It won’t matter to him any more if we talk about his life’s journey through the world of addiction and homelessness. He’s gone now.
But, there was a time when he did care, when the shame of his existence brought him to despair and tears, when he was so far gone that he saw no way out. No way at all.
He wasn’t one of the needle people. His thing was alcohol, whatever kind he could get his hands on. And he tried to drink the country dry. He’d drink with the crowd and drink alone, mostly in the end very alone.
We met him down by the railroad tracks. He slept on the ground. Covered with ticks and insect bites, he somehow managed to make it through the heat of the Summer, the rains, and days without food. Winters, they were oh so rough on him and cruel. He lost a foot from frostbite and once made his way to Arizona to escape the cold. He got sober and worked as a carpenter, but one can of beer took that away. Just one can on a hot afternoon was all it took.
Someone beat him to a pulp one day and crying and broken he called his mother who brought him back home. He tried rehab, but couldn’t recover. He was back on the streets panhandling, getting caught stealing cans of beer from grocery stores. The VA couldn’t even help him. This veteran was too far gone.
We did our best for him. But, in the end, he didn’t want help. In the end he just wanted us to leave him alone. So, we did. And he died.