Todd - Memorial Day 2012
Kevin Cummings
"You know a veteran can't even buy a cup of coffee on Memorial Day," a southern sounding voice asked from across the street at the Main Street Garden Park in downtown Dallas. The man had on a pair of thick lensed glasses that contrasted his weak frame, and made his eyes look large and wild in the warm Dallas morning. "I served in Desert Storm, man," he said as I noticed a fading military tattoo on his forearm, half hidden by his rolled up sleeves, "and I can't even get a hot cup of coffee."
His name was Todd. He had spent the last couple of years, since his mother died, living under an overpass just Northeast of downtown. "I've got a buck seventy-five here," he said, holding out a dirty, shaking hand with a crumpled dollar bill and an assortment of coins, "but I usually need about $10 a day to keep me going." With nothing better to do, and no real change to spare, Anthony and I went over to help him look for coins in the manicured grass along the edge of the park. As we searched, he told us how he had ended up here. He was staying with his sister somewhere in the emptiness of Ohio when he got the news that his mother was dying. "I tried my best to get back down to Grapevine, but she died on my way there," he told us. After that, he had nowhere to go.
"That first night I got picked up for vagrancy by Grapevine PD, and they fined me," he said. "I don't understand why they ticket people for that." It was after that he came downtown. He told us that the underpass, where he now stayed, wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that the loud claps of thunder and the cars passing on the bridge above making their commute to and from the surrounding suburbs resembled gunshots brought back memories of the war. It was obvious from his disconnected speech, and eyes that never stayed in one place for too long that he suffered from Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The disorder, untreated, prevented him from being able to keep a job, or hold relationships with people, and is common among many soldiers returning from combat. Unfortunately, that's not the only thing many veterans have in common. According to the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, up to 40% of the homeless population in the United States were once veterans. They are people who had fought and struggled far from home, and now they struggle just get enough to scrape by. Combat is combat though, and the struggle to survive is no exception. Todd was a fighter.
"I've tried a couple times to get up off the street," he told us, "but I'm not an addict or anything, so most of the shelters won't let me in. Besides, last time I was there, the junkies just stole my backpack. That's everything I own right there," he said, pointing a shaking finger to his backpack that sat on the curb, and that he never let out of his sight. "I had to start all over again, man. I just can't catch a break. They even took my CD's, man."
As we came to the end of the street, Anthony and I gave him the small amount of coins we had gathered, and a few cigarettes. We began to walk back to where his bag was, past groups of people walking their dogs, and reading on computers under the shaded patio of the outdoor Starbucks. "Some of these dogs live better than I do," he said, almost embarrassed. Before we parted ways at the end of the street, we shook hands, and Todd looked at us saying "God bless you guys." God Bless. Isn't that what all those yellow ribbons on the back of the SUVs say, I thought. Here we are, two kids from the North suburbs of Dallas, and this man, a veteran, a man who fought for our right to live the way we did is say God bless us. Us? We hadn't done anything besides share a few cigarettes and some conversation. We left Todd sitting there as we walked across the street, past the courthouse while the shadow of the flag waved above the park.