Concrete Pillows
In New York City
by Herb Bardavid
This is Kevin
I met Kevin on the corner of Broadway and 72nd Street, across from Verdi Park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He was sitting quietly near an ice cream shop, blending into the city like someone who had been forgotten by it. Kevin is 60 years old and has been homeless for the past six years.
He was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey, by a single mother. Though his parents were never married and he never lived with his father, Kevin spoke warmly of him. They had a good relationship, one that ended too soon when his father passed away in 1980. Kevin is an only child and has no close family nearby.
He does, however, have two adult daughters - both married with children of their own. One lives in North Carolina, the other in Texas. He told me they have a good relationship, though he hears from them only occasionally, mostly over the phone. There's distance - emotional and geographical - that he seems to accept with quiet resignation.
Kevin's formal education ended in the eleventh grade, derailed by legal trouble stemming from a car theft. When I asked him why he did it, he shrugged and said, "I don't know. That's what everyone was doing back then. It was just part of life." That one bad decision led to six months in jail - but more than that, it pulled him into a cycle he couldn't escape. What followed were years of arrests for breaking and entering, mugging, and carjacking, fueled by heavy drinking and drug use. "It was like a revolving door," he said. "You'd get out of jail and go right back to your old friends - drinking, drugging, stealing to feed the habit."
By the time he was 20, Kevin said he'd hit rock bottom. A friend suggested a fresh start in San Diego, and Kevin agreed. For a while, it looked like things might turn around. He completed a six-week training course in commercial trucking, earned a CDL license, and started driving 18-wheelers for a living.
I asked him when he last ate. "About twenty minutes ago," he said. But what he realy wanted was another drink. As we sat together near the ice cream shop, he asked if I'd buy him an ice cream, and of course, I was happy to do so.
At this point in his life, Kevin doesn't expect much to change. He said he's just trying to find his next drink and a safe place to sleep. His concrete pillow.
For the first time in years, he had stability - and a good salary. But the addiction didn't stay behind in New Jersey. Drinking eventually cost him his job, and with it the life he was starting to build.
Disheartened, Kevin returned to New York. Now, looking back, he says, "I wish I had never left California."
Life on the streets in New York City has been brutal. "The worst part?" he said. "No bathrooms when you need one. No showers. You start to feel less than human." He still believes he has something to offer - he knows how to drive trucks and wants to work - but the drinking hasn't let go of him.
I asked if he had considered treatment, and he said he wasn't ready. He didn't elaborate further, and I didn't press him for more information.
