This is how it ended (2004-06)

This is a memorial sort of slide show that I made for Steve back in 2006. It's a compilation of some of the photos that appear here on the blog and some others that were taken the last few months of his life.

It's been a long time since he died but I still miss his great stories and that optimistic charm. Sometimes I take my dog over to the cemetery and we have lunch there and I fill him in on all the fun stuff he's been missing. Stella reclines at his grave like a beauty queen and I'm always sorry they never got a chance to be friends. I know he would've fallen for her, much the same way I did. He had a soft spot for dogs.

Thanks for visiting this page and thanks again to Guy Clark for letting me use his song, Homeless. If drugs or alcohol have stolen your life, please get some help today.

Phoning home

"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.

View from the bridge

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 change of scenery

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.

Green Street Church of Christ

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.

Back to the street

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.

Should've knowns

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

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

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

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

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.