Just David
People say I’m crazy doing what I’m doing
Well, they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
Watching the Wheels, John Lennon, 1981 (posthumous)
Homelessness in America is a simmering cauldron of thousands fending for themselves. Some are not old enough to receive social security checks. Some don’t know how to apply or are mentally ill or addicted to chemicals that rob them of clear thoughts and actions to get help to apply for SNAPS (food stamps/cards), free counseling, healthcare, and housing options. Some face daily doses of jeers and hisses, spit, and disgrace. While these are only a spoonful of their life challenges, there is a bushel full of others. The dilemmas the homeless face are hard to comprehend by the homed-citizens, who have no personal perception of the daily hardships of no shower, no toilet, no food, no doctor, and no medications. I was one of the under-informed until I recently answered an email from an old chum. At that point, I placed both feet and heart into the circle of homelessness, if even just one person’s circle. This piece is not an overview of the homeless situation. This is a profile from a handful of recorded interviews with David. A man who transgressed from a successful businessman in Colorado to a man without an address, living in a three-walled shack along a coastal highway in Hawaii.
A high school classmate emailed me about a close friend in trouble. He thought it imperative that I contact this man who was in my intimate circle of five teenage buddies—the Fab Five. There was nothing particularly fabulous about us, but it was the age of the Beatles, the Fab Four, and we thought it clever. We lived in Sioux City, Iowa, and negotiated the path of normal teen boy activities like learning to swear, dealing with acne and raging hormones. There was Batch, Muffin, Aardvark, and me (no nickname), and then, there was Froggy; those outside the inner circle called him Dave.
I would learn that he hated the label of Froggy. We meant no harm. He wore big, black plastic horn-rimmed glasses like a popular cartoon character of the day, of the early 60s. Three of the nicknames for our crew were playful jabs, so what the heck?
In February 2021, after nearly two decades of silence, I called Dave with the number given to me. As an ice-breaker, I rang out, “Hey, Froggy! How’re you doing? This is Steve Gerkin.” Silence. Then that same voice, that same laugh, let me know I had reached Froggy. Shortly after Hello, he told me that he had always hated that moniker, Froggy. “Sorry, Dave,” I offered. He laughed again. In the movie of my mind, I could see him rock his head back as he does when he laughs; imagine the twinkling of his eyes—such a nice guy. “Also, no one calls me Dave. It’s David,” he playfully corrected me. We laughed. OK, I am Steve, and he is David. Got it.
I didn’t bring up my new information that he had lived in his car for the last three years. He did. We didn’t dwell on it. The last I knew, he turned his marketing and creative drawing skills into several art gallery positions in Kona on the big island of Hawaii. Although our communication faded to nothing, when I thought of David, I fancied the blonde, handsome Iowan in artsy clothes with designer glasses—successful and happy, entertaining the local art devotees, making sales, and building a wealthy network of clients. It just shows without information, we make up our realities.
I am glad and privileged to renew our friendship after many years of absence. There is a genuine closeness between us. We won’t lose track of each other again, ever. David wants to be an informed part of my life and I, his.
We’ve talked numerous times over the last eight months and sent texts most days. I become worried when several texts fail, and I don’t hear from him for days. But he doesn’t always charge his phone. Oh. Relieved to get him on the line, we reminisced and ribbed each other with long-shelved stories. I spoofed him for being the best-looking guy in our senior class. He reminded me of my first car and how I tried to make it seem like a bonified hot rod with minimal success. Ha! David was always a car nut. He owned a tricked-out VW Bug and a Porsche 914 road racer while working for years in Grand Junction, Colorado, leading a marketing, graphic, and printing business. All those iron horses are long past. His current car, a 2000 Nissan four-door with a different colored front fender and other issues, sits in front of a three-walled storage shed along a busy highway. A dwelling he calls home. When the traffic noise is too loud, we hold our conversation until it subsides. But it felt good to talk. David returned to memory lane.
“Remember that time when we had an intramural swim meet at Central High School.? Remember how much fun those were. I loved them,” my old friend pined. During one of these friendly Saturday morning competitions, a blizzard raged across northwest Iowa. “When we came out of the gymnasium, a snowplow had scooped Jackson Street, and my ’50 Ford became blocked in by the snow piled up alongside my car,” David laughed. It didn’t ring a bell. “Yeah,” I offered. “Without snow shovels, we could not open the partially blocked doors. So, we broke out a back window to get inside, but there was so much snow that we couldn’t get the Ford out of the snowbank,” he gleefully recounted. “And I think we called your dad to come and get us?” Out of his sight, I wagged my head no. Nope, it wasn’t me. I didn’t make a deal out of it. Good memories, even if misremembered, need to remain intact.
Phone Conversation: June 6, 2021
In the Vietnam era of the 1970s, David lived in Honolulu as a sailor in the Navy’s nuclear submarine program. When his enlistment obligation ended, he received an honorable discharge and left the Hawaiian lifestyle he loved. David did personal tours in Washington, Iowa, and Colorado. He married a woman named Theo, and they had a daughter, Jess, in 1983. Jess still holds a special place in his heart.
Lacking any communication with these women of his past, he relishes our daily texts and frequent phone chinwags.
David: Aloha. Well, just waiting for you.
Steve: Yeah? Oh my gosh. I’m flattered.
David: Well, don’t be.
Steve: OK, I won’t.
David: Or do, if you choose.
Steve: No, I won’t. My mother told me not to get a big head, so I will honor that. How’s your day
been?
David: I made it to Choice Mart, got something to eat, and I’m back. I’m under the roof. I’m not
going to get wet. It’s a good day in paradise.
Steve: How are you sleeping these days?
David: Not well, but I get through.
Steve: Does your body still hurt?
David: Oh, don’t even start. Yeah. Is the short answer?
Steve: That’s pretty short.
David: That’s as short as I can get. Does it still hurt? Yeah. What can I do about it? I have no idea.
Sometimes, I take a shot or two of Jim Beam bourbon in the morning, which keeps the pain away
until the afternoon. And do I sleep well? I sleep on a cot. Thanks to you, I have a little more
cushion from that sleeping bag you sent, but otherwise, it’s not very comfy. I had a better bed in
the Navy.
Steve: Maybe you should reenlist?
David: No. No, thank you.
Why did 55-year-old David return to Hawaii in the spring of 2003 after three decades on the mainland, mainly in Iowa, Colorado, Washington, and California? Now divorced and his daughter Jess living with Theo, David finally wanted to leave the continent for the South Pacific. The bottom line is the islands are “so wonderful.” Despite the “current lifestyle stuff” he has maintained for three years, David considers his location better than anywhere else. The day he left the Navy in Honolulu and stepped onto the plane for the long ride home, David knew he would do an about-face and return someday.
***
“You should go back to Hawaii, David,” his mother counseled, ” You’ve been talking about this for 30 years. Go back. Do it now before you can’t go for some reason.” Then, in Sioux City, David served tables in a high-end restaurant, Cahill’s, that looks over the fast-moving Missouri River. The son sold his art and other bits, packed several large bags, and headed to eastern Washington to see his brother and Dad on his way to the big island. “I planned to save some money waiting tables there, then head to California to see my sister and save more by working in restaurants. Then hop off the continent to Hawaii and see ya; probably never going to go back again.” The planned short visit turned into seven months thanks to a motorcycle accident that caused three leg breaks and required painful therapy and multiple prescriptions of painkillers.
Once back to the place he cherished, he secured an apartment in Kona Paradise on the big island of Hawaii and bought a car. Although the commute to Kona was lengthy, David worked diligently in several art galleries, like the Dolphin Galleries; “really nice gallery, really nice people, great customers, but it was ridiculously far to drive. I spent as much time on the road getting there and back as I did at work.” During that period, he also worked in a wine shop from 9-2, had a beer, and went to the art gallery. Then, “that eventually goes where it goes.” He left for a radio job selling advertising and radio time, a job he truly hated. He maintained employment with the wine shop until he landed a position in a golf pro shop. There wasn’t much money going into his bank account, but it had perks.
David: That was actually pretty damn fun. I don’t know much about golf, and I’m not a great
golfer or anything, but we had a simulator; I guess that’s what you’d call it. You could stand there
and hit balls and look at a screen to see the results of your shot, and you could change it to
whatever golf course you wanted to play. You could play Pebble Beach or wherever. Or just hit
balls. It was entertaining.
Steve: Wow. I’ve seen one of those.
David: That’s what we did. We drank Coors Light and played golf. And got paid for it. As a clerk
or whatever you called those people, it wasn’t much.
Steve: Yeah. But the beer was cold.
David: And it was free.
Steve: Oh, my gosh.
David: The shop owner provided the beer in an ice chest and was OK with us drinking as long as
we weren’t smashed. Totally OK with us drinking Coors Light and doing our thing. I worked the
night shift, so to speak, from 4:00 to 9:00, or whatever time we closed. Mostly, we just sat there
and watched TV or played golf. When customers came in, we took care of them, but there were
two of us there most of the time, and we didn’t have anything to do. After a while, as you can
imagine, that just got boring. On the one hand, I’m thinking, hey, I’m getting paid for just hanging
out, and getting paid was a big deal. But come on, there has to be a better way to do this.
Steve: So, you moved on from there?
David: Yeah, that’s probably… I have a hard time… (David becomes quietly emotional, sniffles)
Yeah, I know. It’s not a big deal. I have a hard time going from one thing to another historically. If
you give me enough time, I could probably figure it out.
Steve: It doesn’t matter. That’s OK.
David moved to a framing shop, lured by concrete promises of big money. He ended up working for
$8 an hour and no commissions, which were promised. That didn’t sit well with David.
David: OK, then. Kiss my ass. I’m out of here. (His voice still trembles with emotion.)
Steve: Sure, yeah. I understand, David. I understand.
David: That’s when I got the job at Kernan’s—the furniture store.
David worked at Kernan’s Furniture for two years. It was his last paying job.
The firm ensured he had many unemployment benefits and a small severance package. Luckily, his $1,000 monthly social security checks started arriving, and he went into full-on retirement. David comments on his no-work status, “I don’t plan to go back to work, though there have been many times that I’ve thought about it.” There are issues.
Aside from his nearly constant body pains, David has developed a bowel problem. He does not go to doctors—too expensive. A new job would have to bend to his significant health compromises. “It’d have to be something that didn’t cause my body to hurt, and I could get to the bathroom whenever I needed to, all that kind of stuff.” He admits that his physical ailments are a weird set of requirements, and he wonders, would he be that understanding if he were a boss? He has not gone back to work. David is 73 years old.
Steve: What led you to decide to live out of your car?
David: I started to say it wasn’t a decision, but I guess it was. What else would I do? But at that
point, to answer your question somewhat succinctly, the rent got too much. Penny, my landlady,
90-something, needed more money. She didn’t know where to get it. I couldn’t give it to her. When
I first started living there, it was $650 a month, which was expensive but affordable. But then it
got to be $700 and then $750 and then $800, then $850.
Then she wanted $1,000, and I’m going, “Penny, that doesn’t leave me anything to live on.” She
commented, “Well, I don’t have enough to live on either.” So what do you do? Being the kind of
person that I am, I can’t expect her to do that. I should get out of the way, and she can rent it for
$1,000 a month, then go for it. If I could’ve afforded it, I would’ve stayed.
Steve: Where did you go, and what was it like when you started living out of your car?
David: You are going into some tricky territory, my friend. I had already been looking into elderly
housing, subsidized housing, all that kind of stuff. I was on waiting lists for years and years and
years. Nothing out there that I could afford. The cheapest subsidized place I could find costs about
$600 a month. So, for me, with $1000 a month (Social Security), theoretically, that would be
$400-some a month left over. I can’t afford it, but I would spend that for a decent place to live.
They didn’t have anything available. Get in line, monkey.”
With his valuables in his car that first night in April of 2018, David drove around, scouting for a place to park his car and sleep. He chose a slot in the Captain Cook area at an Aloha gas station. The manager quickly told him to move on down the road. David did not have to go far. Across the highway was a Farm and Garden store where he spent his first night out of sight behind the building. David successfully dodged detection for months, leaving before the store opened at 8 AM and returning after closing. One morning, the manager, Bill, arrived early and discovered his unexpected tenant. Confronted by the amiable man, David asked if he could park there, “Oh, yeah. No problem,” which he did for several months, and he was allowed to use the outdoor bathroom and water faucet in a shed on the other side of the trees, behind the store—no more trips to the gas station to do his duty.
One morning, Bill mentioned David might consider staying in his storage building among the trees at the back of the property; an adjacent shed had a crude bathroom. “Cool,” David responded, and he moved into a dilapidated, three-walled storage shack that once housed a hair salon, evidenced by a faded sign above the open storefront that reads Fashion Hair. The empty front wall faces the ocean a hundred yards away. David’s brother sent him a cot a year ago. Within the structure, he keeps some boxes of clean clothes. His valuable possessions are in the trunk of his car, parked in front of his shack, the middle one of three wooden structures.
David: I will send you some photos of my place for giggles and grins. Please don’t feel bad about
it. It’s just what it is. I will give you a visual of what we are talking about. Do you care?
Steve: Yeah, I do care. It’s all a learning curve. It helps me understand everything. You have said,
“I’m not really homeless because I’ve got a roof over my head, and there are some people that
have it much worse than me.” Are you just an OHBB? (David’s acronym for Old Hawaiian Beach
Bum.) How do you describe yourself?
David: (Pause) Just David. (cracked voice, soft sobbing)
Steve: Just David?
David: How’s that for an answer?
Steve: That’s just fine, man. That’s your answer. I’m good with that.
David: Just David. I’m so grateful for people like you and that I’m still here. There are days that I
wish I weren’t. And I am, and I love it. There’s a whole bunch of people out there that are just
David, or John, or Harry, or Mildred, or whatever, and they’re just trying to do the best they can-
(emotions come to the surface)
Steve: I know.
David: … and get by. I think… Well, we’ve already talked about this, and I- (he starts to sob
quietly)
Steve: Well, that must be emotional, very emotional.
David: And I appreciate that you’re interested in people without homes, only because I kinda-
sorta are one. Yeah, I’m starting to get emotional, but a lot of people in my boat, some better off
than others, are of that mindset, if I can call it that. I don’t know what to call it, but you know
what I mean. They are not looking for a handout. They’re not looking for anything more than to
be nice.
Steve: Dignity.
David: That would be nice.
Was there something he liked about his current lifestyle? He said, “Yeah, they’re kinda is.” But he dodged the answer, preferring to remark that it could be much worse, “and it isn’t, so thank you very much.” Although he does not consider himself very religious, he admits wrestling with the concept of an Almighty. “Where do good things come from? Day in and day out? Sometimes good, sometimes not so much. God?” David used to call the source of all things the Universe just because he didn’t know what to call it. Recently, he resolved the issue, “I just call it God now. That works for me. I’m still not very religious, and I don’t intend to be a bible-thumper, but I think there’s a lot to that, too.” And when he spots a situation that could use a bit of godly love, he doesn’t hesitate.
At convenience stores, he bumps into homeless colleagues. He yearns to impart some wisdom to those without guidance. A frustrated David shares, “I would like to help. If they need $5, I give them $20 if I have it, but… what do you say to someone like that. They’re fucking stoned, drunk, whatever. Just being idiots. What do you say to them about God?”
In a shack adjoining David’s is a twenty-year-old, Mana. “Mana came by last night, wanted to borrow $5.00. Yeah, OK. Go for it. Will I ever get it back? I don’t know. I don’t care. Do you know what I’m saying? If he came to me asking for $5.00, I’m guessing he doesn’t have it. I do. Give it to him. He says he’ll pay back, and sometimes yes, sometimes no. I think sometimes he forgets. I don’t remind him.”
Steve: I guess Mana has had a tough history, too.
David: Yeah. Beyond anything that you and I have ever had to deal with. His family, his
parentage, his drug habits, and so on. He’s not a whole lot better. He says, “I smoke weed. I drink
beer. I don’t want to do anything more than party. I’ve asked him how he likes living like that, and
he doesn’t even know. Or he gets pissed at me for the asking. So I don’t want to go there.”
Steve: Yeah, he has turned violent towards you in the past?
David: He has indeed. So no, let’s not. He’s been, I think I’ve said to you, on his good behavior
lately, and I appreciate it. Mana, come on. Don’t bring that crap over here.
Steve: Yeah, he has to respect that too. It sounds like he more or less is these days.
David: He’s getting there. And that is the deal. How do all of us, any of us who can help
everybody. else who isn’t or doesn’t or can’t? There are too many people who don’t have it
anywhere near as good as you and I or most of us. So, when you ask what about people here and
this, and that, and the other thing that I see these homeless people, quotation marks emphasized,
because define homeless, and that’s what we’re trying to do, and those people have it rough.
He talks to me from a folding chair, his feet on a box like a footstool. Next to him is his cot with a bug screen and the sleeping bag he uses as a comforter. David is an avid reader, keeping several stacks of books next to his chair. He gets books and returns them to a neighborhood book box. David has some plastic bins in which he keeps clean clothes. The rest of the old wooden shelves contain boxes whose contents he doesn’t know. All of that was there when he moved into his “home.”
David: In this book I’m reading, she talked about movies and nasty stuff that we experience just in
life as we know it now, and she calls it the dark stuff. I don’t know; some of that I just kind of blow
off. Yeah, probably some truth to it. I just don’t watch stuff like that anymore.
Part of it is, come on. It’s just a movie. And as long as you can separate that from real life, then I
think you’re probably OK. However, there’s a certain amount of it that does seep into our
consciousness, even watching some stupid ass movie like that—oh, crap, what if? So, I try to stay
away from those kinds of influences as much as possible. It’s still going to be there, and the fact
that I do or don’t engage is sort of irrelevant. I just don’t want that stuff in my life at all if I can
avoid it. And the fact is we really can’t avoid it. We go to the movies and do it voluntarily. I love
you, man.
Steve: I love you too. Thanks so much for chatting and letting me be a part of your life.
Dave: We’ll get there.
Steve: OK, all right, buddy.
Dave: Aloha.
Steve: Aloha, see ya.
Phone Conversation: June 12, 2021
David was arrested for a DUI violation near Kona in the early fall of 2019. A crime that he contested with his public defender to be untrue. His driver’s license was immediately revoked, not suspended for some time, but removed from existence. He lives along a busy highway in the Captain Cook area, fifteen miles south of Kona. The Aloha gas station and convenience store mentioned above are on the other side of the busy highway that courses by his shed. The business is his daily source of a bag of ice for his cooler and some fruit and water. If he wants to go to his post office a few miles away, he risks being pulled over and stopped by law enforcement; he would pass directly to jail without collecting $200. If he wants a better grade of food and supplies, he carefully drives to the Choice Mart several miles away. The same peril follows him to his post office box, his only connection to the outer world except for his old cell phone that he charges in his car.
He has had five court dates regarding his DUI. Every time, he has a new, wet-behind-the-ears Public Defender who reads David’s file for the first time as they sit on a corridor bench outside the courtroom. Since the PDs are unfamiliar with the case, they automatically ask for a three-month postponement when addressed by the judge. In July 2021, the DUI charge was dismissed. As they passed the courtroom doors, his Public Defender attorney said his driver’s license would arrive soon at his post office box. Per law requirements following a DUI violation, David has taken several mandatory courses prescribed by the courts. He was elated. He texted me, “Been to Court. Done!” Thirty minutes later, during his triumphant drive home, a man from the DMV called him to say he had to start all over again with the classes and driver’s test. Dejected, he crept down the highway to his shack, grabbed an orange from the cooler, and returned to the same ol’ situation; “Submit,” as David likes to say. He texted me the news. (For the record, he still does not have a license.)
I called him to celebrate this great moment of the dismissal and put a good spin on things, attempting to mollify the continued aggravation. I tried to take his mind off this license disappointment. We trekked down memory lane. David recounted stories of his souped-up Bug and race-worthy Porsche 914 that he road raced in Colorado. We talked about his trips to Telluride, Steamboat, Vail, Aspen, and other picturesque destinations he enjoyed on business trips, selling marketing services for his company.
He was in a talkative mood. “Remember, that corner where you come out of McDonald’s, and you hang a right, up an incline and onto Hamilton Boulevard? And you goose it, and spin out and burn rubber, and all that shit. What dumb asses. But it was fun at the time.” Yes, I remember, and I also recall the girls were not as impressed as we hoped. The guys under the yellow arches hooted.
David did not seem too distressed about the driver’s license setback. Maybe the free-flowing jabber with an old friend provided enough salve to ease the pain. The line was quiet for a few seconds. I ended the silence, returning to questions that may foster an even better feeling for David’s daily life.
Steve: Is there a common thread or a mindset between others on the street? Is there some
commonality?
David: Hard to describe that word, I guess. Commonality? Yes. They’re living on the streets, and
they don’t have enough money, and they’re hungry, dirty, and all that. So, to that extent, if that’s
commonality, yes. How much brotherhood? Commonality, yeah. They’re all homeless. As I just
said, hungry, dirty, etc. Brotherhood among the homeless? I think I would have to say, and you
know, coming from me, where this is coming from. I would say not so much. If they could steal
something from somebody else, it would make anything better for them; they probably would.
Steve: Did you ever run into any of that?
David: Yeah, all the time. Not from me, most of the time, because I wasn’t born yesterday. Do you
know what I mean? I just don’t let that go there. If I were out on the street and didn’t have a
locked car for my stuff, yeah, it would happen all the time.
Steve: I can imagine that. So when you do Monday Fun Day, I get the biggest kick out of that.
David: Oh, it’s been so long, but I love that you called it that and remember that. I just saw a
couple of people from down there the other day, and they said, “David, where have you been?
Monday Fun Day, come by.” I said, “Guys, I’m not supposed to drive.” And they go, “Oh, yeah.” I
said, “Besides that, the weather’s been crappy, and I ain’t driving that far for a cold shower.” And
they said, “Oh yeah, we get that too.”
Despite facing similar challenges, it took a long time for the Fun Day regulars of four or so to become good friends, arms-length intimates. That’s fine with David. He is not looking for anything more than that. He gets a kick out of His Fun Day buddies when they disagree philosophically about their station in life. “I don’t think there is any reason to make our situation all that philosophical. I think it’s more just a matter of how we live.”
Their congregation site at the public facilities along Kealakekua Bay is five miles down the road from David. Their meeting spot was settled over a thousand years ago and has historical significance. The surrounding area contains many archeological and historical sites, such as religious temples. It includes the spot where the first documented European to reach the Hawaiian islands, Captain James Cook, died violently. This site made the National Register of Historic Places listings on the island of Hawaii in 1973 as the Kealakekua Bay Historical District. David lives in a general vicinity called Captain Cook, and his friends live near the bay and the shower facility, which is the real draw.
The water for these public showers comes down a metal collection pipe from the mountain above the bay. The solar-heated pipe yields water affected by the morning temperature and sun exposure. The Fun Day participants know when the optimal water temperature is ideal. If it is a blistering day, they convene in the mid-morning. If it is moderate, they arrive a little later. If it is cool, forget it. On a temperature-suitable Monday, they roll in for warm showers, sit in portable chairs, enjoy the view, and shoot the breeze. “They drank beer and smoked weed, and I didn’t. But at least not at that time. Then, much later, we had been chatting about weed that was good for pain,” David explained, “That is how I got started smoking weed again. I hadn’t smoked, well, since before I moved here. So that was 15 years ago.”
David: At that time. And I just hadn’t. I didn’t want it, didn’t need it, didn’t know anywhere to get
it. It was just a non-issue. When I started going down there, and then they were smoking, we
called it whiffs and sniffs. Whiffs and sniffs.
Steve: That’s hilarious.
David: When they were smoking, I’d say, “Blow it over this way,” whiffs. And then they’d bring
me a bud, and that was a sniff.
Steve: Oh, I’ll be damned.
David: I didn’t buy any, and I didn’t ask for any, and they didn’t give me any. They asked, and I
said, “It’s one of those things where if I start smoking again, I’m going want it all the time, and I
can’t afford it.”
Steve: Sure.
David: And they said, “Well, we’ll just give it to you.”
Steve: I’ll be damned. So that-
David: So, they did. It wasn’t a lot. It was a bud or two at a time. They’d go, “Oh David, try this.”
And supposedly, we called it sampling. Because allegedly, we were trying to find something that
would help the pain. We never did. But in the meantime, we did get stoned, and it was pretty fun
sometimes. I didn’t do much that way with them, just because I didn’t want to get too crazy about
being stoned or drunk or anything, and I was driving, and so on and so on, so I was pretty
responsible about it. There were a couple of times we came across some excellent stuff. It was like,
“Oh shit, I’m not going anywhere right now. My first thought was, “I want more of this.”
And one other time, we were all sitting around. I think it was New Year’s. It was some big party
celebration sort of thing, and it just happened that we were all there on the same day, and there
was a whole big picnic table full of people, and almost everybody had a pipe in front of them.
Almost everybody had a couple of buds or more in front of them, and we just kept passing it
around, and whoever had it when the pipe was empty refilled it and passed it on.
That was a fun day. Talk about Monday Fun Day. I don’t know if it was a Monday, but it was
very fun. It was very fun.
I still bump into those people occasionally, too. Not as much, but still sometimes. So again, it’s just
so memory lane, as it were, and that wasn’t that long ago, but I just don’t do that anymore.
I miss it. I would like to, but I don’t risk it with my current situation with the license and all that.
The conversation returned to the issue of his philosophy on life. Some people believe to live and let live and are not overly concerned about people’s behavior. And that’s, basically, all we can do, right? “Well, yes and no,” my old friend responded, “There’s the rub. I mean, I get it, and that may be the best we can do, is just to live and let live and try not to be too … otherwise. However, this bullshit has to stop, and I’m not just talking politics. And you and I have talked about this before. People have to stop this nonsense. All of this just us and them, you and me. I’m better; you’re not. No, that’s wrong. And whether it’s individuals, which happens all the time, or countries. There’s no difference. It’s just wrong. Stop it.”
Fortunately, David’s experiences with strangers are not judgmental, which he appreciates. People are friendly to him at the gas pump, the grocery store, or anywhere he goes. Some have picked up David’s tab at a lunch counter. “So yeah,” he says, “that makes life a lot easier.”
Some homeless do not receive the same grace. They don’t have clean clothes, a car, or whatever else the public thinks people need. They still need to be treated as people. “Come on. What’s up with that? And not just me, everybody,” David pleas. And there is the prejudice by native, full-born, full-blood Hawaiian “assholes who don’t want us here, just plain and simple – us hoalies, anyone who is not native Hawaiian.” David continues, “There are still people everywhere, not just Hawaii by any means, that just don’t want to get along. They want it their way and come on. It’s not going to happen. We’re all in this together; got to get along. You got to be nice. Mana is sort of an example, though he’s gotten a lot better lately. We haven’t talked much about anything to that extent in a long time. It’s just safer for both of us not to talk about stuff like that because when he disagrees with me, then he hurts me, and I don’t want that, so go away.” And David is warming up to leaving his three-wall shack along a busy highway for a more normal household.
David is less inclined to “live like this. We shall see! Better? Yes, please.” He has recently gone through the process of becoming a registered VA client. The VA works with HUD to find apartments for displaced veterans. He is on a list and hopes to be in a place where he can shower, use the bathroom, cook healthy food, and not live in the weather’s bleak moments. They have also successfully enrolled David in the SNAP program (formerly food stamps), and he has received the first two of his monthly SNAP debit cards for groceries. His pleasant and polite demeanor makes him a client these services want to help.
David: And hello. Duh. Think of that. Just be nice, get along. What is this, us and them, and “I
want my way,” “You don’t get your way,” and all that? No, it doesn’t work that way, or it
shouldn’t. It does, but not very well. But just get our heads out of our asses and be nice.
Steve: I know. I know. It’s emotional for me. I think it is probably for you.
David: I’m sitting here wiping my eyes right now. And then again, some people like you have done
what you’ve done with me. You didn’t have to do that. Nobody else has. But you did.
Steve: You’re a valuable person, David. You’re a worthwhile person. Always-
David: We all are. We all are. That’s the thing. Even the ones we don’t like or wish would behave better. They’re still valuable people. They are people. The comment about Imagine, John Lennon. Oh my goodness, if only. Do you think we’ll ever get there? It’s a shared journey in a sense, and I appreciate that you’re letting me participate because I enjoy talking about this, and sometimes it’s emotional. But it’s not upsetting. If anything, it’s refreshing that you, at least, and others want a better understanding, as you just said. You are talking to people like me, certainly not me exclusively. But talk with people. Well, what am I saying? Be nice, get along.”
Steve: You keep taking care of yourself and being nice to people, and good things are coming to you. They’ll come in bushels for you. I have a feeling.
David: Me, too, as well. I love you.
Steve: I love you too, buddy.
David: Thanks, man.
Steve: See you.
Phone Conversation: August 23, 2021
David and I have continued our frequent texts and occasional calls. We are frank in our exchanges, and he continues telling his unvarnished tale. We talked about pain pills, alcohol, and an off-button for the end of life.
David: It is so hard to hear over the noise of these trucks and traffic and loud cars on the highway
just feet away. You just got to take your chances that a conversation can take place.
Steve: Yeah. Yes. Well, how are you feeling?
David: I’m actually… Are you asking physically, mentally, emotionally, or what?
Steve: I’ll start with physical.
David: OK. Yeah. Pretty good. Pretty good. Way less pain than it used to be. I’m working on it one
day at a time. We’re getting there. We’re getting there.
Steve: What’s the cause of that generalized body pain?
David: I wish I knew, and I’ve never gone to a doctor or gotten any kind of feedback or
information about what that might be. Various times over the years, it was arthritis or this or
that. You know. But we don’t know. And there’s the rub, and I’ve been pretty good about just
letting that go. We don’t know, and we don’t necessarily have to. And I can’t afford to just go to
the doctor every time I have some slight ache, pain, or otherwise. So I just don’t.
David’s pain goes back several decades, before a couple of nasty motorcycle spills, before he returned to Hawaii, before the divorce with his second wife and the birth of his darling Jess. The wrecks required two surgeries on the same leg to repair major broken bones. The first operation placed a series of plates and screws and a rod. The second one caused some concern about the status of the rod. David asked the orthopedist, “Do we have to take it out?” And he said, “No, not if it doesn’t bother you.” I said, “Then leave it alone. I don’t want to do that surgery again.” David chuckled, “This is too funny, and it’s probably just my imagination, but I’m pretty darn sure I woke up during the surgery this last time. I was listening to them pounding this metal rod into my leg. And I went right back to sleep. I said, “No, I don’t want to do that.” This surgeon recommended more surgery, David refused. He really, really, really did not want to do that again.
Steve: Yeah. That was one of my questions. I thought because you’ve mentioned surgeries and no
way and all that. Just give me some pain pills; I’m not going to do that again.
David: Well, I don’t even do that. Pain pills, no, I don’t want any pain pills either. I don’t want to
get hurt anymore.
Steve: Yeah. So they didn’t give you pain pills in Washington?
David: Did they give them to me?
Steve: Yeah.
David: Oh, yeah. Yeah. I mean, plenty and even the doc. Remember I told you that was how I got
started drinking bourbon.
Steve: What?
David: Because I said I do not like these pain pills. I don’t like having that stuff in my body. I rarely even take a Motrin. And you’re giving me this stuff, and I don’t want it. And he asked me then, “Do you drink?” I said, “No, not really.” He said, “Try any bourbon?” I said, “Kind of, sort of.” “Have you tried it for pain?” “No.” “Try it and see.” “And so, he was the one who told me, “You know what if it works for you, and it doesn’t work for everybody. But if it works for you, it’s way better and healthier than anything I could prescribe for you.”
Steve: Wow. So enter Mr. (Jim) Beam.
David: Mr. Beam. You are the only one I know who’s ever called him that. And I like it. Enter Mr.
Beam. And I’m still enjoying him. However, I don’t use it for pain anymore. I don’t need it for pain
anymore. So, any of that that I do now is just habit.
Steve: Just habit. Yeah. Yeah.
David: I’m seriously considering… Well, I’ve cut way back. I usually have one drink a day. And it’s
in the morning, and it does help my morning pain and all that. But you know what, I’m sure
another cup of coffee would probably do just as well. It’s mostly in my head.
Steve: I see. I see. Wow. Is it a problem?
David: What?
Steve: The drinking?
David: Not to me. Or at least not all of it.
Steve: OK.
David: Yeah. I’m guessing you mean do I get drunk and stumble and cause problems and all that,
and no.
Steve: No?
David: Not close.
Steve: OK.
David: Most people wouldn’t know.
I dipped into his mental health status. He seems so well-adjusted to this lifestyle. Besides the nearly constant, whole-body pain and the need for embarrassing, frequent trips to the loo, David doesn’t whine about a thing. Wouldn’t a person be saddened about the diminution of creature comforts like a bed and shower, a handy kitchen snack or a good-smelling meal, and the reduction in social contact and entertainment? How does he feel about his self-esteem, his contribution to society, and a host of other assumed, feel-good goals sought so frantically by those still chasing the moon, still playing the game?
Steve: I enjoy your creative texts. They read like new-age poetry, so clever. I don’t know how you
feel mentally. You seem sharp, rational, and aware of what’s happening.
David: How do I feel mentally?
Steve: Yeah.
David: Is that a legitimate question, or did you just throw that out?
Steve: No, I just threw it out, but that’s just what happens.
David: I feel mentally, spiritually [inaudible]
Steve: Oh, I can’t hear you, buddy. Hey, I just lost you.
David: [inaudible]
Steve: David, go back just a second because I lost you. I don’t know if there was some traffic or
what. About how you feel mentally?
David: Hang on, there’s a big truck going by.
David: Mentally, emotionally, all of that, I feel fantastic. I am so grateful. And you and I have talked about this so many times. You and others and just life in general. It could be so much worse. And it isn’t. Every time, every time I get my panties in a wad, thinking, “Oh man, I don’t like this,” I stop and think how great I have it.
Steve: Yeah, that would be my assessment as well. Do you have demons that you fight? I think we all do, but do you have anything that gets to you?
David: I don’t. I’ve been reading this book, Purpose Driven Life. And if you don’t know the book, never mind as far as I’m concerned, but even so. And you said demons, and no, I don’t have any of that. I’m not sure, but I just wouldn’t allow anything like that in my life. That would be my mentality about it. I just have no room in my life for any of that kind of negative bullshit. Go away.
What David likes is solitude. He prefers and loves his seclusion. Freedom to David means quiet and reclusiveness. He values occasional chats with someone, but “if they stay too long, I’m already tired of it. It’s like, ‘OK, I love you, man, but adios.’ It’s very selfish. I don’t want to be bothered by it. I need to get back to me. And that’s what I mean by being selfish. Wow, I haven’t tried to express that to myself yet.”
Still, David shows signs of a desire to change his current living style into something that resembles his former life. He acknowledges he would like to help people. “Now, how do I do that, and how do I be of service to them and otherwise? That’s kind of where I’m going with it. Will we get there? Is there a way for me to do that? I don’t know. But we’ll see.” One person he would dearly like to talk with is his daughter on the mainland, Jess.
When David’s second marriage ended in Grand Junction, Colorado, a fifteen-year-old daughter was involved. He explained his plan. He told her he wouldn’t go if she did not want him to move to Hawaii. He asked, “Do you want me to stay?” And she said, “No, I don’t care.” How do you respond to that? David said, “OK, if you’re alright with it, then this is what I think I need to do.” As it turned out, it was a terrible mistake. And that happens, too. Since his relocation to Hawaii, she has called a couple of times.
During his days in Kona Paradise, David left her a message, “When you are ready, you let me know, but I will always be here. And I will love you and be your dad forever.” Time went on, nothing, nothing, nothing. He reached out again. Nothing, nothing, nothing back. Suddenly, many years ago, David received an email, “Hey, it’s me, and if it’s you, call me.”
And sure enough, it was Jess, “We chatted on the phone and wrote letters back and forth. And that lasted, oh I don’t know, a couple, three months maybe. Then, she went totally off the planet again.” Jess lived in a Denver suburb all those years ago, and she communed with her mother, Theo. His last information about his daughter was that she and her male friend might move to Seattle. He doesn’t know. While this is disturbing, some of his text messages concern me more. I have to go there with David.
Steve: I’m reading over the transcripts, and a time or two, you said some days you wish you weren’t here. What does that mean?
David: I was waiting for you to ask, and I’m not sure myself. I mean, I guess it depends upon what we think of as here. Sometimes, I wish I weren’t here, meaning this physical location where I live, how I have to live, and all that stuff. Also, I wish I weren’t here; life as we know it. I’m not ready to cash in on that yet. I have talked many times, probably to you as well, that I wish we had an off button. I wish I could just shut down. I wish I would just not wake up. That happens daily.
Steve: How emotional does that make you?
David: Very, because I realize that, dude, I’m here.
Steve: Yeah.
David: I’m alive. I get to enjoy all of this.
Steve: Oh, I know.
David: Shut up. No whining. Right? No whining.
Steve: No whining. OK. Oh my gosh.
David: I used to have a sign. Just a little handmade sign of a circle with the slash through it.
Steve: Yes. Like canceled.
David: Then I said to myself, and even though I think that I just stopped it immediately because of how great this is,
Steve: Right.
David: This is life. This is what we do. This is who we are.
Steve: Yup. Yup. That’s-
David: And bless you and others of your ilk. I still have some great friends.
David asked what he hoped a reader might take away from his story, “The first answer is love, tolerance, getting along, being nice. We’ve talked about this probably more than anything else, and my philosophy is it ain’t about me. There’s way more like me who have it way worse. So, let’s take care of them first, kind of Christ-like, kind of Bible-like, and all that. Most of the religious stuff is OK. But not completely.” Maybe part of his life philosophy relates to his location.
Steve: Would you say you’re laid-back and live an Aloha approach to life?
David: Depending upon what you mean by that, I guess…
Steve: Take it easy. Aloha. Kindness. Don’t be in a hurry—something like that.
David: All the above. And much of that comes from what we were talking about: love, tolerance, peace, getting along, and being nice.
Steve: Yeah. Is it a way of life, or is it a coping mechanism?
David: Oh, for me, it’s a way of life. However, I agree that it could be, if one needed it, a great coping mechanism. Wouldn’t you think? I mean, if you needed to cope, which I don’t feel that I… That’s not a word that I think of anyway. Cope seems like more than I have to deal with. But a lot of people do. And so, if they are in that frame of mind, wouldn’t that help?
Steve: Sure. Absolutely. Absolutely. You told me something-
David: I’m still working on it myself. But that’s the key for me is: just to be the best I can be.
Steve: Yeah. Is that why you capitalize be B and E, where you say, “BE well” at the end of your text messages?
David: Exactly.
Our phone conversations run from forty-five minutes to an hour and a half. During that time, the recorder listens as we bounce our words back and forth. When I click off the device, and the cell phone lines go dead, I am still with my friend for those first five minutes, running back parts of the conversation. I close my eyes sometimes and have a visual picture of him, sitting quietly in his aluminum deck chair, his feet atop his cardboard box ottoman. My reckoning sees him looking at the lush stand of trees, beyond the open space where the front wall of the shack used to be, towards the ocean, his eyes soft, seeing the greenery but not trying to see detail, just taking things in, pleased to be in a calm state, an aloha trance. I imagine him being content.
Steve: You say, ‘Don’t worry about me.’ And I have to say that worry is not the right word. I have more concern than worry because we’ve talked a lot, and I think that while I don’t like what you have to go through now or your chosen lifestyle, when it’s time to change that, you likely will. And I hope that that will be sooner than later. So, if there’s anything that I can do to encourage or help make that happen, I would like to do that. However, I also realize that things happen at a pace nobody can control.
David: How true.
Steve: Yeah.
David: And I don’t know if it’s God-like or otherwise, but you know what, stuff happens, and that’s life. And the trick is to do the best you can with it.
One may wonder if God set his course from a busy marketing business in Colorado to the three-wall shack a hundred yards from a Hawaiian beach? Did David make the choices that led him to his current lifestyle? When the jobs in Hawaii started to pay less and less, did he envision a time when his earning potential would be far below his living expenses?
David: I didn’t always make as much money as I would like. But that’s just kind of the way it is in that world. And for me, when I moved back here, it was part-time jobs in retail and that sort of thing.
Steve: Right. Right.
David: So it’s not like I went back to careers in advertising, marketing, public relations, all that kind of stuff. No, thank you.
Steve: Yeah, you wanted some freedom.
David: So. I just did part-time jobs in retail mostly. A couple of sales jobs, which I would have enjoyed if the people that I was working for had a clue. For most of the jobs that I’ve had, I didn’t overthink the reality that I wasn’t getting paid enough. And I don’t have enough to live on and all that kind of stuff. I mean, that’s true for most of those kinds of jobs. So you get over it. It was my choice to do that.
Steve: So, do you see this current lifestyle as your choice?
David: Oh, absolutely. What else would it be?
Steve: I think some people think it’s put upon them and not something they chose. Doggone it, here I am… And I know that’s a whining thing, isn’t it? But you say you chose it. So you decided not to find another job and decided you want some freedom and to be alone?
David: Employment for me would have to accommodate my body pains and frequent bathroom visits. It’d be challenging at best. It would be tricky for me to do a J-O-B.
Steve: Yeah.
David: They rightfully expect you to be there when they need you to be there.
Steve: Sure.
David: And they won’t let me go to the bathroom every 10 minutes or however often I have to do it. Plus, I was just totally over and done with the work cycle at 70 and decided to see if I could live on Social Security.
Steve: I gotcha.
David: As it turns out, no, you can’t. At least not what I get. You know, my brother, Lance, was talking about his retirement plans, and he will get a bunch of money just from Social Security. It’s all based on how much you earned and put in first, right?
Steve: Yeah. Oh my gosh. Just send the jet. You said that one time in one of your texts.
David: Yeah, send the jet. That’s one of my favorite expressions. Send the jet to those of you who live on the mainland and want me to come and visit. I’m pretty sure the Central High School Class of ’66 in Sioux City doesn’t have a jet.
Recently, our graduating class had its 55th High School Reunion in Sioux City. It’s always a big nostalgic moment for me. One of the functions was an evening of boozing and stretching old memories with classmates at the local Country Club at the end of the street where David lived in the 1960s. As we passed his teenage years home, I slowed down and took it in.
Steve: On Friday night, we had a thing at the Sioux City Country Club.
David: Country Club?
Steve: Mm-hmm, And I looked over as we drove by, and your house looks great.
David: It’s still there?
Steve: Oh, yeah. Still white.
David: That was a nice place to live at the time.
Steve: Sure was.
David: I don’t recall that you guys ever came there much.
Steve: I was in the house one time. And I think you lived upstairs.
David: I did. My room. Yeah.
Steve: Like a reconstructed attic or something.
David: Oh, almost. Well, no. It was just a second story of the house.
Steve: Yeah, there you go. And it had a little window.
David: Peaked roofs and all that.
Steve: I guess-
David: My room had a little window. They called those dormer windows. I liked that. That front
upper-story window was Lance’s room. He was my stepmom’s kid, so he got the larger space.
Lance could do no wrong. And I could do nothing right.
Steve: I bet you hated to see them leave.
David: No. Not so much. (His family moved to Seattle his senior year, so David stayed in Sioux City and lived in a small room in a boarding house through graduation.)
After months of patient planning and working within the VA and social services organizations, David finds monthly SNAP cards for food in his Post Office box. He focuses on moving into an apartment, getting his driver’s license back, and other quality-of-life issues. David has imagined that when he gets placed in a VA/HUD living facility, he could serve within that system to help others. That pleases and motivates him to follow through with this slow process. He is that kind of person. Genuinely.
Steve: Well, listen, it’s B, as in I need to be gone.
David: See how you are? You get me started, and then you want to go.
Steve: That’s right.
David: It’s only been an hour and a half.
Steve: I know. I know.
David: And I’m totally facetious.
Steve: Yeah, got it.
David: Go away and leave me alone.
Steve: Yeah. Good. I got to go.
David: I love you. BE well.
Steve: All right, love you too, buddy. Later.
(August 1948 – May 30, 2023)
All Rights Reserved. © Steve Gerkin | No reprints without permission.
