The starkest difference between Detroit and Austin is the weather, ‘Mitchell’ said. Austin rarely sees snow. But as a child in Detroit, white Christmases were the norm, above-zero winter temperatures a rarity.
“I remember getting stuck in snowbanks about the time I learned how to walk,” he laughed.
And as soon as he learned to bike, and fell in love with the sensation of wind—the snow bore a new frustration for him.
“My birthday is December 23. I don’t know how many birthdays and Christmases in my life, I got a brand new bicycle—and I couldn’t ride the damn thing until about Mother’s Day.”
Instead, he’d ice-skate with his friends in the brutal winter. He recounted that on a typical day, the cold could be so harsh to taste bitter—it could be 35˚ below Fahrenheit. Winds could tear at 25 to 30 miles per hour. He remembers the value of dressing right.
“It was all about layering clothes, and I don’t care what any outdoor company says. The best jacket you can get up north is a leather jacket. Because leather is the best windbreaker ever. A leather jacket will stop the wind. You get one of those, layer, then you stay warm. Anything else the wind will go through. And cold wind is no fun.”
Detroit is cold unlike Austin, he said, and it’s also musical—unlike Austin, he joked.
“The most musical town on the planet. And it is truly the live music capital of the world. Not Austin.”
In fact: “I think Detroit should do a South-by-Southwest kind of thing. Just call it Dead Center.”
He lived and loved Detroit throughout his school years. But when he graduated high school, he looked to armed forces for a change.
He joined the Navy in 1976. He became a Black Ops Operator, he said, an agent in special warfare in the Navy. The experience was strenuous beyond description.
“Not like what you’ve saw in TV,” he noted grimly. There was a constant sense of uncertainty, a not-knowing of all and any going-ons.
Naval Special Warfare Command Emblem. The NSWC is the naval component of the larger United States Special Operations Command. It’s in charge of conducting special operations (e.g. unconventional warfare, counterterrorism). Source/Photo: Wikipedia. All Rights reserved.
When he was discharged in late 1981, he took with him Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
PTSD stalked him as he was flown into Houston. He immediately took a bus to Austin, for the better weather, he said. (PTSD stalks him to this day.)
Very quickly, he found a job at a catering service—Rosemary’s Catering. He’d grown up in a Mediterranean kitchen, he said, and was now able to put his cooking abilities to extraordinary use.
“I can make hummus that would make an Arab jealous,” he joked. “Learning food is a nurtured task. First I did was learn about the can of beans. Open it up. And learning how to read the ingredients. Now you gotta make it all mushy before you put this in. And really to make good hummus, all you need is garbanzo beans, salt, lemon juice, olive oil. After that, whatever kinds of spices you like to taste.
I make it a different way every time. I like to try something new.”
He met many new experiences and people during this time.
“For a long time, I fed. I fed the governor. I got to feed just about every Tejano band running the circuit, in those days—man, those big Tejanos. Plus I fed a bunch of other rock and rollers.”
He smiled, reminiscing: “We were just one big, happy dysfunctional family.”
The catering group had some odd jobs.
“One of the people I fed in Austin was George Clinton. Not Bill, George! George wanted barbeque: I called it the beasty thing. Cause they would bring in stuff caught from poachers—rabbits, rattlesnake, a lot of different kinds of deer. All the game wardens would try and outcook each other.”
They catered at UT’s Bass Concert Hall, at rock concerts, at all kinds of events. Sometimes, a run would last 18 days straight, he said. But it was a very enjoyable occupation. He was able to support himself in an apartment, working with his ‘family.’
One joy was his 150 pound pit bull, Blue.
“That dog could walk up here and push me over,” he smiled. “Getting a little bit too heavy to be a lap dog.”
But despite his size, he still acts like a puppy.
“He’s like, let’s go have some fun. Let’s go chase something.”
After years like this, he said, the company leaders drew contracts with the city, kickstarting a process that led him to leave his job and become a private contractor. He worked in construction and other outdoor tasks.
He made a choice during this time—he implied but didn’t specify what for.
“I got 16 years sober. 16 years without drink.”
Before: “I didn’t care. I was drinking.”
He chose to stop because: “Collateral damage.”
“I didn’t mind anything [happening] my way, but then I started seeing that I was damaging other people. And then, short-term, I abused my privilege to alcohol, so, profoundly—my only chance was at survival was sobriety. Completely abstinent.”
He said that resisting the pull of alcohol is a mind game.
“Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes I think it’s hard.”
Private contracting, living sober, PTSD, supporting himself—until July, 2016. He had a heart attack.
It involved the top half of his heart racing, pumping much faster than the rest. And after he was treated at a hospital, he had a stroke. He’s been experiencing irregular small strokes since that week.
He was put on several blood thinners—Eliquis, Warfarin—so powerful that he bruises extremely easily. Just a poke can produce furious marks on his body, he said. To this day, he takes about fifteen different medications every morning, including the blood thinners and other stroke preventatives.
After his initial episode, he could no longer work. The strokes mess with his equilibrium, he said, and do damage to his balance—he can’t work outdoors without posing a danger to himself and to others. Left without a source of income, he quickly lost his apartment and was transferred to the Austin Resource Center for the Homeless (ARCH) by the Veteran’s Association. He left Blue with his next-door neighbor.
He feels sometimes that he’s been in the hospital more than outside it lately, he said. Every mini-stroke brings him back to the nearest St. David’s, he said. He’s struggling. He’s groping at survival, struck by the worst surprise.
“I’ve had some bad times, gone through a whirlwind since July. [It’s] been happening—way too fast. I feel like I can barely keep up in time.”
Homelessness has been helplessness.
“I’m living at the ARCH. Not that I chose to, but it was chosen for me. That choice was made for me.”
If living in these conditions, these experiences, has taught him something, it’s made him consider his beliefs.
“If there wasn’t something like God, or Buddha, or some higher power, if it wasn’t for Him, I wouldn’t have made it,” he stated simply.
He said that he’s exploring, going to a church that meets under the same section of I-35 but on Saturdays.
“So we’re like spiritual special forces. We feed [people] all the time, every time. And then we preach. Feed people, then walk around praying over them.”
He’s still looking for that God. He said he definitely believes there’s a power greater than him—he hasn’t decided or found it for certain yet. But he’s content to simply believe.
“And believing is trusting something you don’t need to prove, or disprove. It’s just there.”
***
Recently, he was building a bike from parts he’d bargained for, fashioned, found abandoned. The bike was almost complete—he could almost feel the wind. All he needed now were cables. He walked by a truck, saw the cables gleam in the bed. He paused, considered, then walked away.