Random Stranger Tells Me His Life Story
I listened to a 51 year old homeless man tell me about his life.
— 4 min read
Table of Contents
Stranger
Under the dim glow of a streetlamp just outside of the University of Portland Chiles Center, a man on a red bike rolled by. His approach revealing him to be shirtless, his white skin fatigued by the sun and time, a black backpack secured over his shoulders, and his black shorts frayed.
"Skate on man!" He exclaimed as I was practicing a trick.
"Yeah man!" I responded returning his energy.
He stopped, his bike creaking to a halt. He shared his surprise and amazement with my uncommon mode of transportation—freeskates1. His words were too quick, spoken with what seemed like a yearning to be heard.
"Do you want to see a wheelie? I've been practicing!" The man asked, and I agreed.
He did and held a wheelie for a couple of seconds.
"Dude, that was awesome."
As he coasted slowly to me, he began to speak more about his passion for bikes and skateboarding, his cadence increasing as he found an opportunity to share more about himself. He introduced himself—Terry. I responded in kind.
"How's your day been man? How's life been treating you?" I asked.
He spoke at great lengths and speed as if his story and words were locked up and suddenly given an outlet. I found out about his age—51 years old. His mother passed away a year ago. Father, long gone since he was a teenager. As he shared more and more, he asked to sit down nearby on a bench.
As he walked over to the bench with his bike, he shared his great love for bikes, especially this red bike. Sometimes he would curse, but would quickly apologize with a great amount of sincerity—aware that he might come across as offensive.
I walked over and sat at the opposite end of the bench.
"Dude yeah man—I mean I'm—I'm glad to hear how passionate you are. I'd love to hear more about your life story."
With the quiet of the night slowly surrounding us, Terry began to unravel his tale. The stories poured out, laden with a life's worth of joys and sorrows, triumphs and defeats. He spoke of his childhood filled with neglect, of a youth marked by a period of a passion for skateboards, and of an adulthood spent wandering as a homeless man.
His eyes, though tired, sparkled with the light of his memories as he recounted days spent riding through cities and towns. His voice ebbing and flowing through stories.
One was a story spoken with a deep sadness—about his 29 year old daughter. He had not spoken to her in over 4 years. She seemed to be doing well—graduated with a bachelor's degree. He was present for her teenage years, but not thereafter. He felt a painful regret for not being a better father—he wished to be better recently getting more sober and abstaining from drugs.
He said that he did not even go to his daughter's college graduation. He did not want to because he thought he would embarrass her. A homeless man showing up in an event as grand as a graduation ceremony would not be a pleasant sight. Even more, he felt a deep shame about his life being homeless.
This affected his mental health as well. He struggled with fentanyl, meth, and marijuana. He went to prison. He admitted his own failures as a parent. With a crappy phone as Terry puts it, it is difficult for him to find resources.
This man, speaking with a surprising eloquence of speech, struggled with a great many things. I wanted to help.
I bought him McDonald's. His speech noticeably slowing down to a normal cadence. It seemed like he felt safe and secure about having someone listen.
I wanted to listen to him. I wanted to hear his story.
For all his faults, he still expressed a desire to improve his life. Terry is currently in transitional housing—awaiting a caregiving job that he will take 2 months from now.
As Terry ate the last of his meal, I escorted him out of the campus to the front entrance.
Skating alongside his bike, I called out to him:
"Have a good night, Terry!"