My wife Loni poked her head out of our half-open apartment door into the burning July morning sun and looked around. Then she turned toward our guest Terry Van Best, standing next to me a few feet away and said, "No one's out there. Leave before me and Jim so the other tenants won't see us with you. We'll meet you down the street."
Terry lingered in the air-conditioned shade of our living room for a second, hanging his arms in front of his wrinkled dress shirt and dirty jeans. His mustache, hair, and eyebrows drooped like salt-and-pepper branches of a weeping willow. He peered at Loni and I with bloodshot eyes that gleamed in the low light. His skin was like bark. Staring back at him, I also wondered if his insides had rings like a tree to mark his weather-worn years as the town tramp.
Terry nodded at Loni and stepped out onto the concrete walkway in front of our third-story apartment. The sickly-sweet smell of alcoholic sweat left the room with him. Loni closed the door and we watched him disappear down the stairwell through our front window. We waited for a while, praying no one would see him. After a few minutes, I said, "Come on, let's go. It's safe now." And we discussed why we had to smuggle Terry in and out of our place as we went to find him.
My property manager had knocked on my door a couple days before, after Terry's last visit. "Terry has a long history," in Castle rock," he'd said. "He's not allowed on this property or he'll be arrested." He didn't have to tell us that we'd get kicked out too if he caught us taking Terry in again.
Terry smokes, and he feels most comfortable outside, but he also loves company. So he'll put up with the indoors for a little conversation or a chess game, as long as he can wander out for a smoke. He has several habits like that, which get him into trouble. Our manager had seen Terry sitting against our apartment's brick face blazing a cigarette butt the day we got our warning. Smoking, however, is not Terry's worst vice.
Loni and I's property manager was right. Terry does have a "history" in Castle Rock. Even though he was referring to Terry's dubious and somewhat unjustified reputation, we knew a different man. Terry came to Castle Rock in 1985. He was born and raised in Clearfield, Utah by a single mother. He claims to be 6 years old, but I think he'd have about 60 rings if he were a tree. I first saw Terry panhandling on the Exit 182 bridge as I drove to work 3 years ago. Terry has since inspired me to write songs and stories about transients. He does have a sordid past, but I'm not sure how much of it is his fault.
Loitering and a perpetual need to be heard are Terry's only real habitual social transgressions. These are his actual "long history" as a deviant. However, his preferred lifestyle as a tramp (he hates the word bum) is what really ticks people off. No one likes to work, but we suburbanites sell our time and energy to the highest bidder. Many of us have done so at the cost of our own happiness. So some of us get bitter about anyone, who chooses to exist outside our current system of bondage.
Of course, Terry has his own bonds. He's exchanged the bars of contemporary gluttony and greed for chains of alcoholism. His insatiable craving for liquor is his worst habit. Its the shackle at the end of all his other problematic behaviors. Loni and I became much more aware of this when Terry stumbled into our apartment shaking and confused from lack of his customary vodka liter that July morning. We had to smuggle and shut him inside, repeatedly insisting that he not smoke, as he drank what he called his "medicine" to get well.
As usual, Loni and I had The Walking Blues, but we still wanted to talk to Terry about his alcoholism. So we asked him to join us for our morning trek. Terry agreed to come, but we had to make sure he left, unseen, before us. He met us down the street in the searing sun a few minutes later.
Loni and I hiked up and down hills as we spoke to our friend. Terry doesn't like walking because he has a bad back and worse feet, so he circled around us on his bicycle. Loni became the good cop, who showed compassion and empathy for Terry's plight. I was the annoyingly persistent bad cop, who condemned addiction.
"This world's an evil place," Terry said to us. "I'm afraid of what I'll become if I quit it." He never says liquor or alcohol. Maybe he's scared of death by It. Calling booze by name would be an acknowledgment of the real toll Its taking on him. Even as he rode beside us, Terry reached inside his shirt to sip his liquor. He hardly ever drank water as we walked over the baking pavement. I think that's why his skin looked like dry bark.
Sanctuaries like churches and libraries haven't just abandoned Terry. I've seen him threatened, kicked out of, and arrested everywhere around town. Half the time, people sanction him out of fear and and suspicion. The other 50% is due to his complete disregard for social niceties. We suburbanites can't take inconveniences of any kind. Time sells, and we're compounding interest by the second. No one, not even priests, can afford to listen to Terry rant. Loni and I can't take him in with fellow tenants and managers lurking around our apartment like spies. So who will help Terry understand his part in his own downfall? What person or place will offer him a place to speak and think his way out of alcoholic bondage?
After following Loni and I through the hilly neighborhoods between Memmen and Oak Ridges, Terry huffed something about needing a bite to eat. He has few good teeth left. So he has to beg for soft food. Loni used to make him grilled cheese sandwiches when he could still come over. As Loni talked about Terry's hunger and tiredness, our friend disappeared into Castle Rock's burning streets.