Friday, December 23
Cuzsin' Bill Lived on a Hill
One of the first homeless friends I met on the street was Cuzsin' Bill. I learned right away that most everybody on the street, all of the homeless anyway, have ‘tags’ … nicknames used more to tell each other apart than to preserve anonymity. There was an Uncle Bill, a couple of Wild Bill’s, a TooTall Bill … even a Hillbilly Bill, to name a few. Then, there was Cuzsin' Bill.
Cuzsin' Bill lived on a hill behind the potato factory. But as far as I could tell, Cuzsin' Bill was from all over the United States. He could tell you a story from anywhere, right down to the year and the street corner, with the name of the local barmaid tossed in for good measure.
Cuzsin' Bill sometimes tells outlaw stories; Jesse James being his favorite character. He tells a lot of stories from real life, too; himself being the favorite character.
And Cuzsin' Bill sings like he talks; in an over-exaggerated drawl with a twang that echoes country and bumpkin at the same time. At least, that’s how he sounds when he’s drinkin’ singin'.
When I saw Cuzsin' Bill last, it was about 20-below zero, minus the wind chill. He was sitting in his kitchen; a make-shift shelter of pallets and tarps tied up against some trees. A spike pail sat in the corner and served as his cookstove. The stove spit black smoke at a small hole cut in the ceiling, a hole way to small to let out much smoke. Everything in the kitchen was cloaked in black soot.
Cuzsin' Bill was sitting hunkered over the warmth of his fire, elbows on his knees. He poked his soot-covered face out at me and choked … “Chap’lin Keah’lee … yOU Thin’ I’mm crayZeee?”
He looked at me, hazy-like; his white eyes sticking out from his soot-black face. I about laughed, considering Cuzin Bill's the most prejudiced white man I know. His head bobbed as steam rose from his seat forming a foggy mist about his middle. It’s twenty below zero; Cuzsin' Bill’s drunk and just pee’d himself; and he’s askin’ me if I think he’s crayZeee?
I put my hand on Cuzsin' Bill’s shoulder and said, “Billy, you’re not crazy; you’re sick.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I think that’s what they call alcoholism, isn’t it – a mental illness? I probably didn’t need to say anything, but Cuzsin' Bill was asking. He probably didn’t remember anything that day anyway, he wasn’t in the remembering mood; he was in the drinking mood.
That drinking mood happened to Crazy Craig a few years back. Craig lived in an abandoned grain elevator by the river. One winter night, he and his buds were drinking and Crazy Craig passed out in a snow bank and pee’d himself. His friends found him the next morning, half-froze. Craig got an ambulance ride to the hospital, and ended up loosing both of his legs to the infection that followed the frostbite that came after the fool night he spent in the snow bank.
One day, Crazy Craig went back to the river and pushed his wheelchair over a cliff with him in it. I guess he didn’t want to have to think about much of anything anymore. Maybe, he got really tired and lonely; I don’t know.
Like with Cuzsin' Bill; I never know what to say. He sure looks tired and lonely sometimes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Except I can be there for him if he’s ever in the mood for a friend that doesn’t mind so much when he's just pee’d himself.
When someone tells me I have to walk a mile in their shoes ...
I think there are sometimes I just can’t.
Kelly
¶ 9:00 PM
One of the first homeless friends I met on the street was Cuzsin' Bill. I learned right away that most everybody on the street, all of the homeless anyway, have ‘tags’ … nicknames used more to tell each other apart than to preserve anonymity. There was an Uncle Bill, a couple of Wild Bill’s, a TooTall Bill … even a Hillbilly Bill, to name a few. Then, there was Cuzsin' Bill.
Cuzsin' Bill lived on a hill behind the potato factory. But as far as I could tell, Cuzsin' Bill was from all over the United States. He could tell you a story from anywhere, right down to the year and the street corner, with the name of the local barmaid tossed in for good measure.
Cuzsin' Bill sometimes tells outlaw stories; Jesse James being his favorite character. He tells a lot of stories from real life, too; himself being the favorite character.
And Cuzsin' Bill sings like he talks; in an over-exaggerated drawl with a twang that echoes country and bumpkin at the same time. At least, that’s how he sounds when he’s drinkin’ singin'.
When I saw Cuzsin' Bill last, it was about 20-below zero, minus the wind chill. He was sitting in his kitchen; a make-shift shelter of pallets and tarps tied up against some trees. A spike pail sat in the corner and served as his cookstove. The stove spit black smoke at a small hole cut in the ceiling, a hole way to small to let out much smoke. Everything in the kitchen was cloaked in black soot.
Cuzsin' Bill was sitting hunkered over the warmth of his fire, elbows on his knees. He poked his soot-covered face out at me and choked … “Chap’lin Keah’lee … yOU Thin’ I’mm crayZeee?”
He looked at me, hazy-like; his white eyes sticking out from his soot-black face. I about laughed, considering Cuzin Bill's the most prejudiced white man I know. His head bobbed as steam rose from his seat forming a foggy mist about his middle. It’s twenty below zero; Cuzsin' Bill’s drunk and just pee’d himself; and he’s askin’ me if I think he’s crayZeee?
I put my hand on Cuzsin' Bill’s shoulder and said, “Billy, you’re not crazy; you’re sick.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I think that’s what they call alcoholism, isn’t it – a mental illness? I probably didn’t need to say anything, but Cuzsin' Bill was asking. He probably didn’t remember anything that day anyway, he wasn’t in the remembering mood; he was in the drinking mood.
That drinking mood happened to Crazy Craig a few years back. Craig lived in an abandoned grain elevator by the river. One winter night, he and his buds were drinking and Crazy Craig passed out in a snow bank and pee’d himself. His friends found him the next morning, half-froze. Craig got an ambulance ride to the hospital, and ended up loosing both of his legs to the infection that followed the frostbite that came after the fool night he spent in the snow bank.
One day, Crazy Craig went back to the river and pushed his wheelchair over a cliff with him in it. I guess he didn’t want to have to think about much of anything anymore. Maybe, he got really tired and lonely; I don’t know.
Like with Cuzsin' Bill; I never know what to say. He sure looks tired and lonely sometimes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Except I can be there for him if he’s ever in the mood for a friend that doesn’t mind so much when he's just pee’d himself.
When someone tells me I have to walk a mile in their shoes ...
I think there are sometimes I just can’t.
Kelly
¶ 9:00 PM
