At the corner of Congress Ave and 7th (one block from my house), I saw homeless guy cheerfully reading a book laying down on a bench, so stopped and introduced myself, said I lived around here and asked his name. I reached out to shake his hand, which he did hesitating a little and then gave me a strong one.
I asked “what’s your story?”.
He said “sit down, it’s a pretty long one.”
His name is John. He grew up an Air Force brat and was always headstrong. Worked from age nine. Never finished school, didn’t see the point. Left home at age 18 and hopped a freight train for Los Angeles.
When he got there, he didn’t know anything about anything. Knew nothing about the world that he didn’t get from living at his parents’ house. Some old hobos (his words) set him straight for a few weeks. Eventually they said they were headed to Florida, so he hopped a freight train with them. And stayed riding freight trains for eight years. He never made it to Florida.
At some point, he got off a train somewhere and settled down. Got a job. Got a wife. Lived this whole life for a few years. Until he got a divorce. He said it was habits and character problems that caused it. “Habits make everything.”
He lived on the streets for some time again. But then pulled himself together. Got a job. Got another wife. Then he got another divorce. He saved up money so that he didn’t have to work and lived off that money for two years.
The money ran out. He was doing drugs. He was on the streets again. He’s been on the streets for five years. He’s been working on himself. Looking inside himself. He says he doesn’t get along with people. He’s pondered why he’s an undesirable amongst undesirables.
At this point I interjected and said I found that hard to believe.
He continued. He’s working on it. He’s a better person than he was five years ago. Than he was one year ago. He says he’s happier than he’s ever been.
He has oral meds, but can’t stay in the habit of taking them. For some reason he can’t get the long term injectable anti-psychotics that have worked in the past. But he’s not using drugs too much.
He’s doing ok. He’s spending a sunny Saturday reading a novel on Congress Ave. He’s working on it.
“Does that answer your question?” he asked with a big grin.
“It does. Can I take your picture?”
During his story another homeless neighbor who John knew had come and joined us on the bench but didn’t seem to want to talk. John read his book again with a touch of pride.
As I was taking pictures, some other folks started to come see what was going on, and it didn’t seem like John liked the attention. So I shook his hand again, thanked him for telling me his story and went on my way.
