Alone, crouched down on a rotten landscape timber behind an abandoned strip mall, he tips up his 24 ounce can of Hurricane High Gravity malt liquor and pulls another hearty swallow. It's quickly emptying as he stares off into the distance. Sloppy graffiti, dumped furniture and rubbish strewn about the area are invisible to him as tears well up on his lower eyelids while lost deep in thought.
Long stringy brown hair, greasy and matted to the point they appear like developing dreadlocks, dangle below his filthy baseball cap. Prescription glasses sit cock-eyed across his nose, victimized from too many drunken falls while staggering to his secret camping spot. His dirty jeans are tattered with the cuffs high above his worn out work boots. Tufts of insulation jut from holes in his winter coat with the fabric being slick, not by design, but by months of body oils and grime accumulating to a nearly waterproof finish. Beneath the coat are too many layers, each soiled like the outer jacket, but worn for security since he learned lessons the hard way. Too many times he tried to hide a blanket, a sleeping bag or backpack in a secluded spot. Each time, he returned to emptiness.
It's dog eat dog; homeless people preying on one another.
But, he doesn't care as he is unique among his peers. He is a lone wolf. He is a philosopher. He accepts the shortfalls of others and adapts to overcome their ways.
A final big pull empties the can and he wipes his untrimmed moustache with the back of his hand. With the same hand, he grasps his grizzled beard and gives it a squeeze. The hand slides down and off the end of the beard that hangs near his chest. Another glance skyward has the pooled tears run out the corner of each eye and cut a groove through the dirt on his face. I approach him as he wipes at the tears, smudging his face.
"Hi Patrick," I say with recognition.
"How are you today?" he answers with his deep, smokey voice highlighted with a southern drawl.
"I'm good, thanks. What's going on?" I ask Patrick since he tries his best to get day jobs from nearby labor halls.
"I decided to take the day off. I worked the last 5 days and figured today was a good day to take off," Patrick answered as I listened to his smooth, baritone voice and imagine he could do voice-overs for Dodge truck commercials or be a ring announcer for sporting events since his voice and mannerisms are easy on the eardrums. In fact, one day, undetected, I watched Patrick mimic an announcer for a horse race while his friend prodded at 2 grasshoppers. I folded over in laughter at the simple form of entertainment as Patrick held his thumb like a microphone and energetically called out the race, complete with the brownish-orange grasshopper taking the rail and charging down the homestretch.
"You know something? I was just thinking about my wife, Janey. When I lost everything... my job, my house....I also lost her. We've never divorced, but the last time I saw her was September 6, 2011. We were sitting on a bench near Cape Canaveral overlooking the Banana River down in Florida. It was beautiful there and we parted ways. But, I still love that woman!" he announced while streaming more tears down his cheeks. From his outer jacket pocket, he dug out a bag of loose tobacco with papers and rolled a cigarette. He licked the paper's edge to seal the finished product.
"You wanna know something else? I still buy lotto tickets a few times a month. I mean, someone has to win and why not me?" he added. "And you know what I'll do when I win?"
"What'll you do?" I curiously wondered.
"I'm gunna get all cleaned up and find her in New Jersey and set up meeting again on that bench looking over the Banana River," Patrick stated while his deep voice got wispy.
"Everybody needs a dream, you know?" he said while staring at me with a smile hidden under his big beard. With a voice that tapered off into a raspy whisper, he repeated his final words of wisdom.
"Everybody needs one..."
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