True Homeless Stories

The Story of Michael, 34

Published: May 18, 2009

When I first saw Michael crouched against an elegant building on Market Street, he was eating intently out of one of those enclosable styrofoam plates. I couldn’t tell, but it seemed to be some sort of pork over rice. He’s caucasian, has a pretty intimidating beard and is somewhat heavy-set. In front of him, perched against his knees was a cardboard sign: “HOME LESS and VERRY Hungry / trying to GET to SEE My Fathers GRAVE IN SAN Antonio TEXAS / Its BEEN 10 yrs / PLEASE Help ME Pleas.” I walked by him once and he didn’t notice me, then turned back around, trying to pretend like I’d forgotten something. As I turned back towards him he was already watching me intently with sharp blue eyes. I guess he really had noticed me after all. “Hey, d’you have a light?,” I asked. “Yeah sure,” he said in a surprisingly calm voice. I relaxed a little. He carefully laid his food down and dug around in his pocket. “Have a spare?” “Oh, sure,” I said, and wondered whether my tenor and mannerisms betrayed my anxiety. If they did, he didn’t pay it much attention. I gave him one and we lit up. I asked him how long he’d been outside. “About two weeks.” I told him what I was doing, and asked him for an interview. He obliged without hesitation.

We enter the coffee shop and I find a secluded place around the corner. We order iced drinks. I tell him he can get anything he wants, and ask him if he wants anything from the pastry cabinet. He tells me he doesn’t like sweets.

We sit down and I ask him about his childhood. He recalls going fishing with his dad in the summer, going to the zoo, amusement parks and baseball games. But as we talk some more, it becomes apparent that that’s where the normalcy ends.

His parents divorced when he was just a baby. He was an only child, raised by his mom in New Jersey. He would often come home after school to an empty house, his mom working the night shift at the hospital as a nurse’s aide. He was a special education student all throughout school. He has dyslexia and reads at a third or fourth grade reading level.

Michael started smoking pot when he was fourteen. I ask him why he started. “It was rough growing up,” he says, staring at the table. “I was obese growing up, I was sort of like the fat kid in school. I got picked on a lot. I was in a couple of fights in school because of my weight, because people didn’t give a damn about me. I’d go home with bruises and stuff from people picking on me; my mom and grandmother didn’t do nothin’ about it.” Drugs were an escape, he explains, and I believe him. He eventually got into harder drugs like cocaine, crack cocaine and crystal methamphetamine. He’s currently struggling to get off of crack. The last time he smoked was about three weeks ago.

He has been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and has thoughts of suicide. He ran out of his medications about a month ago, and has been to numerous hospitals in Central and South Philadelphia, literally begging for help. All released him without any medication. Asked how he was handling it, he said that he’s “literally a time-bomb waiting to explode.”

He explains what it was like when he first came to Philly two weeks ago. All he had was his backpack and duffel bag. Nightfall came and he couldn’t find a place to sleep. He stayed up for two days wandering the city. He doesn’t recall many of the details, just that when he first got here it was either a Friday or a Saturday. I try to imagine how detached he must have felt, walking by all of the people outside the bars and restaurants, dressed up in their expensive clothes, laughing with their friends. My eyes unfocus in contemplation as a sense of sadness comes over me. We exchange formalities and then part ways. It’s getting dark and my train back to the suburbs is leaving soon.

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