In the summer of 2011, addicted to cocaine, alcohol, gambling, sex, women, and just about everything else which made me feel alive but only ended up bringing me down, I found myself living in a homeless shelter out on the edge of downtown Raleigh.
The satellite trucks were gone, news networks stopped calling, I barely saw the kids and Gretchen had enough of me. I took the last $8000 I had to my name, put it in a safety deposit box and checked in to The Healing Place of Wake County with just a suitcase full of belongings.
I didn’t know what to expect upon arrival , the phrase “homeless shelter” made me automatically think sweltering and filthy. This place was far from it. It was clean, the air conditioning cold, the people welcoming, and the food excellent. I’d quickly learn that it was a peer run community by the homeless addicts which lived there, and they took pride in keeping their house tidy.
A few days after I arrived, I met this young kid named Paul. Paul was 19 years old, a pale looking white guy originally from Massachusetts. He was around 5’ 8” with a stocky build and a baby face. We became fast friends.
Paul was quick to tell me he was addicted to heroin. He seemed proud of it, wearing it like a badge of honor. He repeatedly told me he had no plans of stopping.
As time moved on, and as I gained Paul’s trust, he’d also share that he was a teenage prostitute. He’d tell me how he would find his customers on Craigslist, as if he was trying to shock me. He’d also try to pretend it didn’t bother him, but I saw through his charade.
This one day, we stood in the lobby, and watched this middle aged white guy about to check in to the shelter. Paul recognized him, and let me know he was one of his Johns.
Paul was an emotional kid, and, on sight, he became nervous, anxious and seemingly embarrassed. In that unexpected instant, his story became real, and I don’t think he wanted me to see him in that light.
Paul pointed the trick out to me every time we were unfortunate enough to be around him, always shielding his face to avoid eye contact. He’d usually mumble something which I couldn’t comprehend, but fully understood.
We were friends, and good ones at that. I was 41, old enough to be his father, but that didn’t seem to faze either one of us. I’d always tell him, “Paul, use this time to clean your life up, get out of here and you’ll be able to do whatever you want to do.” His response, always soft and stoic, was the same, time and time again, “I’m going to be dead before I’m 25.”
I left the homeless shelter in December 2011 and never saw Paul again. His mother, who I had the pleasure of meeting a handful of times, sent me his obituary in February 2015. Only 23 years old, my friend died of a heroin overdose.
On November 19, I’ll be participating in Covenant House International’s Sleep Out to raise money and awareness for the homeless teen crisis going on in our hometowns across America today. Please consider joining me at MetLife Stadium or supporting the cause with a donation.
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