Homeless or Lost
I don’t think I told you what happened.
It was raining hard, so I got a streetcar to Union Square in San Francisco. When I got off, the rain had stopped — though Market Street still shone wet as the sun reappeared. I shook my raincoat before folding it over my arm. There was blood on the lapel.
I know to the very soles of my shoes how badly I have acted in the past, and I’m filled with such despair, I can hardly speak of it except to say I’m drowning in mud. I had lost all impulse to move. To say that I was utterly depressed would simply be the most enormous understatement — I had no hope and no feeling left for it all.
Writing was not my life, you were.
One thing I’ll answer now. I am not irresponsible, as you would so often have me, yes, I sought fame, and became a failure. Drink was an accident of happenstance. I told you, it was a building of frustration. But I knew I could beat it, I did beat it, I really did. I told you I would but you never had that belief.
How, you ask? I’ll tell you how.
I remember it was two years ago; I was lying in Macey’s doorway, in Union Square, trying to sleep, drunk with pity.
A man approached, and I cowered as if a kick would undoubtedly be aimed at me. He bent, touching my shoulder. “Are you homeless or lost?” he asked me, “Because if you are lost, I have something for you.”
I raised my head a little.
“Here is the first book that I ever bought for myself. I know it looks a little shabby, worn around the edges,” and he laid a printed volume at my side — Sartor Resartus by Thomas Carlyle. “It will change your life, sir. From the first sentence to the last, read and let it lead you back home.”
The man straightened and left, walking toward Market Street.
I opened the book and read the first sentence in the store window’s light. As a wonder-loving and wonder-seeking man… It began.
Before becoming a hopeless alcoholic, I loved to read biography, travel, romance, and poetry, always having some reading close to my bed. I wanted to write, not read. I wanted to create beauty in the world. Yes, I wanted to wear the crown of literature, bear the thorns of critics, and pour all my sensitivity onto the page.
I was wrong.
After three years I wrote one novel, all my effort, creativity, and inspiration went into it:
What if none of those lives lasted yet out of them one was special, that’s what I’d written. For three years, I sat in my chair writing, giving form, creating smiles, developing movement, thoughts and emotions. As a writer that is what I did, created characters.
Some nights I stepped into the bathroom, cupped my hands under the cold tap and splashed water on my face. The dream had been so real, such a painless death to a dream. I pulled on a cardigan over my pajama jacket, slipped on my sandals, and left the house to walk down the path onto the shore.
Christmas was coming over the horizon. But it brought no gift of interest in my work. I should have turned away, headed back to find the kettle boiling.
I guess the pain started somewhere out there, somewhere far off, drinking alcohol to lessen the pain, then it was close, then now. I stumbled and felt the coolness of the sand against my face. With my left-hand quivering, I scribed why? in the sand.
Reading Thomas Carlyle is what I was meant to do. Not attempt to become a writer, to despair, looking for words like the pathetic beggar I eventually became, pleading for money to buy alcohol.
I cannot beg to love again. Love will give me nothing when abused. How can a man, full of bitterness, with a bloody nose and a cut eye involve himself in such an uneven match with alcohol?
I read the book. I did find my way home and gave up drinking, never again wanting to reach despair again. That man saved my life with a book. For two years, I’ve been sober.
I’ve learned to accept I’ll never be Thomas Carlyle, just a brute on the page. It is a tough realization. I walked the short distance to Union Square as the sun hid in the shadows. I still cannot recall why there is blood on the lapel of my raincoat.
A few more unsteady steps, stumbling, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey fell from my raincoat pocket.
I looked down and saw my life smashed and bleeding.
Harry Hogg was born in London, raised in Scotland and now lives between the United States and Britain.
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