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Greetings from homelessness

  • (M RYDER / Tribune Media Services)

Recently, in my old hometown in Montana, a man died of exposure. According to news reports, he was a Wal-Mart employee in the town of Miles City, homeless and living in his car when the weather plunged to 27 degrees below zero.

We tend to shrug off the homeless when we see them pushing their shopping carts or holding up signs asking for money. They're mentally ill, we assume, or drug addicts. But I know from experience that a lot of the homeless are like that man in Montana: struggling to make it but not quite able to.

For the 6-and-a-half years I was homeless, I never had a shopping cart, nor did I have a mental illness or a drug problem. I was just a regular guy out of work in a poor economy. I did writing work while living out of my pickup truck at campgrounds, but I never made enough to rent an apartment until I hit Social Security retirement age and qualified for low-income senior housing. When you don't have much to start with, it's easy to fall off the edge.

Once, on a bench outside a coffee shop, I ran into a homeless guy I had seen before at a hostel on the California coast when he had a suitcase and was clean-shaven and flirting with women. This time he was dirty, after sleeping in a field. He was panhandling for money, having sold his sleeping bag to buy food.

When I was homeless, I generally spent the winters in the desert. At my then-church in Palm Springs, I used to come across a skinny homeless man who attended services and then asked for money afterward, claiming he needed it to treat an eye problem.

A priest told parishioners not to give him money because he used it to buy drugs. He admitted to me that he did. One day, I read in the paper that he had been found dead, sleeping in the entryway of a drugstore on a cold night.

I met a thin, homeless guy in Palm Desert when he stopped by a chapel lunch to complain. He spent his days collecting aluminum cans, his giant plastic bags filled with cans hanging over the handlebars of his bicycle. Recently, he said, he had stashed some bags behind a dumpster at the chapel's main church to pick up later. But when he returned, his cans had been thrown out by the church. He said he was told never to come onto the property again. I invited him to sit next to me at the lunch and have a free meal. The priests in attendance ignored him.

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