pretended to call an ambulance on his cell phone and then drove away.

On both occasions we've talked about homelessness and addiction, and about a life he had once and lost. A life erased by a $1500. a week cocaine habit that cost him his wife, his children, and his livelihood.

I don't blame her a bit for leaving me, he says. I'd have divorced myself if I could've. She probably saved my life.

He speaks with reverence, the name of an eight month old baby that he missed out on knowing and for a brief moment, his tough demeanor dissolves into what I like to call the dad face.

Steve moved in at Mercury Court Apartments, having been homeless, with two plastic bags of someone else's clothes. He splits his time now between his street family and his motel room apartment, which he admits is mostly a storage closet. He works day labor whenever he can and even though it's warm and comfortable there, he tries hard not to check in at the Crossbar Motel.

House Fire

2003-10-16T22:45:00.000-05:00

The van belonged to a homeless woman on Murfreesboro Rd. She used to sleep under a bridge and had just recently moved to a parking lot. Steve shared the space with her sometimes, when they were both in a good mood.

It burned to the ground at 3:45 pm this afternoon. The source of the fire was debated but unknown. No one was hurt.

On this particular street corner, it was just like any other day.