Unloading on Donnie

Donnie from the Old Crow Book Club stood near a light pole talking to a homeless woman. Starbucks gleamed behind him on a gray weekday morning.

I have to be in the right patient mood to talk to Donnie because sober, he's a handful. Sauced, forget it.

Today, I was in the mood because he seemed somewhere in the middle.

Donnie saw me and lit up. He was hawking the newspaper advocating for the homeless. I bought a copy and we began a conversation. I apologized to the homeless woman for interrupting and she said not to worry and went on her way. Donnie was somewhere in the middle of sober and sauced.

I asked for an update on his life. He told me a maddening and heartbreaking story of his near miss in getting off the streets and into the Safe Rest Village a couple of miles away. Apparently, he had received a call from the Village and had obtained housing. Someone from the Village or the City was going to call him back and arrange transportation. In the interim, he lost his phone and wallet before receiving the call. He lost his spot and now had no ID to gain entrance. A valid ID is a requirement. He cannot present himself at the front gates of the Village. They won't let him in that way. It's so absurd it goes beyond farce. He was on their list!

Readers, consider that: a homeless man presents himself at a shelter where he has obtained housing and they won't let him in.

I asked Donnie how I could help.

I make a call to the City? I drive you to the Village and we raise hell? I go full on Jim Rockford!

All Donnie wanted to talk about was a sequel to The Old Crow Book Club! He had a harrowing tale to tell. Matt, you must write it.

Donnie says this to me every time we meet, sober or sauced, and I always respond the same way: you write it! Quit drinking and write it up and I'll help you do something with it. He never does.

He kept talking about the sequel and my frustration mounted as Starbucks customers passed us carrying $10 dollar holiday-themed drinks in designer cups.

Then I unloaded on Donnie. What follows is the exchange and I apologize to my mother for the extreme profanity here because she is reading this and hates profanity. But that's how it went down.

Donnie, I don't give a flying fuck about your book or my book. I want to get you into the Village.

(More book talk.)

Did you hear me? Fuck the book and writing. What can we do together to make housing happen?

(An inexplicable segue about how he needed $31 for new pants.)

Thirty-one dollars for pants! Go to the fucking Goodwill Bins and buy pants for 31 cents!

(Something about how he was banned from Goodwill Bins for taking a piss on the floor of the restroom because he couldn't hold it any longer and the lines for the urinals were four deep.)

Donnie, we got Mark into housing. We have to get you into housing. Winter is almost here.

(More on the book and something about how he's living in and around the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge but it's crawling with meth miscreants and he hates it.)

FUCK THE BOOK! Okay, don't fuck the book. Here's the deal: we get you into the Village and we'll sit down and I'll turn on the voice recorder on my phone and you can narrate the sequel. We barter. Is it a deal?

(Something about the hellish nature of his story and how he used to be a counselor.)

IS IT A FUCKING DEAL Donnie?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was practically screaming and probably making a spectacle of myself in front of Starbucks.

Donnie agreed and we tentatively planned to meet in the next few days to develop a plan. I said I had to go, he thanked me ( a homeless man thanked me for berating him in public) and I went on my way, utterly jolted with the juice of the moment.

I am never giving up on the members of book club. And with the exception of Mark, all are in very dire condition.