Walt -- Withering

I met a man yesterday at the local gas station/convenience store who is in his seventh year of challenges. He lost his tech job in 2007, at 58 years of age. Shortly after that, the family lost their house. He lives now in subsidized housing with his wife of thirty-one years, who herself is suffering with severe medical complications. His rent: $25/month.

There are times when he has to beg for bus money, or to cover his rent. He has tried to get jobs ever since he lost his, to no avail. He realized how much damage he’d suffered when he couldn’t keep up with the pressure of working at Food City. “I realize now that I had had a nervous breakdown. I couldn’t see it when I was in it. I didn’t know it and I didn’t know where to turn for help.”

The man I met was well-groomed. His speech was what a body expects to hear from a well-educated person. In spite of everything, he maintains a proper facade -- until our conversations get deeper. Then, his fear is palpable.

We talked about his children, both out of the house. His son is elsewhere, married with a child. His daughter lives nearby, on her own, dealing with her own demons. As a certified nursing assistant, she cares for the elderly and barely makes enough to sustain herself. If her father’s future is bleak, hers is more so.

It was painful to see one’s life shattered, especially when his daughter was seven years younger and still living with her folks. His memories of those days, when they were evicted and set out on the street, is still too raw to ponder. It was worse for his daughter, he told me. Her future dreams were shattered, too. He tries to deny responsibility for their plight, preferring to blame it on the collapse but he doesn’t believe that, not really. Inside, he still feels everything is his fault, and that’s debilitating.

Living in a studio apartment barely big enough for one, there is no escape for him, or his wife. They’re afraid living there, especially at night when occasional gun fire rings out from neighbor’s apartments. After two years, he still can’t get used to it, or accept fully the pain it causes. When he steps out for a cigarette, he keeps his eyes peeled for the drug dealer who offers him free samples whenever they meet. He’s turn him in if he thought it would do any good. he knows better.

“I paid for my son’s education,” he says softly. “That was before the collapse, but just barely.

“I couldn’t do that for my daughter. She got her CNA on her own and was able to move on but we shared a car for almost two years. It was our home.”

He looks forward to next month, when he can go on Social Security, finally. Unlike millions of homeless and dispossessed, he had paid in maximum contributions, so his check will be close to $1800/month. It’s still below poverty level for a family of two. His rent will go up according to scale but he’ll be unable to leave. Still, compared to the past, he senses he’ll have some of his dignity back.