“I’ve been shot four times and died twice.”
‘Al’ grew up in the Austin gang life. He was shot in the side twice—from two separate gang fights—and twice in the legs, when attempting robberies.
He explained: “That’s your phone, that’s my phone. All I got to do is catch you in the wrong place at the right time, and if I’m mad enough, I come out with this.” He picked up his cracked flip-phone. “And this.” He gestured to my iPhone 6.
It had been the same situation those two incidents, but instead of phones, they involved sums of several thousand dollars that were being exchanged for drugs.
He was landed in the emergency room on all four occasions of injury, he said, and lives to this day with fragments in his body.
While involved in his gang, he gradually earned certification from outside institutions for fixing air conditioning and refrigerators, as well certification for doing mechanical and construction work. For a time, he held a job at Seton Hospital sterilizing instruments for $9 an hour.
He soon discovered, however, that by dealing drugs, he could make as much money in one day as he could cleaning scalpels for two weeks. He was drawn into a lucrative drug-dealing career.
He was able to support himself handsomely for several years. “I’ve owned two homes, nine cars, more jewelry than probably the queen.” At the same time, he had a heart for those around him, he said.
“When I was dealing [drugs]… the majority of my neighbors were elderly people. It feels good being able to see your money at work.” For example: “While [one neighbor’s] on a fixed income, I know she won’t be able to pay her bills: let me help you pay this! No, there’s no strings attached. I want for you what I would want for myself.”
This era of wealth and expanse came to an abrupt close when he was arrested for his criminal activities and put in prison. When he was released, he returned to his Austin home and tried to rebuild his drug-powered livelihood of before. He was soon arrested and jailed for the second time.
Altogether, prison altered his understanding of himself and the world, he said.
“When I was going through prison, there were no rules. Very dangerous. I’ve done nine and a half years in prison. Turned me into an animal. Turned me into a person I never knew who I was. I mean, I knew it existed, but it brought that person out of me.”
After his second release, he sought drugs again: this time, as a user rather than a dealer. He took to the streets on his own volition and has been living the transient lifestyle ever since.
“I’ve been in Austin almost 51 years. And believe it or not, I’m not homeless. I’m homeless by choice. My home is leased out, to pay for my addiction and the lifestyle that I like to do. Because I have no job. I really have nothing for me.”
THE HOMELESS PEOPLE ARE ADDICTS. THEY SLEEP, DREAM, AND EAT.
Why doesn’t he find a job?
“I’m a certified air-conditioner, refrigeration certified, I’m a mechanic, certified construction. But now that I have these charges, and I’ve been to prison, they’re never going to pay me for my work. You can sit here and pay a man for his education, but he has to come to me in order to figure out how this works. But you wanna give me eleven [dollars], him seventeen?”
He has a sense of this injustice: “I don’t want to take my skills and my capabilities and get less than someone just because he’s educated. Just because you’ve got books, books don’t tell you how to fix things.”
Instead, he relies on the rent from his house to fund his drugs.
“The homeless people are addicts. They sleep, dream, and eat. They don’t want to take the time to fill out an application, apply to a job, wait two, three weeks for money: they want it now, so they can have their drugs. I’m one of those people.”
He spoke his opinions plainly. I asked him whether he would support government funding of programs for drug addicts.
“Addiction is a choice. All the programs can do is give you the information. It’s whether you choose to [follow it] or not…”
Furthermore:
“A lot of people can’t deal with the fact that a lot of homeless people are being homeless by choice. But it’s depending on what city you’re in. Austin is one of those two, three places: guaranteed, something to eat, somewhere to sleep. But [these] are the real homeless people: they have no intent on self-improvement, but they have the capability to improve. But, as long as they know it’s free…”
He drew another comparison.
“You have the ability, in Austin, to be who you wanna be. And most people, you and I, you’re using your education. If you could have all the education you wanted for free, you’d be over there every day, wouldn’t you? It’s a choice.”
Al might be unique in that he has family nearby, who would be willing to help him if he asked.
“I have four brothers and two sisters. My oldest brother is a truck driver. He owns two trucks, owns his own home. My oldest sister is married to a doctor here in Austin. She’s a counselor for — High School, right here, right now. My other sister, she’s secretary for the Attorney General. All my brothers and sisters are professionals. My mother passed when I was in prison, but my father is still alive. I see them all the time, when I choose to. But as far as communication and all this, they just get tired of trying to come and find me.”
All things considered, he considers himself content.
“I’m gonna be me. I’m happy. I don’t have to pretend. When you pretend… I’ve been around money before—I been around people with the money. And they have the most fucked-up attitude in the world. They’re the most unhappiest people in the world.”