The Day I Knew I Could Kill a Man

Before this, I guess I didn’t see myself as the type

I spent most of the third decade of my life in one kind of pickle or another. In and out of jails and mental institutions, drifting, drinking and drugging. I’ll probably have a lot more to write about those years, eventually. But for the purpose of this story, let’s concentrate on the events of one year. And one day in that fateful year, and one event that happened that day.

On a complete whim one day in 1989 I spent most of the few dollars I had on an Amtrak ticket from Rocky Mount, NC to Washington, DC. I chose DC because I had decided in my hazy reasoning that I wanted to get to the biggest city the furthest north for which I could afford a ticket.

My daily routine while living at “2nd and D” (the real name was the CCNV Shelter) was simple. I would “catch out” in the morning — which means I’d jump into one of the trucks that came by to pick up day laborers early in the morning.

I spent my first few days in DC aimlessly wandering. I soon found that there was a large homeless population there, and just from talking to some of those folks I was able to locate a few places around the city that served as overnight homeless shelters. You had to be in a line to be “checked in” (be counted among the magic capacity number that would be allowed inside) by 6 pm. You had to have yourself out of there by 8am. I also found out by the homeless grapevine that there were several spots where I could get a free meal a couple of times a day…