"I don't mean ya no harm"

This week's Isthmus features a story about familiar faces around town. I recognized a couple of them. Everyone should recognize JoAnn Pow!ers and I worked with Raul at Sitel back in the day. Here's someone you may recognize from the streets:



This is Dave. He's one of Madison's homeless and I had the opportunity to chat with him during the Madison Senior Scenester potluck. As I sat on one of the stairs having a smoke, he approached me and said for the first of many times, "I don't mean ya no harm." He was very friendly and very open about being homeless and an alcoholic as well. Dave didn't come across as one of David Blaska's vagrants. Instead he was kind, although troubled. What he wanted more than one of my smokes or another beer after he finished his silo of malt liquor was to simply talk to someone "normal", as he described me.

"You don't know me very well," I replied.

Regardless, he told me his story.

Dave was born in New Mexico and his parents gave him up when he was very young. A foster home ended up being the next stop for the child. His new home was that of a Mexican-American family. Spanish flowed effortlessly from his lips and I thought it a shame that he was struggling so when he had a very marketable ability. He recalled with a smile and a laugh his stepgrandmother disallowing any English to be spoken to her and demanded Spanish being the lingua franca of the house.

Fast forward to the early 90s. Dave was a strapping young man and he told me that he served in the first Gulf War. With a resigned tone he said, "Yeah, I killed some people."

"I was stabbed several times," he continued almost offhandedly. Pulling up his sweater revealed a very large scar starting at his navel and going down.

"Give me your hand," he continued looking down at my paws. I offered my left hand which he took and put to his head, a couple inches above his left temple. There was a deep depression in his skull which I was told came from a bullet ricocheting. Dave was very lucky. Had it careered at just a slightly different angle, he might very well have come home in a body bag. Instead he is one of many homeless veterans.

Pulling out a silo of malt liquor, Dave admitted quite openly that he was an alcoholic and quickly followed this up with yet another trademark, "I don't mean ya no harm." Why did he drink so much?

"If I don't drink, I can't sleep good. I have nightmares." Dave's sober mind takes nocturnal excursions into memories he'd probably rather forget. His face lost its cheerfulness as he explained how being drunk is the only way to stave off the visions of the war, of the killing. I couldn't help but think of the thousands of soldiers who have returned and will return from our current conflicts and suffer the same.

"I don't understand how people can be like that," he told me earnestly. Dave had spent some time as a carnie until he slapped his boss and that was the end of that. Upon finding out that Dave's girlfriend was black, the guy started making racist remarks. While I cannot recall the exact phrase which really set my interlocutor off, it was something to the effect of "What it's like to fuck a monkey?" I can't say I blamed Dave for his reaction. "I had to stand up for my old lady," he pleaded.

By far the saddest part of our conversation was when he told me that his wife, Karen, had died six years ago. "I still miss her," was a constant refrain. Dave went on at length about how Karen had made him a better person – she'd tamed the soldier in him. A cloud of despair settled over him and I was transported back several years when I was trying to console my father after my stepmother had died. The sullen face, the slumping back – you look different when in the depths of despondency.

To Dave's credit, he didn't fall too far and instead returned to talking about what a wonderful person and companion Karen had been. There was sidewalk chalk there for the kids and he took a stick of it and drew a picture which he had drawn for her. Just as he finished Little William B. wandered over with a bone in his mouth. Dave greeted him with a smile and proceeded to draw a picture for him.

Dave told me that he'd recently been given a bicycle which made his treks out to the temp agency much quicker. I offered him my unused bike lock and gave him my cell number. I spoke to him on Monday but we were unable to rendezvous so I could hand it over to him. And then on Tuesday, along with my car and my alarm clock, my cell phone died. So now I must have it repaired so I can get the bike lock to Dave and relieve him of having to sleep on it.

For my part, I eventually returned to the festivities. Dave left a short while later but I'm not sure where he went. If you see him, let him know that I haven't forgotten about him nor that bike lock.