LAST STAND

Biggie was a 6’7” vet, double legged amputee, homeless wizard auto mechanic.  He did not like to be “confined,” by places, systems, or ideas, and some thought those were 'mental health' issues; others thought he was just fine.

So Biggie lived on the street, doing auto jobs for the cognoscenti who knew how good he was, and how inexpensive his work could be.  I won’t say he made out perfectly, but he managed in tropical Miami, and on the few really rough cold nights he would stay with friends.

He had quite a crowd of friends, too, from the street, from his business, from all over the city.  Sometimes I thought everyone knew Biggie.

I met Biggie through a program of the Episcopal Diocese where we tried to find jobs and homes for disabled homeless people who wanted to get off of the street.  Biggie made it clear he was not in that category, but was always finding some soul or other who could be helped by our program.

Biggie did not let the fact that he had no legs stop him from living the way he wanted, nor did he let the way others saw him bother him in the least.  Homeless?  So what, was his opinion.  He had his backpack and tool kit, and cart, and that was what he needed.  In his mind, freedom was the core ingredient.

Then, disaster struck Bigs in the form of a fast moving cancer.  It took a bit of time to get diagnosed, too, because he did not want to see a doctor, get tests, etc.  THAT took a little convincing, but friends persisted, and eventually he went.

The prognosis was bad.  In fact, terminal.  At that point, the agencies moved in, and tried to get Bigs into some kind of facility.  NO WAY was his point of view.  He did not want to leave his way of life.  So he underwent some treatment while continuing to life on the street.

Then, it became too much.  But by that time, it was too late to get into any kind of program that would house/care for him and get him benefits as he was an “off the books” kind of guy with no real legal records of his life.  There was a waiting list. .  .

We could not even get him into OUR program, because, technically, he was not looking for a job (so stupid!). 

So, our program started a collection from those who knew and loved Bigs, and found a tiny little apartment, whereby he would now be technically eligible to be accommodated by home hospice.  This was a huge victory as the apartment was only one block away from his former “corner” where he used to do his auto repair, and his friends could visit, and he felt at home.

He lasted there for 6 weeks.  We scrambled over one weekend to furnish that apartment with used and donated curtains, a bed, a chair, a TV, towels, linens, pots and dishes, so the social workers would approve, and he could actually be “cared” for there. 

He would sit outside that apartment in his own lawn chair for what were to be his last six weeks, and greet old friends like it was still the old days.  He declared himself “never happier,” in that,

“if I have to go, I’m goin’ my way.”

One evening, my husband and I had arranged to go over with some dinner and have a visit, and did not find him home, and the door was locked.  We left, puzzled.

We returned for two days, and then called the police.  They opened the door, and there was Bigs, dead on the floor.  There was a note, probably intended to be put on the door:

            “I am gon to get coke.  Be rite bak.”

Biggie went his way.  He lived the way he wanted, and died the way he wanted—on his own, independent, and solid in his own values. 

God, I miss that man.